There’s something about Fighting that feels scrappy, urgent, streetwise. Like it’s been sharpened in alleyways and heartaches. Thin Lizzy were still outsiders in 1975—still seen as a journeyman Irish rock act with flashes of brilliance. But Fighting is where everything clicks. The twin-guitar attack solidifies, Phil Lynott steps into the spotlight as a poetic tough guy with a heart like an open wound, and the band sounds like it’s fighting for its life. Because it is.
This album isn’t just titled Fighting. It is fighting: with record labels, with expectations, with poverty, with identity. It’s the Irish diaspora, soul music, tough rock & roll, and lyrical mythmaking mashed together into lean, defiant rock songs that punch hard and bleed slow.
Phil Lynott—Black, Irish, bisexual, raised by his grandmother in Dublin, navigating both racism and romanticism—emerges here as a singular voice. He’s not a “rock star” yet, but he’s something cooler: a street poet in a leather jacket. His songs are full of longing, bravado, tenderness, and danger. “King’s Vengeance” and “Wild One” are as mythic as Irish ballads. “Rosalie” (a Bob Seger cover!) becomes a Lizzy classic by sheer swagger. And “Suicide”? That’s noir cinema turned into guitar riffs.
Musically, Fighting is a transition record—but a beautiful one. It’s rawer than Jailbreak, more consistent than their early work. The dual lead guitars of Scott Gorham and Brian Robertson are just starting to breathe fire together. You can feel them circling each other, building the sound that would define Lizzy's golden run. It's as if the band is cracking the code in real time—testing, sparring, improvising—and the listener gets to hear the results, song by song.
In the world of the 1975 Series, Fighting plays a crucial role. It’s the sound of the real rock 'n' roll underground—not the freakout of Metal Machine Music, not the glam theatrics of Young Americans, not the celestial sprawl of Physical Graffiti. This is a barroom record, a record of fists and lyrics and worn-out shoes. It feels lived in. It feels earned.
And here’s the kicker: Fighting doesn’t scream for attention. It demands respect in a quieter, tougher way. It’s the record you discover late at night when everything else feels too polished, too safe. It’s for the people who kept going even when the world didn’t care. The people like Thin Lizzy in 1975.
Because sometimes survival is the real rebellion.
And sometimes, fighting is the art.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment