Nazareth - Hair of the Dog

I know the meaning of the genre of Classic Rock has been diluted by the stupid march of unstoppable stupid time, but someone has to draw the line somewhere. Honestly, what’s a little entropy between friends? Would you call a 2006 Ford Mondeo a classic car? A 2004 Vauxhall Manchego? I don’t know much about cars, but I do know music, and it’ll be a cold day in Hell before Daughtry’s debut album is considered classic rock. Though Maiden’s A Matter of Life and Death also came out that year, so I guess ignore everything I just said. I don’t make the rules; I merely invent them.

Of course, classic rock as a classification runs a little deeper than being from the year Black Stone Cherry’s debut album came out and earlier (all of my bones are dust). There’s a certain je ne sais quoi, a feeling you get when you hear something that slots into that framework perfectly, be that hard rock, heavy metal, or otherwise. Nazareth tickles those hard rock boxes big time; huge, tube-amp driven riffs, whipcrack drums, and occasionally a talkbox. Granted, that last one doesn’t inspire fear in the hearts of men, but it did wonders for Bon Jovi. 

The band hail from Dunfermline in Scotland, a town known primarily for two things: its resurgence in the 18th century linen industry, and Nazareth. Small beginnings would beget bigger things, however; the band have had a pretty extraordinary career for one who don’t often rub conversational shoulders with some of the bigger names in rock and roll. Nearly six decades as a band (with Pete Agnew the sole remaining original member, nonetheless), TWENTY FIVE studio albums (the capital letters were necessary to make sure you read that right) under their belts and a list of radio hits that would make a DJ wet his pants with excitement (there’s no relevant information to put in this set of brackets, but it’s good for symmetry). 

And it wasn’t just the punters who vibed with them – famously, Axl Rose of Guns n’ Roses sang the band's praises, and songs, while guitarist Slash also admitted his fondness for a bit of the ‘reth. Sometimes it’s good to take stock of the classics, and this Rock Song of the Week pick is taking a trip to an era of rock long since past, where cowbell was king and album covers were designed to scare the shit out of you, apparently. Seriously, look at that thing; I’m sure it’s a figurehead of some traditional Scottish folk tale, but frankly, I’m shaking too much to look it up. Thankfully, that gives me time to indulge in a little more hair of the dog. No, I will not elaborate why that one isn’t capitalised when all the rest were. Not without my sunglasses on, anyway.