This week In ’70s Throwback’ 05/52

1 . Fleetwood Mac . Go Your Own Way

Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way” is a messy breakup transformed into rock poetry, aired publicly like dirty laundry on their 1977 album *Rumours*.

Lindsey Buckingham pens and barks the song’s defiant edge, his guitar riffs slicing through any remaining pretense of a clean split.

The track, assembled through meticulous overdubs across three studios, is less a raw expression than a carefully layered emotional grenade.

Sporting the now-infamous line “packing up, shacking up is all you want to do,” it sparked internal band drama, with Stevie Nicks—its target—unsurprisingly requesting its deletion.

It stayed, of course, because Buckingham’s commitment to his truth (petty or profound, depending on your stance) adds to the track’s bruised authenticity.

Stateside, it flirted with success, peaking at number 10 on the Billboard charts, a feat contrasted by its lukewarm reception in the UK, where it stalled at number 38.

Critics have since embraced it, with *Rolling Stone* twice crowning it among the greatest songs of all time, though its ranking ironically went downhill—from 120 in 2010 to 401 by 2021.

The song’s tension mirrors Fleetwood Mac’s internal dysfunction, making it not just a standout track but a snapshot of a band imploding magnificently in real time.

It shuffles between heartbreak and catharsis, with Buckingham’s snarl and the unrelenting rhythm section making “Go Your Own Way” an anthem for anyone nursing a grudge with style.

Lifted from : Fleetwood Mac release their eleventh album ‘Rumours’ featuring ‘Go Your Own Way,’ ‘Dreams,’ ‘Don’t Stop’ and ‘You Make Loving Fun’ (1977)

2 . Ike & Tina Turner . Get Back

Ike & Tina Turner’s rendition of “Get Back” carves out a space far removed from the Beatles’ original 1969 hit, infusing it with their signature grit and unrelenting energy.

While not the centerpiece of their 1970 album “Workin’ Together,” the cover mirrors the duo’s knack for reinventing tracks, delivering a raw vitality that punctuates the album’s broader retrofitting of ’60s rock into their fiery, soul-drenched framework.

“Get Back” sidesteps the restrained groove of McCartney’s vision in favor of a more unhinged vocal performance from Tina, backed by Ike’s band charging ahead like they’re late to their own show.

Its presence alongside show-stoppers like “Proud Mary” and the lesser-known but equally seismic “Ooh Poo Pah Doo” gives the track a certain underdog charm, aligning it with the album’s hyperkinetic ethos.

Released as a single in Germany, the track’s international stature reflects the broader cross-pollination of rock and R&B that defined their era, a synthesis best experienced live during their combustible performances, often stealing thunder from even their iconic headliners.

If anything, this electrified reboot exemplifies Ike & Tina’s relentless appetite for expansion, taking familiar songs by the roots and replanting them in their electric garden of controlled chaos.

Lifted from : Ike and Tina Turner release the album ‘Workin’ Together’ featuring ‘Proud Mary’ (1971)

3 . Smokie . Don’t Play Your Rock’n’Roll to Me

Smokie’s “Don’t Play Your Rock ‘n’ Roll to Me” captures a curious dynamic of charming nostalgia wrapped in slick mid-70s production.

The track owes its infectious hook in no small part to Elvis Presley’s “His Latest Flame,” shamelessly borrowing the riff yet reworking it with Smokie’s honeyed vocal harmonies and polished acoustic strums.

Released in a time when UK pop-rock was leaning heavily into radio-friendliness, the song slots neatly into the polished, accessible sphere of British soft rock without bending any new creative ground.

The chart performance was solid—#8 in the UK and respectable spots across Europe, though barely a whisper outside its home continent, particularly in the U.S., where the song failed to find significant traction.

Its inclusion on their 1977 “Greatest Hits” compilation feels less like a crowning achievement and more a strategic filler given the album’s ambitions of continental dominance.

Vocally, lead singer Chris Norman’s style hovers between sincerity and schmaltz, lending the song a paradoxical tension—memorable yet somewhat forgettable.

Performed live on German television shows like “Disco” and “Musikladen,” Smokie looked every inch the inconspicuous stars, embodying a soft-rock aesthetic that has aged as gracefully as a pint of warm lager.

The tune takes no risks, trades innovation for comfort, and earns a spot as a footnote in the annals of 70s pop rock, bolstered less by intrinsic merit than by catchy familiarity.

Lifted from : On German TV today, Smokie at ‘Disco’ (1976)

4 . The Byrds . So You Want to Be A Rock ‘N’ Roll Star

The Byrds’ “So You Want to Be a Rock ‘N’ Roll Star” opens with an unapologetically sardonic edge, setting the tone for their critique of stardom in the late ’60s music industry.

The track, featured on the album “Younger Than Yesterday,” pairs jangling guitars with a driving rhythm, creating a soundscape that’s as catchy as it is dismissive of the dream it describes.

Chris Hillman and David Crosby weave lyrics that double as both a how-to guide and a pointed warning, laying bare the hollow grind of commercial fame.

Lines like “Just get an electric guitar, then learn how to play” strip the allure of rock success to its barest mechanics, undercutting the romance often associated with it.

The song’s lighthearted arrangement is offset by an underlying cynicism, a juxtaposition that expertly mirrors the shiny veneer and murky reality of fame.

It isn’t simply a critique; it’s a reflection of a particularly turbulent time in the music world, where authenticity often collided with industry expectations.

Peaking at #36 on Billboard’s Hot 100, the track had a modest chart run compared to its biting cultural commentary, though its message resonates far beyond those seven weeks.

The Byrds performed the song live on “The Midnight Special” in 1973, keeping its sharp edge intact long after its release.

Its significance lies not just in its commentary but in its prescient acknowledgment of pressures many modern artists still face in navigating fame versus artistry.

Lifted from : On TV today, The Byrds at ‘Midnight Special’ (1973)

5 . Neil Young . Out on the Weekend

Neil Young’s “Out on the Weekend” opens his 1972 album “Harvest,” placing listeners firmly in a space where yearning and solitude intertwine over a laid-back, country-infused melody.

Recorded in Nashville, the track features Young’s characteristic blend of raw emotional delivery and polished instrumentation, courtesy of the Stray Gators.”

Ben Keith’s pedal steel guitar adds a melancholic shimmer, while Tim Drummond’s bass and Kenny Buttrey’s steady drumming ground the otherwise wistful arrangement.

Thematically, the song drapes itself in a pensive exploration of contrasting emotions; nostalgia for past joy collides with the hollow ache of present-day loneliness.

Young’s lyrics touch on themes of departure and longing, inspired in part by his relationship with actress Carrie Snodgress, making the song resonate with a deeply personal undertone.

This track’s strength lies in its tension between lyrical vulnerability and the polished professionalism of its Nashville production, a hallmark of the “Harvest” album.

Lifted from : Reprise publish Neil Young’s fourth album . ‘Harvest’ featuring ‘Old Man’ and ‘Heart of Gold’ (1972)

6 . Crosby, Stills & Nash . Just A Song Before I Go

“Just a Song Before I Go” arrives quietly but lands with surprising weight for something crafted in a mere 20 minutes.

Graham Nash spins an almost accidental creation into a masterclass of wistful economy, proving speed does not preclude depth.

This deceptively simple ballad blooms with acoustic precision, its gentle arrangement forming a lush bed for Crosby, Stills, and Nash’s lit-from-within harmonies.

Stephen Stills’ electric guitar solos cut through the song with a quiet sharpness, a perfect counterpoint to the otherwise mellow soundscape.

Much like its origins, the track captures fleeting moments—both lyrically and in its two-minute runtime—with an understated, unhurried elegance.

The irony of writing against a ticking clock yet producing something so reflective and timeless isn’t lost here.

Lyrically, it exudes a bittersweet brevity, as if bidding farewell to both a place and a moment.

There’s no sweeping grandeur, just the settle-in-your-chest simplicity of a tune that lingers long after the final note.

Its success, climbing charts in the U.S., Canada, and beyond, may seem at odds with its modest ambitions, but it feels earned, not hyped.

The production, split between its principal trio and the Albert Brothers, is restrained without being skeletal, adding a touch of polish without smothering the song’s core intimacy.

It’s a rare feat to create something this unassuming yet resonate—a quiet goodbye disguised as a soft-spoken hit.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday Graham Nash. ‘Nash Flow’

7 . Van Morrison . Into the Mystic

Somewhere between the crackle of a vinyl groove and the salty mist of an imagined seafaring adventure, Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” lands as a metaphysical wanderlust dressed in melody. It’s not the kind of song that shouts for attention; it slips in like an old friend, guitar in tow, trailing hints of Celtic mysticism and wistful retrospection.

The 1970 track, nestled within the “Moondance” album, quietly strums its way into a conversation of deep connections—both with oneself and the vast, inscrutable force of the natural world. The water imagery flows heavily here, though Morrison resists the urge to oversell it. The horns, warm and unhurried, punctuate the arrangement like punctuation marks crafted with care, never interrupting the sentiment.

For a song that peaked decades after its debut on digital charts, it’s oddly timeless. The phrase “too late to stop now” lingers, more invocation than resignation, an eloquent shrug at life’s endless forward march. This isn’t mere romantic longing; it’s a call toward something elemental. This is what makes it—dare we say—magic, without leaning into cliché or spiritual facades.

As for Morrison himself, there’s almost a paradoxical detachment in his performance—a blend of sincerity and casual throwaway elegance. It’s as though the beauty of “Into the Mystic” came to him by accident, captured at just the moment before it slipped out into the ether again. Rerecorded live, the song evolves slightly, amplifying its raw edges, but it never feels forced or overly polished. Whether emanating from the crowded Winterland Ballroom stage or floating beneath Spotify streams, its impact remains unspoiled.

This isn’t the kind of anthem to wear out its welcome. It’s more an ambient whisper of everything that’s both fragile and infinite, housed in the unassuming trappings of a folk rock refrain. And if it wrestles with contradictions—its open-ended spirituality, its languid yet purposeful pacing—that’s perfectly fitting. What’s a mystic quest without some unanswered questions?

Lifted from : Van Morrison comes to San Francisco (1974)

8 . Electric Light Orchestra . Livin’ Thing

“Livin’ Thing” by Electric Light Orchestra weaves heartbreak into a spirited orchestral pop tapestry, brimming with Jeff Lynne’s knack for dramatic tension and melodic flair.

The song opens with plucked violin strings that feel more fitting for a chamber hall than a rock stage, setting an intriguingly tender tone before escalating to a full-blown crescendo with Lynne’s layered production touches.

Released in 1976, the track’s blend of classical motifs and pop accessibility showcases ELO’s ambition to elevate the genre without abandoning its catchiness, though some might say the theatricality walks a fine line between profound and excessive.

Its chart performance—top 15 in both the UK and US—reflects its broad appeal, while its inclusion in an American Music Awards performance video underscores its cultural reach during the era.

Despite deriving inspiration from food poisoning (an origin neither glamorous nor lyrical), the song pivots deftly toward emotional grandeur, chronicling the universal sting of lost love through sweeping string arrangements and soaring harmonies.

Globally, the track charted modestly in Australia and Germany, perhaps a sign that its layered complexity resonated more deeply in arena-rich Anglo-American markets than elsewhere.

Still, its swirling mix of heartbreak and lush instrumental drama cements it as a quintessential example of ELO’s mid-70s identity: high-concept pop with a heartbeat, appealing to those who relish their love songs with a side of baroque flair.

Lifted from : On TV today, the ‘4th American Music Awards’ (1977)

9 . Al Green . How Can You Mend A Broken Heart

Al Green’s rendition of “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart” stirs an emotional undercurrent that lingers long after the final note.

A cover of the Bee Gees’ original, his version strips away the falsetto-driven theatrics, opting instead for naked vulnerability cloaked in a sparse but rich arrangement.

The track finds its home on Green’s 1972 album *Let’s Stay Together*, helmed by the meticulous production of Willie Mitchell, whose subtle genius coaxes out every ounce of yearning from Green’s unmistakable voice.

Performed live on the television show *Soul!* in the same year, Green transforms the song into a confessional moment of heartbreak, his voice cracking just enough to remind you that the pain is real, not rehearsed.

While it doesn’t chart as a commercial juggernaut when revisited in 2010, its cultural resonance far outpaces its numerical impact; it’s the kind of track you find buried on a compilation and wonder why you hadn’t held it closer before.

The tension within the song lies in Green’s gift for balancing raw sentiment with impeccable control, a hallmark of his early work with Mitchell.

What’s most striking is how Green gently but definitively takes ownership of a song that wasn’t his, leaving the well-polished original somewhere on the periphery of memory.

Lifted from : Al Green releases ‘Let’s Stay Together,’ an album produced By Willie Mitchell (1972)

10 . Genesis . I Know What I Like (In Your Wardrobe)

When Genesis released “I Know What I Like (In Your Wardrobe)” in 1974, they probably didn’t expect it would become their first taste of chart success, but here we are.

The single, pulled from their album *Selling England by the Pound*, is an eccentric little number—a genre-defying piece that sits somewhere between psychedelic rock and progressive oddity with a sly wink to pop sensibilities.

The lyrics, born from a casual nod to Betty Swanwick’s painting “The Dream,” narrate the life of Jacob, a lawn mower operator entirely content with his unambitious day-to-day mowing routine.

As if tethering England’s pastoral charm to Peter Gabriel’s theatrical oddities, the track echoes a peculiar humor distinctive of Genesis’ early years.

Tony Banks’ Mellotron crafts a mechanical warble mimicking Jacob’s mower, while Steve Hackett’s nimble guitar riff feels more like him peeking in from the edges than attempting to dominate.

Phil Collins leaves his fingerprints on the percussion, and his shared vocals with Gabriel lend a layered earnestness that keeps the song teetering between sardonic and sincere.

But “I Know What I Like” isn’t just its studio version—it turned into a live flagship for the band during its “Selling England by the Pound Tour,” where Gabriel would stroll onstage donning a helmet and wheat leaves like a surreal scarecrow at an avant-garde harvest festival.

Over time, live renditions ballooned, morphing into medleys interwoven with Genesis bits and borrowed motifs from whoever else the band fancied quoting that week.

It’s the kind of song that broadcasters like *Top Gear* love to recontextualize, injecting a wonky familiarity to moments that demand quirky English charm.

A recording of its live performance at London’s Rainbow Theatre now rests in the band’s *Genesis Archive 1967–75*, a testament (oops!) not to their grandiosity but to their occasionally absurd, strangely endearing sense of play.

There’s no pretense of ambition here—it opts instead to enjoy its own peculiarities, content to remain just what it is, much like Jacob with his mower.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday Phil Collins. ‘On The Air Today’

11 . Robert Wyatt . Sea Song

“Sea Song” by Robert Wyatt opens “Rock Bottom” with a peculiar melding of ethereal lyricism and avant-garde dissonance, its structure orbiting a hypnotic descending bass motif.

The track feels less like a traditional love song and more like a surrealist portrait, with Wyatt’s lover envisioned as an amphibian shifting through the tides, seasons, and various altered states.

Wyatt’s delivery rejects standard melodicism, balancing fragility and unpredictability, which pairs uncannily well with his drifting piano lines and synthesizer washes.

The lyrics alternate between tender musings (“You look different every time”) and raw vulnerability, punctuated by the poignant command, “Please smile!” which teeters between desperation and devotion.

Clocking in at over six minutes, the piece evolves into an instrumental odyssey, where unearthly tones and irregular rhythms suggest a seascape that is both calming and ominous.

The personal context of the album—Wyatt’s first major work after the accident that left him paralyzed—infuses “Sea Song” with a gravity that transcends its quirkier elements.

Over the years, artists like Tears for Fears and The Icicle Works have attempted covers, but often their renditions come across as pale imitations, unable to capture the original’s peculiar alchemy of vulnerability and eccentricity.

When Wyatt performed it live on French television in 1975, his delivery retained the same unvarnished intensity, further cementing the track’s reputation as a cornerstone of his catalog.

Part love letter, part existential lament, and wholly peculiar, “Sea Song” resists easy classification, demanding listeners linger in its tidal pull of beauty and discomfort.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday Robert Wyatt

12 . Alice Cooper . School’s Out

“School’s Out” by Alice Cooper barrels forth with the energy of a boiling-over classroom on the last day of term.

The track captures the raw, unruly spirit of youthful rebellion, channeling it into a stomping anthem fueled by Glen Buxton’s razor-edged riff.

Bob Ezrin’s production adds a theatrical touch, but the real star here is the unfiltered exhilaration of anarchy, punctuated by the clamor of children’s vocals and the unmistakable clang of a school bell.

Infused with the rhythm of a nursery rhyme turned defiant chant, the lyrics dismantle authority with biting simplicity—”No more pencils, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks.”

The song’s popularity crosses generational lines, whether it’s teens dreaming of summer freedom or nostalgia-hungry adults craving a taste of unfiltered chaos.

Its hook stretches beyond the charts, topping the UK Singles Chart in 1972 and weaving itself into pop culture’s noisy tapestry, from *American Idol* renditions to live mash-ups with Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall, Part 2.”

No less significant is its role in propelling the “School’s Out” album to the upper reaches of international charts, its success proving that sometimes, audacious simplicity is the most potent formula.

Decades later, the song is less about schoolyard angst and more a cultural totem, enshrined in *Rolling Stone*’s hallowed lists and the Grammy Hall of Fame, forever blasting through the speakers of youth, past and present.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday Alice Cooper