You ever wake up in a cold sweat at 3 AM and think, "Why the hell am I still listening to Golden Earring in 1980?" Or better yet—why am I still *defending* Golden Earring like they’re the last greasy warriors holding the fortress of rock ‘n’ roll against the synth-stained apocalypse? Well, you do it because bands like Golden Earring don’t give a damn. And somewhere in that sweet nihilistic stance, they stumble onto genius.
*Prisoner of the Night* isn’t a *great* album. Hell, it’s barely even trying to be one. What it *is*, though, is a snarling, gas-chugging engine firing on pure stubbornness, clawing its way through the decade like a caveman trying to figure out a microwave. It’s as if Barry Hay and the boys woke up one day and said, “Screw trends, screw labels—screw even the audience. We’re here to make records that *sound* like a bar fight looks: sloppy, visceral, and gloriously unhinged.”
The whole album smells like stale beer and leather, and I mean that as the highest compliment. Right out of the gate, *Long Blond Animal* punches you square in the teeth. It’s dirty and predictable as hell—big dumb riffs stomping around like a mammoth that accidentally wandered into 1980—but damn if it doesn’t hit that primal itch. This song doesn’t care about nuance. It cares about blasting through the walls of your brain with a guitar riff played as if the strings might snap any second. Barry Hay croons, snarls, and struts like the last man alive who knows where to find a good time.
Then there’s *No For An Answer*, a song so full of defiance it practically spits on you. The bass and drums lock into a thundering march, George Kooymans’ guitar hums like a revving chainsaw, and you can almost hear the smirk in Hay’s delivery. It’s not subtle, but rock ‘n’ roll was never supposed to be subtle.
But here’s where the album takes a turn—you hit the title track, *Prisoner of the Night*, and suddenly it’s 3 AM in the neon glow of a busted jukebox. This one feels darker, heavier, like the walls are closing in. Golden Earring’s always been good at conjuring a mood—they’ve got that Dutch-black-water magic. The lyrics crawl along like someone watching the last train leave the station while they chain-smoke on the platform. Barry Hay sounds like he’s haunted, maybe hunted, and for five glorious minutes, you believe him.
Then they turn around and pull off *I’ll Make It All Up to You*, a soft, syrupy promise of redemption. Normally, this is the point in the album where I’d yell “Sellout!” and hurl my whiskey glass across the room, but dammit, it works. Hay leans into it with enough sincerity to let the song stand on its own shaky legs. It’s the hungover apology after a night of smashing bottles against the wall.
The rest of the album stomps along—*Sleepwalking* drones in hypnotic loops, *I Do Rock ‘N Roll* comes out swinging like an overgrown teenager shouting, “I’m still cool, man!” and *The Time Is Mine* closes things out with the band pounding their chests like cavemen who just survived the Ice Age.
Look, Golden Earring knows what they are. They’re not Bowie, they’re not Zeppelin—they’re a dirty, hardworking band that plays dirty, hardworking rock. *Prisoner of the Night* isn’t perfect, but it’s alive. It’s a middle finger to disco glitter and the coming doom of synthesizers. It’s the sound of four guys refusing to go quietly into that good night, even if no one’s listening.
You listen to Golden Earring because somewhere deep down, you need that reminder: rock ‘n’ roll isn’t dead until *you* let it die. As long as there’s someone stomping out three chords with a sneer and a busted amp, the fight’s still on. And *Prisoner of the Night*? That’s the sound of the last battle cry before the lights go out.
Not genius, but necessary. And sometimes, necessary is enough.
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