Category: Track

ROCK OF THE 80’s: Concrete Blonde — “Everybody Knows”

 

Some songs don’t entertain you.

 

They warn you.

 

And Concrete Blonde’s “Everybody Knows” is one of those beautiful, brutal transmissions from the back end of the decade — when the hair spray was still thick in the air, but the optimism had started to crack… and underneath that crack you could see it: the real world.

 

This is not a song for the mall.

Not a song for the dance floor.

Not a song for “good vibes only.”

 

This one is for 2:17 AM, when you’re driving home alone and you’ve got the radio low… because you’re not in the mood for noise — you’re in the mood for truth.

 

And Johnette delivers it like a cigarette burn to the soul.

 

Everybody knows you’ve been faithful

Give or take a night or two…

 

That’s not romance. That’s not even love.

That’s that thing adults do when the dream wears out but nobody wants to say it out loud.

 

The song moves like a slow march through a city you used to believe in.

It’s got that post-punk elegance — part shadow, part steel — and it builds with the kind of inevitability you can’t stop.

 

Because the hook doesn’t seduce you.

 

It accuses you.

 

“Everybody knows.”

 

Not I know.

Not you know.

 

Everybody.

 

Which means the secret isn’t a secret anymore.

It’s just the lie you’re still telling yourself because the truth hurts too much to hold in daylight.

 

And that’s the power of Concrete Blonde: they weren’t trying to be pretty, they were trying to be honest.

 

This is late-80s rock at its sharpest — when the decade started realizing that behind the glitter was loneliness, and behind the parties was regret, and behind the perfect relationship was a lot of silence.

 

Concrete Blonde didn’t whisper about it.

 

They stood in the doorway and said it out loud.

 

So yeah — “Everybody Knows” belongs here.

 

It belongs in the midnight playlist.

It belongs in the shadows between neon signs.

It belongs in the part of the 80s that didn’t smile for the camera.

 

And if you’ve ever loved someone knowing full well it was already falling apart…

 

You already know why this song hits so hard.

 

Because…

 

Everybody knows.

 

⸻

 

This is Rock of the 80’s signing off for tonight — not sad, exactly… just remembering. And remembering sounds pretty damn good. 🎙️

ROCK OF THE 80’s: Concrete Blonde — “Joey”

 

There are songs that make you want to dance.

Songs that make you want to drive faster.

Songs that make you want to fall in love again.

 

And then there are songs like “Joey.”

 

Songs that make you want to sit still…

because moving might knock something loose inside you.

 

Concrete Blonde didn’t write pop songs. They wrote emotional weather — storms rolling in over a city skyline — and “Joey” is one of the deepest storms the 80s ever gave us.

 

This is late-80s rock with its tie loosened.

Mascara running.

Cigarette burning too long in the ashtray.

A song that knows exactly what it’s doing and does it anyway.

 

Johnette Napolitano sings this one like she’s talking to somebody who’s already gone — not physically… but spiritually.

 

Joey, I’m not angry anymore…

 

And right there you can hear it:

That’s not peace. That’s surrender.

 

Because the real story of “Joey” isn’t romance — it’s attachment.

It’s loving someone you can’t save.

It’s loving someone who’s drowning and grabbing your shoulders like you’re the life raft.

 

And you know the most brutal part?

 

You’ll let them.

 

Because you’re not in love with the person they are — you’re in love with the person they could’ve been if the world had been kinder.

 

This song is a masterclass in slow emotional destruction.

 

The music builds like a heart trying to stay calm while the mind is panicking.

The drums come in like footsteps down a hallway.

And then it hits that chorus — that howl — that plea:

 

Joey, if you’re hurting so am I…

 

That line doesn’t belong to a song.

That belongs to a real relationship, the kind people don’t post about. The kind they hide. The kind they endure.

 

“Joey” is what happens when love gets tangled up with addiction, with damage, with the kind of pain that doesn’t go away just because the sun came up.

 

And yet…

 

It’s not a bitter song.

 

That’s what makes it dangerous.

 

Because she isn’t mocking him.

She isn’t scolding him.

She isn’t leaving him.

 

She’s standing right in front of the wreckage saying:

 

I’m still here.

I still care.

Even if I shouldn’t.

 

And that’s the 80s side people forget.

 

Yeah, it had glitter.

Yeah, it had synths.

Yeah, it had stadium lights.

 

But it also had this —

songs that bled.

 

And Concrete Blonde?

They didn’t just bleed…

 

They made it sound beautiful.

 

So if you’ve ever had someone you loved that you couldn’t fix…

If you’ve ever stayed too long…

If you’ve ever confused love with rescue…

 

Then you already know why “Joey” hits like it does.

 

It’s not a song.

 

It’s a mirror.

 

⸻

 

This is Rock of the 80’s signing off for tonight — not sad, exactly… just remembering. And remembering sounds pretty damn good. 🎙️

Billy Idol – Romancing the Punk

 

Oh hell yes.

 

Tonight, Rock of the 80’s isn’t just turning the dial — we’re breaking the knob clean off, letting the radio sparks fly, and letting the neon burn a little brighter than it should.

 

Because now… it’s time.

 

It’s time for Billy Idol — the King of Love Punk — the man who somehow took leather, eyeliner, a crooked grin, and a heart full of bruises… and turned it into radio gold.

 

Billy didn’t just sing about desire — he made it sound dangerous.

Not “safe love.” Not “settle down love.”

No… Billy gave us love that ran red lights at 2:00 AM, love that smelled like cigarettes and rain, love that made you feel alive even when you knew better.

 

And if you lived through the 80’s — or if you wish you did — you know the truth:

 

Billy Idol wasn’t a phase.

Billy Idol was a weather system.

 

⸻

 

The King of Love Punk

 

See, the punks weren’t supposed to be pretty.

They weren’t supposed to be played on the radio.

They weren’t supposed to be the soundtrack for your best bad decisions.

 

But Billy was different.

 

He came out of the UK punk scene, sure — Generation X and all that sneer-and-spit attitude — but when he hit America, he didn’t just adapt…

 

He conquered.

 

He fused punk with pop, swagger with vulnerability, menace with melody.

And he did it with the kind of confidence that makes you believe a motorcycle jacket is formalwear and midnight is the correct time for romance.

 

⸻

 

“Rebel Yell” — The Battle Cry of the Wild Heart

 

Let’s talk about the cannon shot.

 

“Rebel Yell.”

 

That song doesn’t start… it ignites.

 

It’s the sound of:

•the city breathing,

•the streetlights humming,

•and your heart deciding it’s not going to behave tonight.

 

“Rebel Yell” is lust with a grin.

It’s the anthem of every night drive where you didn’t know where you were going — but you knew it was going to be somewhere unforgettable.

 

It’s loud. It’s hungry. It’s electric.

And Billy doesn’t ask permission — he just kicks the door open and makes your bloodstream dance.

 

⸻

 

“Blue Highway” — The Road Song You Don’t Forget

 

And then… we slide into something cooler.

 

“Blue Highway.”

 

Now that’s a deep cut for the real night people.

 

“Blue Highway” feels like:

•a long stretch of road,

•headlights slicing the dark,

•the radio low,

•and thoughts you don’t say out loud.

 

It’s Billy in motion — the romantic outlaw cruising through the aftermath.

Not the roar of the crowd… but the private movie in your head after the party’s over.

 

If “Rebel Yell” is the moment you throw your jacket on and leave the house…

“Blue Highway” is what plays when you’re already gone — chasing something you can’t name but you know you need.

 

⸻

 

Billy Idol: Romance With Teeth

 

That’s what Billy gave us.

Not love songs — love songs with bite marks.

 

And he always sounded like he meant it — even when it was reckless, even when it was doomed, even when it was exactly the wrong idea.

 

Because the 80’s weren’t about playing it safe.

 

The 80’s were about:

•late nights

•loud music

•fast love

•and the kind of freedom that only exists when you stop caring what tomorrow thinks.

 

And Billy Idol?

 

Billy Idol was that freedom.

 

⸻

 

So to Billy — the bleach-blonde rebel, the leather saint, the punk poet of the boulevard — we salute you.

 

Turn it up.

Drive it fast.

Sing it loud.

And if you catch yourself staring at the ceiling later wondering what any of it meant…

 

Don’t worry about it.

 

That’s not what Rock of the 80’s is about.

 

It’s about the open road.

The exhilaration of the night.

And of course… sex and rock and roll.

 

This is Rock of the 80’s signing off for tonight — not sad, exactly… just remembering. And remembering sounds pretty damn good.

I Drove all Night Roy and Cyndi

 

ROCK OF THE 80’s: “I Drove All Night” — Cyndi Lauper / Roy Orbison

 

Tonight we’re talking about “I Drove All Night.”

And yeah — Cyndi Lauper absolutely killed it. She didn’t just sing it… she owned it. That 80’s urgency, that wild heartbeat, that “I have to get there right now” feeling — it’s all there.

 

But here’s the truth that Rock of the 80’s has to say out loud:

 

Roy Orbison’s version is the definitive one.

Not because Cyndi wasn’t incredible… but because this one was written for Roy. The song was penned by Billy Steinberg and Tom Kelly — the same songwriting team behind some of the biggest emotional gut-punches of the decade — and when Roy delivers it, it sounds less like a pop single and more like a mission from the gods of midnight highways.

 

Now… fair warning:

If you stare too long at the lyrics — like with a lot of 80’s songs — you might start thinking:

“Wait… what exactly is happening here?”

 

Don’t.

 

That’s not what Rock of the 80’s is about.

 

This song isn’t about logic.

It’s about the open road, the exhilaration of the night, headlights cutting through darkness, your heart pounding like a kick drum, and the absolute certainty that someone is waiting for you.

 

And let’s not pretend it’s purely romantic.

 

It’s desire.

It’s speed.

It’s sex and rock and roll — with the gas pedal pinned to the floor.

 

This is Rock of the 80’s signing off for tonight — not sad, exactly… just remembering. And remembering sounds pretty damn good.

 

Rock of the 80’s: David Lindley and the Coolest Kind of “Not New Wave”

 

There are songs that lived on MTV… and then there are songs that lived in the air.

 

Not in neon. Not in eyeliner. Not in a chorus built for stadiums.

 

But in the places that really mattered.

 

In the late-night radio hours.

In the “somebody burned me a tape” economy.

In the cracked dashboard speakers of a car you probably shouldn’t have been driving that fast.

In the parts of the 80s where music wasn’t just entertainment — it was identity.

 

And that’s exactly where David Lindley’s “Mercury Blues” fits.

 

If you’ve never fallen into Lindley’s world before, don’t worry — he’s always been a little bit of a secret. Not because he wasn’t good… but because he was too good at being something else:

 

The guy behind the guys.

The mad scientist of strings.

The fearless musical drifter who could wander into any genre and walk out with the keys to the building.

 

And when Lindley took on “Mercury Blues,” he didn’t just play it.

 

He lit it up.

 

This isn’t “blues” like a dusty museum piece — it’s blues with a grin. Blues with horsepower. Blues that struts instead of limps.

 

It’s got that rolling rhythm that sounds like:

•a warm engine at a stoplight

•summer heat rising off the hood

•a shiny car ad you almost believe

•and a voice that says “I know this is ridiculous… and I love it anyway.”

 

And that’s the magic: “Mercury Blues” is cool without needing permission.

 

But does it belong in Rock of the 80’s?

 

Oh yeah. Maybe more than most.

 

Because the 80s weren’t just synths and sequencers — they were curiosity.

 

The 80s were filled with artists who:

•raided the past and made it modern

•mixed styles like they were making a drink

•pulled old American sounds into new, strange shapes

•and reminded everyone that “rock” didn’t have to follow a dress code

 

That’s Lindley.

 

He’s a perfect reminder that the decade had plenty of room for:

roots rock, garage swagger, and songs that sounded like they were recorded with the windows down.

 

So if you came for the new wave hits — great.

 

But if you want the real 80s, the full landscape, the weird and wonderful side streets?

 

Then step off the main boulevard for a minute…

 

…and take a ride with David Lindley.

 

Because sometimes the most 80s thing you can do…

 

is blast a song that doesn’t belong anywhere — except exactly where you are.

 

⸻

 

This is Rock of the 80’s signing off for tonight — not sad, exactly… just remembering. And remembering sounds pretty damn good.

 

New order – Blue Monday

 

There are songs you listen to…

and then there are songs that feel like they were built — bolted together in some neon factory where the lights never shut off and the heart still somehow manages to break in rhythm.

 

“Blue Monday” is that song.

 

Because this wasn’t just a “track.”

This was an artistic production — a full-on engineering project disguised as a dance single. A blueprint for the decade before the decade even fully knew what it was.

 

New Order didn’t just write a song — they assembled a future:

•drum machines that hit like steel doors closing

•sequencers marching forward like a city at midnight

•synth basslines that don’t “groove” so much as command

•and a vocal delivery so detached it becomes… intimate

 

That’s the trick.

 

It’s not warm.

It’s not pleading.

It’s not even trying to be liked.

 

And yet it’s absolutely irresistible.

 

⸻

 

A sound that was brand new — and immediately permanent

 

You can hear it in the opening seconds — that pulse that sounds like the club floor itself coming alive, like the electricity in the walls just decided it had something to say.

 

This song did something radical:

It proved that music could be mechanical and still be devastating.

 

This is dance music for people who aren’t celebrating.

 

This is the beat you move to when you’re trying to forget what you did Saturday night…

and why you still can’t stop thinking about the person who wasn’t there.

 

⸻

 

Technique as art

 

“Blue Monday” isn’t important because it was popular.

 

It’s important because it said:

 

We can make emotion with machines.

 

This is the 80’s thesis statement.

 

A decade where the tools changed — the drum kits turned into circuits, the bass turned into voltage, and the studio became an instrument that didn’t exist in earlier eras.

 

And New Order?

They didn’t resist it.

 

They grabbed the new toys, the new techniques, the new noises — and used them to build something icy, sleek, and completely human underneath.

 

⸻

 

The heartbreak inside the circuitry

 

And let’s not miss what’s hiding in the middle of all that perfection:

 

“How does it feel…”

 

That line alone is enough to wreck you if you let it.

 

Because for all its precision, “Blue Monday” is still about the oldest thing in the world:

•desire

•regret

•control slipping

•love turning into distance

 

It’s just that here, instead of guitars crying, the machines do the crying.

 

⸻

 

If the 80’s had a heartbeat

 

Some songs define an era.

 

But “Blue Monday” sounds like the era invented itself while it was playing.

 

It’s not just in the DNA of synthpop and dance.

 

It’s in:

•club culture

•remix culture

•electronic production

•alternative becoming mainstream

•the whole idea that the future could be cold and gorgeous at the same time

 

And it still hits — because it’s not trapped in the past.

 

It still feels like tomorrow.

 

⸻

 

And that’s why Blue Monday isn’t just a song.

 

It’s an artistic production.

A technical revolution.

A nightclub confession.

A machine-built monument to human weakness.

 

⸻

 

This is Rock of the 80’s signing off for tonight — not sad, exactly… just remembering. And remembering sounds pretty damn good.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W2e2Nw8oTgc&list=RDW2e2Nw8oTgc&start_radio=1

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyWeR6S8KD4&list=RDFyWeR6S8KD4&start_radio=1

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iyzk1Gwwu7c&t=15s

When Love Becomes a Wrong Number (But You Keep Dialing Anyway)

 

There’s a certain kind of loneliness that only existed in the wired world.

 

Not the modern kind — the quiet scrolling, the “seen” message, the digital cold shoulder.

 

No… I’m talking about the older kind.

The kind where you held a phone in your hand like it was a lifeline, and every ring felt like the universe deciding your fate one vibration at a time.

 

And if you were lucky… she picked up.

 

If you weren’t?

You got the telephone operator.

 

And in 1983, Pete Shelley — the original poet laureate of love-punk — turned that moment into something that hits like neon heartbreak:

 

“Telephone Operator.”

 

⸻

 

Pete Shelley: The Punk Who Understood the Human Condition

 

Let’s not kid ourselves: Pete Shelley wasn’t just “a guy from Buzzcocks.”

 

He was a master of emotional electricity — punk rock nerve endings wrapped in pop hooks. He wrote songs that sounded like they were smiling…

 

…but inside they were shaking.

 

Because Shelley never wrote about fantasy. He wrote about need.

Desire.

Confusion.

That aching moment when you want somebody so badly you don’t even care if it’s a bad idea anymore.

 

And that’s exactly where “Telephone Operator” lives.

 

⸻

 

A Song About Dialing Love — Again and Again

 

“Telephone Operator” isn’t subtle — and thank God for that.

 

This is a song about:

•wanting someone who is probably not coming back

•calling anyway

•hoping anyway

•falling apart anyway

 

It’s not “I’ll survive.”

It’s not “I’m moving on.”

 

It’s I can’t stop calling because I’m still in love.

 

And I don’t know if you remember this, kids, but back then you didn’t just message somebody.

 

You committed.

 

You dialed. You listened. You waited.

And if you got the operator, you didn’t “try again later.”

 

You felt the rejection in real time.

 

⸻

 

That Synth Line: Pure Nervous Romantic Panic

 

This track is built like a late-night breakdown:

 

The synth pulses like anxiety.

The beat moves like a heart trying to stay steady.

And Shelley’s voice… that voice is the whole thing.

 

He doesn’t sound cool.

He sounds human.

 

And that’s why it works.

 

Because “Telephone Operator” isn’t trying to be macho, or aloof, or clever.

 

It’s just saying what every one of us has felt:

 

“I need you.”

“I miss you.”

“I’m probably embarrassing myself.”

“But I don’t care.”

 

⸻

 

The Operator as the Harsh Voice of Reality

 

The operator is more than a literal operator.

 

She’s the personification of the universe refusing to connect you.

 

And isn’t that the cruelest part?

 

You’re not even being rejected by the person you love…

You’re being rejected by the system.

 

By fate.

By distance.

By time.

By your own inability to let go.

 

That’s Rock of the 80’s right there.

 

Love doesn’t always die with dignity.

 

Sometimes it dies with you standing in your kitchen at 1:00 AM, dialing a number you know by heart, praying to hear a voice that won’t answer.

 

⸻

 

Why This Song Still Hits

 

Because no matter how high-tech we get, the emotional reality stays the same.

 

The phone line has become a text bubble.

The operator has become “message failed.”

The ringing has become silence.

 

But the feeling?

 

The feeling is unchanged.

 

The feeling is:

 

“Please… just pick up.”

 

⸻

 

Final Thought

 

“Telephone Operator” isn’t a song for the confident.

 

It’s a song for the romantics.

The reckless.

The beautiful disasters.

The ones who love like it’s the last night on earth.

 

And if you’ve ever called someone when you knew you shouldn’t…

 

If you’ve ever hoped the universe would connect you one more time…

 

Then you don’t just like this song.

 

You understand it.

 

⸻

 

This is Rock of the 80’s signing off for tonight — not sad, exactly… just remembering. And remembering sounds pretty damn good.

 

Pete Shelley – Telephone Operator (Official Video)

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYTbivw9jz4&list=RDiYTbivw9jz4&start_radio=1

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYTbivw9jz4&list=RDiYTbivw9jz4&start_radio=1

“Impressed” — Charlie Sexton, Tonio K, and the Rockabilly Ghost in the Machine

 

Somewhere in the great neon hallway of the 1980s — between the last real jukebox and the first synth preset — there’s a door marked “Impressed.” Not a hit. Not a stadium chant. Not a song you hear in line at Target while you buy paper towels.

 

This is something else.

 

This is the kind of track you find late at night, half by accident, when the radio DJ has stopped caring about format and starts caring about truth.

 

And behind that door?

 

You’ll find Charlie Sexton and Tonio K. — two very different men, from two very different corners of the rock world… quietly sharing the same flame.

 

Charlie Sexton: The Kid With the Old Soul

 

Charlie Sexton always felt like an American time-traveler.

 

He shows up as this young Texas guitar slinger — way too young to be carrying that much history in his hands — and yet every note he plays sounds like it’s been waiting in the dust since 1956.

 

You listen close and it’s there:

•that snap

•that sting

•that “yes ma’am / no sir” rockabilly discipline hiding inside the wildness

 

Sexton’s guitar doesn’t just play lead.

It talks back.

 

And the way he phrases? That’s not just blues.

That’s Sun Records hiding under streetlights.

That’s Scotty Moore with a little extra anger.

That’s rockabilly, even when it’s wearing an 80s jacket.

 

Tonio K: The Poet With a Switchblade Smile

 

Now Tonio K — that’s a different animal entirely.

 

Tonio wasn’t just writing songs…

He was writing warnings.

 

His words hit like the best kind of sarcasm — the kind that makes you laugh, then makes you feel guilty for laughing, and then makes you sit there thinking:

 

“Wait a second… he’s right.”

 

Tonio K is the patron saint of:

•damaged romantics

•late-night philosophers

•people who smile while they’re bleeding

 

He’s got that nervous West Coast swagger — part punk, part new wave, part hard-boiled songwriter.

 

But underneath all that cleverness?

 

There’s something older.

 

Because Tonio K had that same rockabilly ingredient, too — not the hairstyle, not the nostalgia…

 

The attitude.

 

That razor-edged sense of:

 

“I’ve got something to say and I’m going to say it before you stop me.”

 

That’s rockabilly. That’s early rock and roll. That’s the original rebel spirit — just dressed in 80s cynicism and smoked-out Los Angeles honesty.

 

So What Happens When They Collide?

 

That’s where “Impressed” comes in.

 

This isn’t a song trying to climb the charts.

This is a song trying to climb out of your memory.

 

“Impressed” is the sound of two men circling the same truth:

•Charlie brings the spark

•Tonio brings the ink

•and together they bring that look on your face when you realize… you’ve been caught.

 

Because that’s what the song does — it doesn’t seduce you.

 

It accuses you.

 

It’s one of those tracks where the guitars and the lyrics are working the same job:

exposing a fake world with real sound.

 

And if you listen closely, you can hear the rockabilly ghost in the machine.

 

Not in a blatant way.

 

More like…

a wink.

a twitch.

a smirk.

 

Like they both know the same secret:

that long before MTV, long before the big hair and the gated drums…

 

rock and roll was built on nerve.

 

Rockabilly nerve.

 

A Little Rockabilly in the 80’s Bloodstream

 

The funny thing is — the 80’s gets blamed for being artificial.

 

Too polished. Too processed. Too plastic.

 

And yeah… sometimes it was.

 

But the 80s also had people like Sexton and Tonio K who carried something older inside them — something primal.

 

That 1950s snap.

That backbeat arrogance.

That feeling like the song might either start a fight or start a romance… and you’re not sure which.

 

Charlie Sexton didn’t need to dress like Elvis to be rockabilly.

He just had to play one honest note.

 

Tonio K didn’t need a pompadour to be rockabilly.

He just had to write one line that hit too close to home.

 

And “Impressed”?

 

That’s the moment those two kinds of rockabilly intersect:

•the guitar rebel

•and the lyric rebel

 

One plays it like it’s 1959 in a Texas bar.

The other writes it like it’s 1983 in a Los Angeles parking lot under a flickering streetlamp.

 

And somehow…

it works.

 

Because real rock doesn’t care what year it is.

 

And That’s Why “Impressed” Matters

 

Because it’s a reminder:

 

The 80s weren’t just glossy.

They weren’t just pop.

 

Sometimes, the 80s were dangerous in quiet ways.

 

Sometimes the best songs were the ones that didn’t scream.

 

They just looked you dead in the eye and said:

 

“Go ahead… try to fake it.

I’m not impressed.”

 

And if you’re paying attention?

 

You’ll hear that old rockabilly heartbeat under the whole thing.

 

Still kicking.

Still grinning.

Still refusing to die.

 

⸻

 

This is Rock of the 80’s signing off for tonight — not sad, exactly… just remembering. And remembering sounds pretty damn good.

🎧 Tonight on Rock of the 80’s… we’re spinning one that doesn’t just play — it haunts the room.

 

Kate Bush.

1985.

“Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God).”

 

That steady heartbeat starts.

The synth begins to rise.

And suddenly you’re not just listening — you’re inside the song.

 

Kate wasn’t singing about power or heartbreak. She was imagining a deal — switching places with someone you love so you can finally understand what they feel. Only Kate Bush could make empathy sound like myth, mystery, and a midnight walk through fog.

 

And here’s the wild part — the song felt ahead of its time in ’85… and somehow still feels ahead of today.

 

📻 Rock of the 80’s Trivia Break

 

• The original title really was “A Deal With God,” but the record label worried some countries would ban it — so they flipped it.

• Kate Bush produced the track herself at just 26 years old.

• It hit the Top 10 in multiple countries — and decades later, it re-entered the charts and went #1 in several places after being featured in Stranger Things.

• That iconic drum sound? It’s the LinnDrum — the same drum machine used on tons of 80s classics.

 

Spin this one with the lights low. Let that beat start marching — and let Kate take you somewhere strange and beautiful.

 

This is Rock of the 80’s signing off for tonight — not sad, exactly… just remembering. And remembering sounds pretty damn good.