Released in 1985 on John Mellencamp’s landmark album “Scarecrow”, “R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A. (A Salute to ’60s Rock)” became the album’s biggest hit, climbing to No. 2 on the Billboard Hot 100 and No. 6 on the Top Rock Tracks chart. In Australia, the single charted as a double-A side when radio also embraced its B-side, “Under the Boardwalk,” pushing both songs together to No. 18.
“R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A.” is exactly what the subtitle promises: a loving tribute to the American rock, R&B, and soul records of the 1960s that shaped Mellencamp’s musical identity. Growing up in Indiana, he listened to AM radio at a time when stations played everything—rock ’n’ roll, folk, Motown, doo-wop—all mixed together. That eclectic upbringing echoes throughout the track.
In the lyrics, Mellencamp name-checks artists who had a profound influence on him, including: Frankie Lymon, Bobby Fuller, Mitch Ryder, Jackie Wilson, The Shangri-Las, The Young Rascals, Martha Reeves and James Brown.
These nods weren’t just fan service—they had impact. Bobby Fuller’s family personally thanked Mellencamp for reviving interest in the late musician. When Mellencamp performed in Albuquerque, Fuller’s hometown, his family brought him the belt Fuller was wearing when he died—an emotional gesture acknowledging how meaningful the mention was.
“Scarecrow” is a stark, sometimes bleak portrait of the decline of rural American life. With tracks like “Rain on the Scarecrow” and “Face of the Nation,” the album explores themes of erosion—of farmland, of small-town stability, of the very idea of the American Dream. “R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A.”, by contrast, is joyful and effervescent, celebrating musical rebellion rather than social decay. Mellencamp worried the track was too upbeat, too lightweight, to sit alongside the album’s darker material. Originally, he planned to include it only as a cassette/CD bonus track. But his manager insisted the song’s energy was irresistible, and Mellencamp decided, almost at the last minute: “Yeah—what the hell!” It went on to become one of his biggest hits.
Mellencamp had his band study approximately 100 songs from the 1960s before recording “Scarecrow”, not to copy them, but to absorb their spirit. That study permeates “R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A.” in subtle and clever ways. The instrumental break especially showcases the song’s musical lineage: The riff is lifted from Neil Diamond’s “Cherry, Cherry.” It’s first played on an ocarina, referencing the unexpected ocarina solo in The Troggs’ “Wild Thing.” The riff then shifts through guitar and keyboards, echoing different corners of ’60s rock.
On tour, Mellencamp would often pull a fan from the audience to dance with him during this section—a playful nod to the communal joy of early rock ’n’ roll.
R.E.M. – IMITATION OF LIFE
Publicada: 16 d’abril de 2001
Llistes: EUA: #83 Regne Unit: #6
L’any 2001, R.E.M. ja no tenien res per demostrar. Després de dues dècades redefinint el rock alternatiu nord-americà, el grup hauria pogut deixar-se portar fàcilment per la reputació. En lloc d’això, van publicar “Imitation of Life”, una peça de pop resplendent i autoconscient que trobava el grup — i el cantant Michael Stipe — dirigint la mirada cap a la il·lusió mateixa: Hollywood, la fama i el fràgil teatre de l’edat adulta.
El primer senzill de “Reveal”, el dotzè àlbum d’estudi de R.E.M., “Imitation of Life” gairebé va quedar fora del disc. “Tants amics nostres ens van dir que era genial que vam decidir incloure-la”, va admetre Stipe més tard. Va ser una bona decisió — la cançó es va convertir en un èxit mundial, lloada per la seva brillantor melòdica i el seu toc líric.
Musicalment, és un dels temes més impregnats de pop de R.E.M., amb guitarres tintinnants, harmonies que s’esvaeixen i una producció lluent del col·laborador habitual Pat McCarthy. Irònicament, el grup va “imitar la vida” més literalment del que pretenia: la progressió d’acords de la cançó està presa directament de “Driver 8”, de 1985. El resultat se sent alhora nostàlgic i nou — un clàssic de R.E.M. filtrat a través de la llum més brillant del nou mil·lenni.
El títol prové de la pel·lícula de Douglas Sirk “Imitation of Life” de 1959, un melodrama exuberant sobre la identitat, l’ambició i les màscares que la gent porta per sobreviure. El guitarrista Peter Buck va admetre que cap dels membres del grup havia vist realment la pel·lícula, però la metàfora va enganxar-se. “En aquell moment, pensava que el títol era una metàfora perfecta de l’adolescència,” va reflexionar més endavant. “Malauradament, he arribat a creure que també és una metàfora perfecta de l’edat adulta.” En aquest esperit, la lletra de Stipe enllaça temes de representació, desig i autoengany, descrivint “l’actuació inflada d’un artista esperançat.” És una cançó de Hollywood en tots els sentits — enganxosa, acolorida i una mica tràgica sota tota la lluentor.
Si la cançó era cinematogràfica, el seu videoclip era una meravella tècnica. Dirigit per Garth Jennings i produït per Nick Goldsmith, el clip mostra una festa de piscina assolellada a Los Angeles congelada en el temps. En realitat, tot el vídeo es va filmar en només 20 segons — una única presa contínua que avança i retrocedeix mentre la càmera es desplaça i fa zoom a través de desenes de micro-dràmes: un home que s’encén en un barbacoa, una beguda llançada a la cara d’algú, Stipe ballant, Mills abocant vi en una torre de copes i Peter Buck tocant un ukulele amb un mico a la falda.
Fent servir una tècnica de “pan and scan” inspirada en “Tango” (1981) del cineasta polonès Zbigniew Rybczyński, Jennings va crear un trencaclosques visual — part comèdia física, part cinema surrealista. “És una forma morta, morta”, va dir Stipe amb un somriure. “Volíem fer alguna cosa que tornés a sentir-se viva.”
“Imitation of Life” és R.E.M. en el seu moment més enganyosament simple: la melodia brilla, la lletra fa mal. És una cançó sobre l’artifici que sona sorprenentment real, sobre la tristesa disfressada d’alegria. Després de la foscor de “Up” (1998), va ser un retorn a la llum — encara que no exempt d’ironia. El grup va gravar “Reveal” en diversos llocs amarats de pluja, i Stipe va bromejar més tard dient que havien fet “un disc assolellat per compensar el temps.”
R.E.M. - IMITATION OF LIFE
Released: April 16, 2001
Charts: US: #83 UK: #6
By 2001, R.E.M. had nothing left to prove. After two decades of redefining American alternative rock, the band could have easily coasted on reputation. Instead, they released “Imitation of Life,” a shimmering, self-aware piece of pop perfection that found the group — and frontman Michael Stipe — turning their gaze toward illusion itself: Hollywood, fame, and the fragile theater of adulthood.
The first single from “Reveal”, R.E.M.’s 12th studio album, “Imitation of Life” was almost left off the record. “So many of our friends told us it was great that we decided to include it,” Stipe admitted later. It was a good call — the song became a worldwide hit, praised for its melodic brightness and lyrical bite.
Musically, it’s one of R.E.M.’s most pop-infused efforts, all jangling guitars, swooning harmonies, and glittering production from longtime collaborator Pat McCarthy. Ironically, the band “imitated life” more literally than intended: the song’s chord progression borrows directly from 1985’s “Driver 8.” The result feels both nostalgic and new — an R.E.M. classic filtered through the glossier light of the new millennium.
The title comes from Douglas Sirk’s 1959 film “Imitation of Life”, a lush melodrama about identity, ambition, and the masks people wear to survive. Guitarist Peter Buck admitted none of the band members had actually seen the movie, but the metaphor stuck. “At the time, I thought the title was a perfect metaphor for adolescence,” he reflected later. “Unfortunately, I’ve come to believe it’s a perfect metaphor for adulthood, too.” In that spirit, Stipe’s lyrics thread together themes of performance, longing, and self-deception, describing “the puffed-up performance of a hopeful entertainer.” It’s a Hollywood song in every sense — catchy, colorful, and a little bit tragic underneath the shine.
If the song was cinematic, its music video was a technical marvel. Directed by Garth Jennings and produced by Nick Goldsmith, the clip depicts a sun-drenched Los Angeles pool party frozen in time. In reality, the entire video was filmed in just 20 seconds — a single continuous shot that loops forward and backward, while the camera pans and zooms across dozens of micro-dramas: a man catching fire at a barbecue, a drink thrown in someone’s face, Stipe dancing, Mills pouring wine into a tower of glasses, and Peter Buck strumming a ukulele with a monkey on his lap.
Using a “pan and scan” technique inspired by Polish filmmaker Zbigniew Rybczyński’s 1981 film “Tango”, Jennings created a visual puzzle box — part slapstick, part surrealist cinema. “It’s a dead, dead form,” Stipe said with a grin. “We wanted to make something that felt alive again.”
“Imitation of Life” is R.E.M. at their most deceptively simple: the melody sparkles, the lyrics ache. It’s a song about artifice that sounds effortlessly real, about sadness disguised as joy. After the darkness of “Up” (1998), it was a return to light — though not without irony. The band recorded “Reveal” in several rain-soaked locations, and Stipe later joked that they made it “a sunny record to compensate for the weather.”
11.12.25
TALKING HEADS - TAKE ME TO THE RIVER
Released: June 30, 1978
Charts: US:#26
“Take Me to the River” occupies a unique place in the Talking Heads catalogue: it is their biggest early hit, and the only cover song they ever officially recorded. Originally written by Al Green and his guitarist Teenie Hodges in 1974, the song was rooted in Southern soul and gospel imagery. Few could have predicted that a New York art-rock band would deliver its most commercially successful interpretation.
Al Green’s original recording, released on “Al Green Explores Your Mind”, was steeped in spiritual metaphor, using baptism as both religious symbol and emotional cleansing. Although Green’s version wasn’t a hit, the song circulated widely in R&B circles and inspired multiple covers. It took Talking Heads to carry it into the new wave mainstream, where it reached No. 26 on the Billboard Hot 100 in early 1979—higher than any previous version.
Initially, David Byrne resisted recording the song, believing the band should focus exclusively on original material, but producer Brian Eno convinced him otherwise, framing the cover not as homage but as transformation. Eno’s key instruction was radical in its simplicity: play it as slowly as possible. That decision reshaped the song.
Unlike the expressive warmth of Al Green’s take, the Talking Heads version is deliberately restrained, tense, and seductive. The slowed tempo gives the track a simmering intensity, turning the familiar gospel plea into something uneasy and hypnotic. The groove barely moves forward, creating a sense of ritual—appropriate for a song about baptism, surrender, and rebirth.
Byrne’s vocal performance is crucial. He does not sing like a soul preacher; instead, he inhabits the role, sounding detached and anxious, as though unsure whether salvation is coming or something more dangerous. That ambiguity makes the song feel modern, even unsettling, and foreshadows Byrne’s later sermon-like delivery on “Once in a Lifetime.”
Released as the only single from “More Songs About Buildings and Food”, “Take Me to the River” became Talking Heads’ first major commercial breakthrough, earning them a coveted spot on American Bandstand and introducing the band to a national audience. While the group never positioned themselves as hit-makers, this single proved that boundary-pushing music could still connect widely.
The track also marked the strengthening collaboration between Talking Heads and Brian Eno. Recorded at the newly opened Compass Point Studios in Nassau, the sessions were marked by experimentation and mythology—Island Records founder Chris Blackwell famously surrounded the studio grounds with chicken blood to ward off evil spirits. Whether coincidence or voodoo, the result was an album—and a song—that helped define the band’s artistic direction.
TALKING HEADS - WILD WILD LIFE
Released: August 1986
Charts: US: #25 UK: #43
Released in August 1986 as the lead single from “True Stories”, “Wild Wild Life” feels deceptively light—almost novelty pop at first blush—yet it quietly continues David Byrne’s long-running fascination with American identity, absurdity, and the thin line between observer and participant.
“Wild Wild Life” is buoyant and kinetic, driven by a taut rhythm section and a chant-like hook that lodges itself immediately in the ear. It’s one of the band’s most approachable singles, explaining why it became their third—and final—Top 40 hit in the US. But accessibility has never meant simplicity for Talking Heads. Beneath the playful surface lies a sly piece of social satire, delivered with Byrne’s trademark deadpan curiosity.
Written for Byrne’s film “True Stories”, the song doubles as both theme and commentary. Its narrator is an eccentric drifter—dressed in fur pajamas, sleeping by the interstate—yet he positions himself as a spectator, marveling at the supposed normalcy of doctors, stockbrokers, and businessmen. In Byrne’s upside-down worldview, it’s the suit-and-tie professionals who live the truly “wild” lives. The joke, as ever with Talking Heads, is on our assumptions about success, stability, and sanity.
The accompanying video, embedded into the fabric of “True Stories”, perfectly amplifies this idea. Set as a lip-sync contest in the fictional town of Virgil, Texas, it turns everyday Americana into performance art. Each towns-person mouths a line of the song, transforming banality into spectacle. For a band reportedly strained by internal tensions at the time, the video is unusually loose and joyful, with Byrne allowing his bandmates to lean into exaggerated personas—heavy metal screamers, country crooners, zoot-suited hustlers—like a carnival mirror reflection of American pop culture.
“Wild Wild Life” also crystallizes Talking Heads’ role as new wave’s sharpest satirists. As critic Bill Martin once noted, if punk was the howl of the outsider, Talking Heads represented “the revenge of the nerds.” Here, that revenge is playful rather than angry, observational rather than confrontational. Byrne doesn’t shout; he points, smiles, and lets the absurdity speak for itself.
In hindsight, the song feels like a farewell wave disguised as a party. It captures the band at their most accessible while still unmistakably strange—a pop hit that laughs at the very systems that define normal life. Talking Heads would never chart this high again, but with “Wild Wild Life,” they left behind a perfect summary of their art: curious, ironic, and dancing cheerfully at the edge of American weirdness.
TALKING HEADS - (NOTHING BUT) FLOWERS
Released: October 3, 1988
Charts: UK: #79
Released in 1988 as a single from “Naked”, the final studio album by Talking Heads, “(Nothing But) Flowers” stands as one of the band’s last great statements—ironic, restless, and musically borderless. It’s a song that captures everything the group did best: wry social observation, global influences, and the uneasy humor of David Byrne’s worldview.
At the time of “Naked”, Talking Heads were already drifting apart. Byrne’s growing slate of solo and collaborative projects had long strained the band’s internal dynamics, leaving his bandmates unsure if Talking Heads still existed except in name. That tension makes the song even more striking: it’s a vibrant, almost jubilant piece created at a moment of deep uncertainty.
Produced with Steve Lillywhite, the song features an expanded cast of musicians, including percussionists from West Africa, singer Kirsty MacColl, and—on lead guitar—Johnny Marr, fresh off his departure from The Smiths. Marr’s shimmering 12-string lines give the track its nervous sparkle; he has recalled that what became the song’s iconic introduction was recorded accidentally while he was warming up, unaware the tape was rolling.
In a reversal of the “pave paradise” lament popularized by Joni Mitchell, Byrne imagines a post-apocalyptic Eden where nature has reclaimed everything. Parking lots are now meadows, shopping malls have become forests, and the conveniences of late-20th-century consumer life—fast food, lawnmowers, highways—are extinct. The narrator is divided: he marvels at the beauty of the natural world while complaining that he misses the comforts of civilization. It’s funny, but also uncomfortably familiar. Byrne skewers our environmental hypocrisy decades before it became mainstream conversation.
The song’s music video, directed by Byrne and Sandy McLeod, was ahead of its time. Featuring bold, experimental typography by Tibor Kalman and Emily Oberman, the visuals overlay declarative text and fragments of lyrics as the band performs with its full expanded lineup. It is both playful and cerebral, a design piece as much as a music video.
TALKING HEADS - AND SHE WAS
Released: August 1985
Charts: US:#54 UK: #17.
“And She Was” is a bright, buoyant moment on their 1985 album “Little Creatures” that disguises its strangeness behind jangling guitars and pop accessibility. Written and sung by David Byrne, the track became a modest chart success, reaching No. 54 on the US Billboard Hot 100 and No. 17 in the UK. At heart, “And She Was” is about escape without leaving, transcendence without grandeur, and spiritual awakening blooming in thoroughly unglamorous surroundings.
Byrne has repeatedly traced the song’s inspiration to a real woman he knew in Baltimore—someone who used to take LSD and lie in a grassy field bordering a Yoo-Hoo chocolate drink factory. The image struck him as absurd yet deeply resonant. “It seemed like such a tacky kind of transcendence,” Byrne wrote in the liner notes for Once in a Lifetime: The Best of Talking Heads, “but it was real! A new kind of religion being born out of heaps of rusted cars and fast food joints.”
Crucially, Byrne has always insisted that “And She Was” is not a drug song. Instead, he framed it as a depiction of spontaneous, unprovoked revelation. The girl doesn’t escape from the world—she floats within it. The sublime emerges not from nature untouched, but from highways, factories, schools, and backyard fences. This tension—between beauty and banality—is pure Talking Heads.
Musically, the song mirrors its theme. It floats rather than drives. The rhythm glides, the melody lifts, and Byrne’s vocals are wide-eyed and observational, as though he, too, can’t quite believe what he’s witnessing.
Drummer Chris Frantz framed the narrative as a slightly unbalanced love story: a man watching a woman who can literally rise above her surroundings, while he remains rooted below—both admiring her freedom and wishing she’d be just a little more ordinary. She drifts past rooftops, schools, and yards, while the narrator stays grounded, emotionally and physically. It’s a classic Byrne perspective: the outsider fascinated by someone who refuses to adhere to gravity, social or otherwise.
“And She Was” is inseparable from its music video, directed by Jim Blashfield, whose work drew heavily on the surreal collage techniques of Terry Gilliam. The video marked Blashfield’s first collaboration with Talking Heads and introduced a visual style that would become hugely influential: cut-out animation, layered imagery, and disorienting scale shifts that perfectly mirrored the song’s sense of weightless wonder.
MTV took notice. The video earned nominations for Best Group Video and Best Concept Video, opening the door for Blashfield to bring the same dream logic to other landmark clips, including: Paul Simon’s “The Boy in the Bubble”; Tears for Fears’ “Sowing the Seeds of Love” and Michael Jackson’s “Leave Me Alone”.
In a catalog filled with jittery paranoia and intellectual density, “And She Was” remains one of Talking Heads’ most generous songs. It doesn’t mock its subject. It watches her float, slightly bewildered, slightly in love, and quietly changed by what he’s seen.
