Category: The Archive

Originally published: February 1977
Rating: 9/10 — Spitecore at its finest. Beautiful. Petty. Iconic.

If “The Chain” were a person, it would be your ex showing up to your wedding, looking incredible, making meaningful eye contact, and then vanishing in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

This song isn’t written — it’s forged. It sounds like what happens when five people in a band try to kill each other with musical instruments.

“And if you don’t love me now / You will never love me again.”
That’s not a chorus. That’s a threat.

Let’s be honest: the verses are fine. They simmer. There’s Stevie Nicks, sounding like a heartbroken witch in an expensive coat, muttering about the wind and loyalty and some kind of metaphorical wildfire. Lindsey Buckingham snarls back like a man who brought a thesaurus to a divorce. Everyone’s pretending to be calm — and then that bassline hits.

Oh, the bassline. It’s the real main character here. It doesn’t enter the song. It descends, like judgment. Like someone just said, “Actually, I’m not over it,” and throws a drink in your face.

“It’s less a song and more a hostage negotiation set to perfect vocal layering.”

And just when you think it’s over, they unleash that outro — a galloping, country-doom jam that sounds like you’re being chased through the desert by your unresolved feelings.

It’s so good, you forget the band was crumbling into emotional ash during the recording. Or maybe that’s why it’s so good. You can’t fake this kind of chaos. You bleed it onto tape.

Sure, it’s dramatic. Sure, it’s a little indulgent. But “The Chain” doesn’t care what you think — it already threw your opinion into a bonfire behind the studio.

“This is what happens when breakups go platinum.”

And if you don’t love it now?
You will never love it again.

This song isn’t just a track — it’s a lyrical Rorschach test wrapped in eyeliner and piano chords, and it dares you to try and understand it before giving up and ascending into a sequin-covered void.

Let’s begin with the opening line:

“It’s a god-awful small affair / To the girl with the mousy hair.”
Right. We’re in. We’re doing poetry now. Somewhere between a kitchen sink drama and an acid trip written by someone who just learned what metaphors are. She goes to the cinema, her dad’s a prick, and then — somewhere between stanza and synth swell — we’re talking about fighting in the dancehall and Mickey Mouse growing up a cow.

Honestly, it’s like reading a diary that went to art school.

Musically, it’s lush and staggering. The piano swoons like a drunk genius, and the orchestration builds to a climax that feels like you’re being sucked into a glam vortex where everything is dramatic and everyone is smoking.

And Bowie? Bowie is flawless, of course. He could sing IKEA instructions and you’d cry. But here he sounds like he’s narrating a collapsing universe while posing in a mirror — every syllable delivered like it might spontaneously combust.

But let’s not pretend it makes sense.

“Rule Britannia is out of bounds / To my mother, my dog, and clowns.”
Okay. Sure. Sounds like a line someone mumbled into a toilet brush after passing out in a pub bathroom.

And yet… it works. Because Bowie isn’t saying anything. He’s inviting you to feel everything. It’s not a song, it’s a swirling galaxy of glamorously vague emotional trauma. And we bought it — all of it.

“It’s like getting slapped by a poet in a silver jumpsuit — confusing, emotional, oddly arousing.”

So, is there life on Mars? Doesn’t matter. Bowie made Earth weird enough.

Originally published: December 1968
Rating: 7.5/10 — Satan’s cocktail hour, hosted by a man who’s overdressed and under-criticized

From the first “woo-woo,” you know exactly what this is: a band full of wealthy British men roleplaying as Satan’s jazz band because they read one sad quote in a bathroom stall and decided to make it their whole personality.

Let’s be clear: “Sympathy for the Devil” is a great song, but an exhausting idea. It’s like watching your friend do improv at a dinner party — impressive in bursts, but you’re still painfully aware it’s happening.

Mick Jagger narrates global atrocities like he’s reading them off a cocktail napkin in Ibiza:

“I rode a tank / Held a general’s rank…”
Okay, we get it. You’re the devil. Very subtle. Should we give you a medal or is it okay with just some more eyeliner?

The samba groove is undeniably good — percussion tight enough to slap a priest, and a rhythm section that almost tricks you into thinking this isn’t one of the most over-performed, over-worshipped songs in rock history.

And then there’s Keith Richards, who shows up halfway through with a guitar solo that sounds like it’s chewing its own leather boots. It’s not showy, but it’s the most honest thing here.

The real issue is tone. The Stones want to be clever, dark, provocative — but mostly they sound like boys playing dress-up with a Satan starter kit from a Parisian vintage shop. It’s pretentious, but not quite smart enough to back it up. Think “The Da Vinci Code” with better rhythm.

“Imagine if Lucifer got tenure at a liberal arts college and started a samba band.”
That’s the energy here.

This is good, but don’t act like you’re curing cancer with a tambourine.

Originally published: October 1962
Rating: 6.5/10 — Harmonicas are a cry for help, but this might actually go somewhere.

There’s something undeniably pleasant about “Love Me Do”, even if it sounds like it was written on a pub napkin between pints and poor decisions.

The track opens with a harmonica line that feels less like a musical hook and more like someone trying to clear their sinuses on stage. It’s confident, in that “we’ve never recorded a real single before” kind of way. And yet — there’s charm. Like a dog who tries to walk on its hind legs.

Vocally, the boys sound clean and competent — like the kind of lads your mum might trust to help move a sofa. Lennon’s got a raspy sincerity that works better than it should, McCartney’s bass lines are doing their best, George mostly stays out of trouble, and Ringo… is present.

Lyrically, it’s what you’d expect from four twenty-somethings who just discovered what a second verse is.

“Love me do / You know I love you”
— not exactly poetry, but at least they don’t overthink it.

Still, there’s a kernel of something here. A sense that they could, with a bit of polish and a real producer, grow into something more than just background music for a Liverpool milk bar.

“If they stick with it, I could see them being… mildly famous in Liverpool.”

Maybe it’s too early to say, but there’s a chance — just a small one — that these Beatles might get better.