This week In ’80s Throwback’ 05/52

1 . Guns N’ Roses . Knock’ On Heaven’s Door

Guns N’ Roses’ rendition of “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” carries a certain swagger, less a quiet reflection of mortality and more a bar-wide toast to the inevitability of it all.

Plucking Bob Dylan’s poignant 1973 ballad straight out of a Western film soundtrack and injecting it with arena-sized bravado, the band amplifies its emotional core while swapping subtlety for spectacle.

The band’s first live go at the track in 1987 came wrapped in personal drama—Axl Rose, fresh from a skirmish with an LA cop, woke from his hospital bed with Dylan’s lyrics looping in his mind like a prophecy or a punchline.

Released as part of their sprawling “Use Your Illusion II,” the studio version trades some of the grit of their live performances for a polished, almost cinematic quality.

With grandiose guitar solos from Slash and a full-throated gospel choir, the track flirts with melodrama but somehow lands on the right side of indulgent rock excess.

Frequently dedicated to lost friends onstage, the song transforms into a communal eulogy, a shared lament that feels paradoxically alive and fiery.

Despite its chart performance being modest at best—peaking at 89—this cover has undeniably earned its place as a mainstay in their live arsenal.

Its success lies not in climbing record sales but in the visceral power of its delivery, a reminder that songs sometimes thrive in the hands of artists willing to treat them as living, breathing entities.

Whether Dylan himself taps his foot to this megawatt interpretation remains a mystery, but if royalties are the measure, he likely doesn’t mind.

For fans, it’s a reminder of Guns N’ Roses’ ability to take someone else’s words and stamp their signature onto them, distortion pedals and all, without erasing the original’s soul.

Lifted from : Guns N’ Roses rock the Ritz (1988)

2 . Billy Idol . Rebel Yell

Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell” bursts out of the speakers like a defiant anthem for 1980s excess, oozing swagger and bravado from its very core.

Recorded at the iconic Electric Lady Studios in New York City, the track is a tightly wound concoction of sneering vocals, driving guitar riffs courtesy of Steve Stevens, and a propulsive rhythm section that refuses to quit.

The song’s title comes from a brand of bourbon that reportedly fueled Idol’s creative burst—fitting, given that its energy mirrors a hazy, whiskey-soaked night of rebellion and abandon.

Released as the lead single of his second album, it initially fumbled on the U.S. charts but turned into a juggernaut after a 1985 reissue, surging to No. 6 in the UK and cementing its place as a rock-radio staple.

The aggression in Idol’s delivery pairs seamlessly with Stevens’ incendiary guitar solos, creating a potent cocktail of machismo and melodrama, while the relentless backing track dares listeners to try to sit still.

The music video—with Idol’s bleach-blond sneer and trademark lip curl juxtaposed against a rowdy club scene—became a mainstay on MTV, bringing Perri Lister, his real-life girlfriend, into the spotlight as a front-row fan.

Four decades later, instead of mellowing, the track remains as unapologetically audacious as ever, with Idol and Stevens even marking its anniversary by performing it high above New York on the Empire State Building—a setting as over-the-top as the song itself.

“Rebel Yell” doesn’t just cling to nostalgia; it thrives on its insolence, defying anyone to suggest it has aged out of relevancy.

Lifted from : Billy Idol visits New-Jersey (1984)

3 . Alice Cooper . School’s Out

Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out” takes the universal thrill of summer break and cranks it to eleven, wrapping teenage rebellion in a package of scorching guitar riffs and sardonic lyrics.

Released in 1972, the track channels the anarchic energy of youth, using the giddy battle cry of “No more pencils, no more books” to knock the dust off the institution of formal education.

Glen Buxton’s snarling guitar opening sets the tone, instantly recognizable yet raw enough to feel like a battle axe taken to the chalkboard.

Produced by Bob Ezrin, the song struts with a swagger that refuses to apologize, reveling in its own theatrical chaos.

The finale, punctuated by the ringing of a school bell, functions less as closure and more as a defiant exclamation point on anarchy’s declaration of independence.

The track shot to No. 1 in the UK and climbed the US and Canadian charts, its appeal equal parts anthem and catharsis for the school-weary masses.

Decades later, it’s a staple of classic rock radio and echoes through generations as a loud, rebellious middle finger wrapped in unapologetic showmanship.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday Alice Cooper

4 . PIL . This is not A Love Song

Public Image Ltd’s “This Is Not a Love Song” struts in with an audacious swagger, practically sneering at the listener through its title alone.

Released on September 5, 1983, the track becomes a fascinating study in self-aware commercialism, reaching No. 5 on the UK Singles Chart while playfully denying its own supposed sentimentality.

It exists as a meta-commentary on the crossover between artistic integrity and mainstream appeal, laid out as a funky, looping bassline that churns endlessly beneath John Lydon’s half-sung, half-snarled vocals.

The inclusion of a horn section in its later iteration on the album “This Is What You Want… This Is What You Get” twists the song further into an unsettling hybrid of cynical satire and genuine earworm hook.

For a work that mocks love songs, its structure feels calculated to seduce listeners with its hypnotic rhythms and minimalist repetition.

The lyrics act as both a critique of superficial sentimentality and a jab at the band’s critics, with Lydon’s taunting delivery giving bite to what could otherwise feel like playful ambiguity.

Yet the song’s tension lies in its dual purpose; it’s both a rejection and an embrace of pop sensibilities, charting successfully across continents while sneering at the very act of charting.

The contrast deepens with multiple versions, including the “Love Song” remix and live renditions, notably from Rockpalast, embracing adaptability while seemingly poking fun at pop’s shifting facades.

It’s this deliberate contradiction—artistic defiance packaged as a hit single—that makes “This Is Not a Love Song” as perplexing as it is enduringly infectious.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday John Lydon. ‘Looking Back In Anger’

5 . Van Halen . 5150

Van Halen’s album “5150” marks a turning point in the band’s trajectory, ushering in the Sammy Hagar era with a title track steeped in dual meanings.

Named after the California legal code for mental instability and Eddie Van Halen’s home studio, “5150” is a fusion of sharp-edged rock and subtle synth elements that showcase Eddie’s dual prowess on guitar and keyboards.

The track pulls no punches, with Alex Van Halen driving it forward on drums and Michael Anthony’s bass playing giving it a backbone.

Meanwhile, Sammy Hagar steps confidently into the role of frontman, his vocals soaring with fervor while the band’s chemistry signals a reinvention rather than a continuation.

“Inside,” another track from the same record, reveals a more understated yet spirited piece that highlights the cohesion of the new lineup.

Eddie’s guitar work steers the melody, with his blend of technique and emotive flair balancing the interplay of keyboards layered beneath.

The drums punch through cleanly, a rhythmic counterweight to Michael Anthony’s basslines that anchor the structure seamlessly.

Hagar’s voice manages to inject personality, brimming with a sense of irreverence yet complementing the album’s cohesive energy.

While not released as a single, “Inside” contributes to an album that topped the Billboard charts and marked the evolution of Van Halen’s sound without losing their quintessential edge.

Equal parts reinvention and precision engineering, the tracks affirm that sometimes a shake-up is the best catalyst for creative renewal.

Lifted from : Van Halen rock Tokyo (1989)

6 . Santana . Deeper, Dig Deeper

“Deeper, Dig Deeper” from Santana’s solo album *Blues for Salvador* exudes the smoky intensity of late-’80s experimental fusion, as though Carlos Santana decided to toss all his musical allegiances into a blender and hit “pulse.”

The song, which shares credit with avant-reggae enthusiast S. Crew, Buddy Miles’ funk-fueled sensibility, and Chester Thompson’s jazzy keyboard flair, feels like a jam session frozen mid-groove—a track simultaneously self-assured and chaotic.

This wasn’t Santana-the-band’s usual Latin rock; this was Carlos unfiltered, steering listeners toward broader improvisational vistas, aided by a diverse crew of iconic collaborators: Alfonso Johnson, Armando Peraza, and two drummers, Graham Lear and Raul Rekow, ensuring no sonic corner went unpercussed.

The album earned a Grammy for Best Rock Instrumental Performance in 1988, though calling “Deeper, Dig Deeper” merely rock feels limiting—it strays into a restless mix of prog, jazz, and funk, evoking a time capsule of musical cross-pollination.

Far from buttoned-up precision, the Munich Philharmonie live performance brought additional players like Wayne Shorter and Patrice Rushen into the fold, stretching its loose texture even further—a glorious, fragmented puzzle you enjoy without ever really solving it.

If anything, this track champions indulgence: a jam-band ethos married to Santana’s knack for evocative fretwork, proving that creativity thrives in the unpredictable chaos of collaboration.

Lifted from : Columbia publish Santana’s fourteenth album . ‘Freedom’ featuring Buddy Miles as . vocalist (1987)

7 . The Smiths . Wonderful Woman

“Wonderful Woman” might not be the first Smiths track people think of, but it’s an intriguing piece of their early catalog.

Originally titled “What Do You See In Him?”, the song endures a turbulent creative process, echoing the band’s restless innovation during its nascent years.

Its journey spans from Morrissey and Marr’s initial sketches in spring 1983 to three professionally recorded versions, culminating in the definitive take produced by John Porter at London’s Matrix Studios.

Released as the B-side to “This Charming Man” in late 1983, it serves as an understated counterpoint to the single’s jangly immediacy, favoring darker melodic shadings and unfurling tension.

Live, it appeared just a dozen times, vanishing from the setlist seemingly as quickly as it had arrived, with its last hurrah in November 1983.

The song’s inclusion on “The Sound of The Smiths” compilation years later feels less like a triumph and more like an archival nod to the fervor of those early, volatile months.

Lifted from : The Smiths rock The Hacienda (1983)

8 . Leonard Cohen . First We Take Manhattan

Leonard Cohen’s “First We Take Manhattan” stitches together political tension, dark humor, and a chilling sense of foreboding, all cloaked in a synth-pop aesthetic that feels just as much 1988 as it does timeless.

Originally penned by Cohen but first recorded by Jennifer Warnes in 1986, her version gave the song an atmospheric foundation, climbing charts moderately in regions spanning Australia to Canada.

But Cohen’s own rendition, featured in his album *I’m Your Man*, presents something more unnerving—a brooding interpretation that’s less a pop tune and more a cryptic manifesto wrapped in moody keyboards and his gravelly baritone.

The accompanying video, directed by Dominique Issermann, strips the glamor from the song’s already sparse production, offering stark black-and-white visuals that pair fittingly with Cohen’s aesthetic of subdued menace.

The lyrics land somewhere between poignant and sinister—“First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin”—a line that oscillates between revolutionary ambition and a menacing declaration.

Cohen himself described the song as a meditation on terrorism, simultaneously critiquing the physical violence of it while admiring the unwavering conviction behind it, embedding historical nods to figures like Freud and Marx under layers of ambiguity.

It’s not quite singalong material, but its allure lies precisely in its contradictions—catchy yet unsettling, intellectual yet raw, smirking yet deadly serious.

Though hardly a chart-topper in Cohen’s voice, the song’s legacy lives on, with covers like R.E.M.’s version in 1992 further cementing its pop-cultural resonance and proving its adaptability across genres.

The real brilliance of the track lies in its refusal to be pinned down by an easy narrative, marching forward with both irony and conviction, much like the figurative march it describes.

Lifted from : Leonard Cohen releases his eighth album . ‘I’m Your Man’ featuring ‘First We Take Manhattan’ and ‘Everybody Knows’ (1988)

9 . Art Of Noise . Close To The Edit

Art of Noise’s “Close (to the Edit)” arrives with an irreverent twist, blending musicality and chaos in ways few dared back in 1984.

Born from the leftover scraps of Yes drummer Alan White’s discarded rhythms, the track transforms detritus into something defiantly ahead of its time.

It’s an exercise in sonic bricolage, where non-musical clatter—like a car ignition and an inexplicable spoken word fragment—collides with the cold precision of the Fairlight CMI sampler.

The infamous music video doesn’t pull punches either: a young punk girl, the would-be nihilist ringleader, orchestrates a gleeful destruction of orchestral instruments, flanked by three stoic men in suits.

The video, divisive at first, wound up earning a pair of MTV Awards, validated for its manic creativity rather than its critical reception.

Musically, the track is a paradox—playful yet mechanical, chaotic yet meticulously calculated, grounded in rhythm but resisting structure.

The sampling techniques here predate and likely inspire future genre milestones, including The Prodigy’s abrasive “Firestarter.”

Its charting performance might be modest, yet “Close (to the Edit)” lingers as an unintentionally subversive commentary on the commodification of sound and the irreverence of pop music at its fringes.

Lifted from : On TV today, Art Of Noise at ‘TOTP’ (1985)

10 . Cocteau Twins . Wax And Wane

Emerging from the shadowy textures of their debut, “Wax and Wane” feels like Cocteau Twins indulging in a slightly brisker pace, a rarity in the brooding labyrinth of *Garlands*.

Robin Guthrie’s guitar grinds through a haze of distortion, not so much singing as snarling, while Liz Fraser’s early explorations into her vocal gymnastics remain tethered to coherence.

The bass line prowls with a metallic edge, vaguely nodding to Peter Hook, yet retaining just enough menace to make you reconsider the comparison mid-thought.

The drum machine is both relentless and indifferent, propelling the track forward with a timing so rigid it feels oppressive, yet oddly hypnotic.

There’s a curious tension here—Fraser’s voice hints at future ethereality but grapples with the weight of the song’s nervous energy.

This track was repurposed and remixed for *The Pink Opaque*, a move that underlines its significance as an early declaration of the band’s idiosyncratic defiance of expectations.

For all its urgency, “Wax and Wane” strays close to punk’s jagged roots but veers off toward something more enigmatic, where style is substance and mood trumps melody.

Lifted from : Cocteau Twins visit Amsterdam (1983)

11 . Deborah Harry . The Tide Is High

Blondie’s version of “The Tide Is High” pulls a curveball by taking a 1967 reggae number from The Paragons and giving it a chart-topping pop makeover.

The track wades into reggae’s waters with all the precision of a band that knows it’s stepping out of its comfort zone but dives in anyway, brass and string arrangements in tow.

Deborah Harry’s vocals glide effortlessly, managing to feel polished without erasing the song’s easygoing, island-inspired charm.

By 1980, Blondie was already adept at genre-hopping, but this track feels like a slightly cheeky nod to their knack for pulling threads from less mainstream sounds and weaving them into the fabric of global pop.

It’s reggae lite, sure, but it doesn’t posture as anything else, embracing accessibility as part of its charm.

Its success wasn’t just limited to topping charts in the US and UK; it went on to dominate elsewhere, cementing yet another high point for the “Autoamerican” album.

The horns are crisp, the strings dramatic, and the rhythm section lays down a groove that makes this undeniably Blondie, despite its origins.

It’s fascinating how the song’s breeziness holds up, even as Harry and crew pump it up for larger crowds.

For a band synonymous with new wave swagger, this reggae detour was an unexpected victory lap, adding versatility to their repertoire without diluting their edge.

The track’s legacy isn’t just about its commercial success—it solidified Blondie as genre chameleons while preserving their status in pop culture lore.

Lifted from : On TV today, Deborah Harry hosts ‘Solid Gold’ (1981)

12 . Prince . Controversy

Prince’s “Controversy,” the flagship track from his 1981 album of the same name, doesn’t just challenge norms—it bulldozes them, leaving room for both groove and critique to coexist.

On the surface, the song feels like a hypnotic loop: a programmed 4/4 beat propelled forward by a pulsating synthesized bassline, flickering guitar licks, and snaking keyboards. Yet, under its minimalist aesthetic lies a provocative manifesto that bristles with tension.

Prince crams questions of identity—sexuality, gender, race, and spirituality—into a whirlwind, daring the cultural gatekeepers of the era to keep up. The Lord’s Prayer, delivered straight-faced in the middle of the track, still feels subversive, poking at conservatism with a sly smirk. While critics and fans furiously debated his motives, Prince simply added fuel, chanting: “I wish there was no black and white / I wish there were no rules.”

The track’s contradictions reflect its genius. It’s both dancefloor-friendly and lyrically combustible, pulling listeners into its funky orbit while refusing to neatly resolve the questions it raises. Decades later, the irony is that the track’s controversy was never its existence, but the mirror it held up to the culture around it.

Lifted from : Prince comes to New-Jersey (1982)