Two iconic tracks represent the finest of our beloved ’80s. Featuring hooks, harmonic variation, drama, and personality to spare, these songs still hold up — and mean more to us now than ever.
“867-5309 (Jenny)” by Tommy Tutone
Tommy Tutone is the quintessential one-hit wonder to me.
By giving us one of the most ebullient, clever songs of the ’80s – with a phone number that has entered the cultural lexicon – these guys staked their place in history and then were instantly forgotten. We knew their chintzy, cheesy sound held no permanence, no depth, no discoveries, or big statements. We knew this was novelty music, a song about either a call girl or a not-so-innocent celebration of scrawlings we could find on restroom doors across the tri-state area.
Hell, it was a decade or two before we knew (or cared) that Tommy Tutone was the name of the band and not just the goofy, curly-headed guy who sings the lead vocal. Kind of a Blondie or Alice Cooper situation at a much less important scale.
Whether it’s fair or not, I identify the group and the song as representing all those hardworking bands with big dreams who got everything right exactly once: The proverbial lightning in a bottle. And, of course, the flip side is that fame is fickle. They used up all their mojo for one amazing moment, a moment we still celebrate as we drive around on a sunny day while Tutone themselves (himself?) tour the oldies circuit, soaking up the admiration of people like me, desperate to relive moments long since passed.
A Faustian bargain for Tutone, I think – one that we would all gladly accept.
“867-5309 (Jenny”) has hooks galore: An ingratiating guitar intro motif, followed by four chords that set the rhythmic base, and singer Tommy Heath’s voice, which modulates between bar-band inoffensiveness and what sounds like a harmony part sung in character as a goofy sportscaster.
A expressive sub-chorus (“Jenny, I’ve got your number, I need to make you mine”) sets up the chorus where this series of numbers becomes the catchiest thing in the world. After a repeat of the sequence, we get a jubilant bridge (“I GOT IT, I GOT, I GOT IT”) that sounds like a kid finally getting his ice cream before some clomping toms drive us into the stereotypical ‘80s guitar solo – too trebly and slight, like it could blow away at any moment.
This is the sound I think of when I think about early ‘80s rock music: no gain, no depth, just some jangles that matched our light-as-a-feather life circa 1981 before things got complicated. Tutone occupies the same bar-band soundscape as Huey Lewis and the News, who somehow eked out several hits in a similar vein, but they never produced anything as remotely spectacular or lasting as “Jenny.” (The only reason I like “The Power of Love” is because of the memories it inspires of Back to the Future.)
Tutone wasn’t built to go the distance. There’s an inherent snobbery in an observation like that since long, fruitful careers indicate “success” the way we define it in Western culture. Tutone never influenced anybody, never sold a million albums, never made it into the hall of fame (doesn’t mean much since Aerosmith is there). But none of this makes any difference anymore because we’ll take even four minutes of uncomplicated joy these days. Plus, most one-hit wonders are absolute bangers. “Jenny” fucking jams in 2025, effortless and free. It doesn’t need a video (which is pretty unremarkable) to bolster its message and sense of nostalgia.
We’re left to ponder our fly-by-night culture and how nearly impossible it must be to follow our own individual masterpieces if we even get the chance to have them. These thoughts fade away when you turn up the song, though, driving down the road to grab cat food and toothpaste. We’re good at drowning things out under the guise of enjoying the moment. “Jenny” ensures we can fool ourselves without trouble and smile while doing it.
“In a Big Country” by Big Country
Suddenly here was a loud, brash sound we’d not yet heard in our innocent ’80s. Big Country blasted in our living rooms with guitars that imitated bagpipes and a commanding vocal that hyped us up to face down life’s next challenge. Anthemic to the nth degree, “In a Big Country” gallops and thunders with everything turned up to 10, and we’re all better for it.
This is music that cajoles, encourages, and makes you believe. Even as kids we understood its message. Like all great ’80s songs, the meaning has only magnified – and unfortunately shifted – as we get older.
Drummer Mark Brzezicki and bassist Tony Butler lay down an irresistible pocket groove so vocalist and primary songwriter Stuart Adamson can expressively kind of shout at us. The sheer force of his vocal (and charismatic presence in the video) brilliantly boosts parts of the song that might sound repetitive otherwise. The verse, chorus, and post-chorus (first bridge?) overlap and gain momentum until we come to a crashing halt where Adamson croons: “So, take that look out of here, it doesn’t fit you. Because it’s happened, doesn’t mean you’ve been discarded.”
He feverishly (and effortlessly) piles on power and meaning with each subsequent line, culminating in the stunning climax, a repeat of: “I thought that pain and truth were things that really mattered. But you can’t stay here with every single hope you had shattered!” Adamson draws out the last line and then throws in another character tic: Shouts of “Ha!” or “Shrah!” or even the word “Shout!” It’s a tough release that fires you up.
But still: Why does every ’80s song make me sad in some way? Here we have a band firing on all cylinders, convincing us that, yes, dreams get dashed, but there is still so much hope out there. But all I think of at a time like this is: “Is there?” It’s my own issue, my own depressive state of feeling unmoored. It’s also the knowledge that Adamson – gorgeous and confident in spiked hair in the charming video – battled his demons and eventually took his own life. Goddamn it.
There’s also the feeling permeating now that the walls are closing in. Songs that gave us so much joy just remind us of the times when joy was so easy to find and how much we took it all for granted. Why can’t we ever get the timing right? “Stay alive!” Adamson pleads in the song, but now that line cuts extra deep.
“In a Big Country” proves to me, too, that “real” instruments played by talented people with honest emotion and intent trump sequencers and computerized music in nearly every circumstance. The album the song is from, The Crossing (1983), is filled with untold delights – power pop/rock that stood out from the computerized machinery that was close to hypnotizing us in the early ’80s.
Produced by Steve Lillywhite, a true pro whose credits are too numerous and cool to list here, the album shows a real point of view with its catchy miniatures that have something valuable to say about how to navigate this slippery society. We’re all in this together or some such. Adamson fought hard as many of us do, and in a perfect world Big Country would have been huge. But he broke through and made his mark. Those of us who are still trying to figure out what a “mark” even is listen to “In a Big Country” and feel a stirring of optimism. Then we wrestle with it so it doesn’t fade away.
To have touched so many and to still sound so fresh is no easy task. But a song like “In a Big Country” does it all with ease while showing us that our ’80s anthems – far from cheesy – are essential to our current view of this fucked up place.