If you were a child of the Eighties, there is before August 1981 — the month that MTV debuted — and there is everything after. Before, Pop music came to us by radio. Coked up radio programmers would hurl the hits at us, repeating themselves two or three times per hour. Elton John into The Doobie Brothers into Billy Joel into Boston into Donna Summer back into Elton John. The Billboard chart toppers would spin forty, fifty, even sixty spins per day. Until next month, when it was the same strategy, but with new names — Styx into Dire Straits into Chic into Toto and back around to Styx. It was all supremely intoxicating, but rarely was it deep or everlasting. By it’s very nature, Pop stardom was ephemeral.

But after August of 1981 came MTV, and, with it, my musical memories shifted from grainy tans and oranges into technicolor. I do still have memories of pre-MTV Pop, but they are fleeting and unreliable. After 1981, however, Pop music was visually imprinted. Even when the hits left the charts, the images remained. Bonnie Tyler was no longer just the voice that I confused for Kim Carnes. She was the blonde matron with white wings and bright eyes floating through a dreamscape at an English boarding school while howling a Jim Steinman song. Men at Work weren’t just a bunch of pleasant, jangly popsmiths. They were hysterically funny comedians, wrestling with Aussie giants and agoraphobia. Survivor weren’t a generic, slightly Hard Rock band. They were the soundtrack to Mr. T snarling at Rocky.

I have hundreds of these memories, seared through a combination of songcraft, radio and, mostly, MTV’s uncanny power. I can still see them all: Prince so mysterious and electrifying on an oversized motorcycle. Michael bigger than the planet, able to illuminate pavement tiles. Bruce the platonic cool dad, throwing the ball around. But, of all of the songs from those halcyon days of Music Television, Golden Earring’s “Twilight Zone” left the deepest mark.

Released almost exactly one year after MTV launched, it was the first and last song I heard (or saw) from the band. For at least a decade, I did not know a single thing about Golden Earring, other than that they had a previous hit with “Radar Love.” In 1982, all that mattered was that “Twilight Zone” was the greatest song my eight year old ears had ever encountered. As far as I was concerned, that’s where it started and ended. After the song disappeared from the airwaves, I did not pursue the matter further. I never bought the forty five. I never bought “Cut,” the album it was featured on. I never called into Z-100 to request the song. I never asked my parents to see if they might be playing in concert anywhere nearby. I can’t explain why I didn’t investigate further. I think I was curious. But I don’t recall asking: Where did they come from? Or — where had they gone? And — would they ever come back? 

Though I didn’t have the words back then, I now mostly understand what grabbed me about “Twilight Zone.” The song is built around a bass line that is so obvious and so luxurious that it’s a wonder it hasn’t been lifted by DFA Records or Jay Z or a million lesser acts. It’s that good. That bass -- placed front and center -- hypnotizes while laser beams shoot out and the lead singer reads the pages from a spy thriller in New Wave English. The song breaks midway through for a bass and guitar solo, mostly because the tension is so great that the song needs to be cut in half. It’s literally sliced through the bone by a bullet. The radio version is almost five minutes, quite long for a single. The album version is almost eight minutes. But I could listen to that hook and that story for hours. What “Marquee Moon” was to Punk, “Twilight Zone” was to 80s Pop -- epic, urgent, mysterious and positively essential.

The video for “Twilight Zone” was the consummate visual for the song. Like many videos from the era, it can be hard (and pointless) to parse. But, my child-mind read it as a handsome protagonist (singer Barry Hay) being chased by KGB operatives through a state controlled theater and into dark alleys and torture garages, where scantily clad dancers and government thugs tortured him. Our hero would sing and then run and then suffer, until the stress is finally broken by the shot of a single bullet cutting through a playing card -- the Jack of Diamonds. I suspect that most of the video was just Cold War gibberish combined with just enough horror, romance and symbolism to titillate. When I watch the video now, I can smile at how dated and surreal it seems. But I do still marvel at the effective marriage of the sound and the images. In an era of music videos full of dayglo colors, windswept hair and college film metaphors, “Twilight Zone” felt like actual art from actual artists.

Within a few months, however, it was gone. MTV had moved on. Z-100 had moved on. I had mostly moved on. But, for nearly four decades, I did not forget. Oddly, I never dusted the song off. I never bought the CD. I never bought the repressed vinyl. Never pressed play on Spotify. I just kept the memory in a box on the top shelf. It’s possible Maybe I didn’t want to find out that my treasure was actually a cheap souvenir. Or, more likely, that I had become more interested in what was musically new than in what was not. Whatever the case, “Twilight Zone” became one of those recollections that I didn’t mess with in fear that it would prove false. Like the certainty I once had in my future career as a Major League Baseball player or in the fact that I would one day be as handsome as Rick Springfield in “Jesse’s Girl” or as funny as Colin Hay in the video for “Down Under.” I was once so assured in those beliefs until I realized how childish they were. What if my memory of “Twilight Zone” proved equally naive?

It turns out it was true. All of it. Almost forty years after I first discovered Golden Earring and their 1982 hit, I did, finally, press play on Spotify and heard “Twilight Zone” with wiser, middle-aged ears. I played it again. And again. And it paid off every single time. And so, I watched the video on Youtube. Same thing. It was exactly how I remembered -- gripping, evocative and a cut above almost everything else from 1982. The bass line was still perfection -- ideal for the radio or the dance floor or a spy thriller (a couple clicks of research informed me that the song was, in fact, based on Robert Ludlum’s “The Bourne Identity”). The vocals were still anxious but tuneful, steeped in the romance of early New Wave. The lead guitar still scorched enough the make you believe that it was actually a bullet cutting through bone. It was all still everything I’d remembered.

Emboldened, I dusted off the cold case file and confirmed the little that I remembered. Golden Earring were from The Netherlands. They were already thirty-something year old veterans at the time of “Twilight Zone.” And their only other U.S. hit was “Radar Love,” which, like “Twilight Zone,” also featured an extended, propulsive bass solo and was also exceedingly long and Proggish by Pop standards. That was pretty much the extent of the file -- a band from Europe, but not The U.K., who had a long career punctuated by two stone cold knockouts that reached the top of the charts. Everything before and after 1982, however, remained a mystery.

Fortunately, the trail that seemed impossibly elusive in childhood was completely accessible in the age of Google, Wikipedia, Youtube and Reddit. Within a couple of hours, my Golden Earring case file swelled with evidence. The band that scored their first U.S. hit in 1973 had already been a popular concern in The Netherlands since 1965. Technically, they’d formed four years earlier, when George Kooymans and his neighbor, Rinus Gerritsen, were thirteen and fifteen respectively. By the middle of the decade, they’d added singer Barry Hay and distinguished themselves as a noteworthy Beat band. They were reminiscent of early Kinks, increasingly beloved in The Netherlands, but barely known anywhere else. It took them several years to even break through to their Benelux cousins and a couple more to make some noise in Germany.

Golden Earring’s career had a Forrest Gump-ish quality about it. They traveled the world many times over, frequently finding themselves adjacent to history. Though their core musical identity -- Pop-enough, semi-Progressive, Hard-ish Rock -- was well formed by 1970, they continuously shapeshifted and remained on the cusp of the zeitgeist. In 1972, they were taken in by The Who, touring the world together and signing to their same record label. In time, their songs became increasingly louder and more expansive, culminating in 1973 with “Moontan,” their most famous long player. Though the album featured just six tracks, each averaged nearly seven minutes in length. The power chords and blues licks of their earlier days were still present, but there was more improvisation and greater orchestration. “Moontan” is not mentioned alongside classic albums by King Crimson, Yes or Jethro Tull, but it is nearly as impressive and more enjoyable as those works. It’s weird and trippy and loud, but it never loses sight of the hook. Buoyed by the success of “Radar Love,” it raced through the charts of Europe before making its way to The U.S. That year, Kiss and Aerosmith joined Golden Earring on tour -- as opening acts.

The rest of the Seventies were a gradual comedown for the band.  There were plenty more hits back at home, but their success abroad receded. There are six studio albums and two live albums between “Moontan,” in 1973, and “Cut,” in 1982. Most of them are interesting, or better. There are moments in between that sound as heavenly as classic Pink Floyd or as earthy as American “College Rock.” The quartet that would remain intact for roughly forty years was fully capable and occasionally inspired during this entire run. Barry Hay was a flexible, stylish lead singer, bending his voice from 70s Album Oriented Rock into 80s New Wave. Bassist Rinus Gerritse was an athletic player, frequently setting and holding the hooks for their greatest songs. Guitarist George Kooymans was a great two way guitarist, playing both rhythm and leads with an improvisational spirit. And drummer Cesar Zuiderwijk was perhaps the most gifted player in the band -- a serious time keeper whose inner Keith Moon could come out any night. As music makers, they were entirely in step. But as Pop stars, they seemed perpetually out of step, alternately just ahead of or behind the trends. At various times they sounded like The Who three years too late, like Pink Floyd if they traded their pristine finish for German Art Rock, like Mott the Hoople stripped of Bowie or like Rush with a case of The Blues. For decades, their sound was immediate and recognizable. But it was only rarely exceptional, and apparently only twice unforgettable.

As storied as their ascent and initial success was, Golden Earring’s thirty year sunset was almost completely undocumented -- at least outside of Benelux. After 1986, their albums were not released in America. Wikipedia entries for their final seven albums are generally one sentence plus a track listing. Interviews are scant and reviews in English are practically non-existent. Rock and Roll is littered with one hit wonders, talented disasters and spectacular flame outs. But Golden Earring were none of those things. They had two international hit singles, nearly a decade apart. And, what’s more, is that those singles have endured -- they are timeless pieces of Rock music. And the band retained a massive, loyal fanbase in The Benelux, where their live and unplugged albums were Platinum sellers long after their North American prime.

Eventually, I realized that I was no longer curious about who the band was and where they had come from. In fact, I wasn’t especially interested in where they had gone. All of those questions had been sufficiently resolved. The mystery that remained was: “Why?” Why had Golden Earring disappeared? Why were they not better known? Why didn’t people talk about them the way they talk about similarly successful, lesser bands? Why could they only muster two big hits? Why did I still care? Why did it seem that almost nobody else did?

In contrast to the music and the biography, the answers to these more existential questions proved slippery. In the corners of the internet, people certainly had their opinions, but none were conclusive. The most succinct and obvious theory as to why Golden Earring disappeared from The U.S. is “The Holland Theory.” This presumes that, no matter how great, bands from Holland, who remain based in Holland, will have limited success in America (and likely The U.K.).There are similar theories for Nordic countries and even for Germany. Golden Earring are by far the most famous international Rock band from The Netherlands. There’s no close second. As a comparison, the only band from Denmark to make noise in America in the last twenty years were The Raveonettes. From Norway, it’s Turbonegro. France has fared better. We embraced Air and Phoenix and, nominally, Serge Gainsbourg. Germany can boast The Scorpions and Tangerine Dream, both of whom had hit singles in the U.S.; and Can, who did not. Sweden gave us ABBA, Ace of Bass, The Cardigans and some twenty-first century Indie stuff. But none were exactly known for Rock and Roll. The truth is, no matter how perfect their pronunciation, no matter how great their music, “English first” countries do not embrace music from foreigners. 

The Holland Theory, however, is just one of many. There’s “The Chameleon Theory,” which purports that Golden Earring were less their own band and more of a genre-matching chameleon, adept at approximating greater bands but never finding their own raison d'etre. While I think there is some truth to this theory -- the band at times recalled The Who or Pink Floyd or Mott the Hoople -- I also cannot think of another band who sounds like “Radar Love” or “Twilight Zone.” So, after some consideration, I ultimately rejected this theory as well.  

There’s “The Broken Clock is Right Twice a Day Theory,” which suggests that even an inferior band will stumble into a great song now and again if given enough time. To me, however, this supposition is dead on arrival. There are too many very good songs and too many completely great moments across Golden Earring’s discography to suggest that they were simply twice lucky.

As I got deeper into the facts, I encountered the “Banned from MTV Theory,” which attempted to explain the aftermath of “Twilight Zone.” Following that hit, Golden Earring released a second single, “When the Lady Smiles,” and produced another moody, arty video for the fledgling network. Whereas the “Twilight Zone” was an almost immediate success, however, the video for “When the Lady Smiles” was patently rejected on account of a scene featuring a nun being sexually assaulted. The video was never played in America and the single stalled out at the bottom of the charts. Several years later, though, MTV gave the band a second chance. When VJ Martha Quinn interviewed Barry Hay and the band about their 1986 album, “The Hole,” Golden Earring’s singer was quick to point out that the album title was a reference to the vagina. Quinn uncomfortably moved on, gutting her way through small talk with the four, handsome Dutchmen. However, none of the singles from “The Hole” ever made it to MTV rotation. FM radio ignored the band. In 1986, they’d been functionally cast aside by the channel that had rebirthed them. I’m certain that the truth is far more complex, but, to this day, Barry Hay describes “When the Lady Smiles” as the band’s greatest missed opportunity. I think there is probably some correlation between their falling out with MTV and their eventual North American irrelevance.

Finally, there’s the “Third Tier Band Theory,” which posits that Golden Earring were never that great to begin with -- that they fall somewhere far below Thin Lizzy and nearer to Uriah Heep in the annals of Rock and Roll. That they were a slightly above average 70s Hard Rock band with enough European flair and good looks to pass for arty or New Wave or something else. This was the theory that I most wanted to dismiss out of hand. Candidly, it hurt my feelings. Uriah Heep? I mean, nothing against them. But they were never Rock stars and certainly not Pop stars. They did not have a single, enduring hit song, much less two. While they’ve survived (I guess), their line-up has changed radically from their heyday. Mostly, though, if you’re not a fan of Prog or Metal, I’m not sure what Uriah Heep has to offer. On the other hand, I always thought (hoped) that Golden Earring had lots to offer for lots of people. 

To discern fact from fiction, however, I decided to go back to the end of the 1980s -- after the relentless hook of “Twilight Zone” had faded and after they were locked out of MTV. I traveled through “N.E.W.S.” from 1984 and “The Hole” from 1986, until I landed on “Keeper of the Flame,” from 1989. “Keeper” was the first Golden Earring album in nearly twenty years that was not released in the U.S. It charted in The Netherlands, but practically nowhere else. You can find the record and a couple of singles for sale on Discogs.com, but there are literally no album reviews available online. Short of scouring Dutch microfiche, it would be impossible to get much context for the album. But this was where I was hunting for “The Why.” This was where -- years after their second, and final, hit, when they were middle aged, superstars at home -- I hoped to understand why they had disappeared.

From its opening chords, “Keeper of the Flame” sounds dated. The rubbery bass hook, a trademark of the band, is surrounded by horns, reverb and background singers -- atypical for Golden Earring, but familiar 80s tropes. Whereas the oddball, Gospel Soul of “Can Do That” would have been expected for Tears for Fears, Duran Duran or, even, Wham, in 1986, it sounds misplaced for Golden Earring in 1989. By this point, music had moved away from New Wave and towards electronic Pop, R&B and Hair Metal. The Dutch men were exactly none of those things. 

“Keeper of the Flame” suffers from several ailments. First and foremost is the lack of any irrefutably great song. There is no “Radar Love” or “Twilight Zone” here. But, that was to be expected. What is unexpected is the lack of anything “very good.” There’s no four minute, hard rocker with a singalong chorus. There’s no seven minute song with a strangely awesome instrumental interlude. There’s no whiff of greatness. Instead, we get two modes, both of which are only half-realized: There’s the soulful, Last Wave stuff that sounds like INXS, but less assured. And there’s the generic, 80s Hard Rock that sounds just good enough and just unusual enough to land on the soundtrack to a semi-hit movie. For much of their career, Golden Earring was accused of being derivative of greater bands. In 1989, however, they sounded like Dutch imitations of lesser bands from America, England or Australia.

That all being said, inside the Dutch Midnight Oil, there were still traces of that Golden Earring. George Kooymans’ Les Paul was still loud and spacious. Barry Hay’s voice still carried swagger and mystery. And Rinus Gerritsen’s bass was still unusually forward for a Rock band. Taken together, there was still something grand and mysterious about the band. The (regional) hit from “Keeper,”  “Turn The World Around,” briefly flashes something. It’s ominous one moment -- steeped in synth atmosphere and the singer’s affect -- and then excitable, punctuated by the bassist’s lead. Unfortunately, the song never quite coalesces. It feels like two, almost good ideas, poorly stitched together. But tonally, it brings to mind some New Wave deep cut that sounds fabulous on satellite radio or in the background of a movie that you loved for a season in 1985. 

“Too Much Woman (Not Enough Girl)” is (aside from its problematic title) another partly sunny spot. With a whip for a beat and some twitch in the vocals, the band sounds nervy — like less gothic version of The Cramps. I enjoyed Golden Earring when they got weird. Similarly, I appreciate how Dutch culture can go slightly off kilter, while still seeming completely contained. They’re known for their beautiful furniture, and their windmills and flowers, but also for their weed and their sex industry. The Dutch can be magnificently odd. This particular Golden Earring track has a dose of that oddness. But it’s simply not a well designed song. In contrast, “Say My Prayer” has the most functional hook on the album. And, through repetition, it almost pays off. However, Barry Hay tries to channel the generic rasp of Bryan Adams. As a result, the practical song structure is undone by an absence of mystery. For most of “Keeper,” the band’s great, odd Dutchness is difficult to locate.

During that run from “Moontan” to “Cut,” Golden Earring toured the North America a dozen times over. Their commitment to succeeding beyond The Netherlands was a source of great pride. All of that time spent together — on the road and in the studio — paid dividends. In addition to their hard earned hit records, they became so tight that they were able to get very loose, while still staying very connected. When they jammed, no single player got weird like Robert Fripp or sloppy like Jerry Garcia. Inversely, when they played faster and louder, there was still somehow space for each instrument. Searing guitar solos never burned the bass and the bottom of the band never threatened the charm of their lead singer.

On “Keeper,” however, Golden Earring sound disconnected. By then, the band members were all around forty years old. There were wives and families. There were new studios and new instruments and new styles. The parts that fit together so well before needed some oil a decade later. There was no shortage of ideas or talent. But it sounded like a lot of work. And not a lot of payoff. Once upon a time, that playing and searching led then to the “Twilight Zone.” Years later, they tried some of the same tricks for “My Killer My Shadow,” “Keeper’s” six minute closer, but without any of their prior success. Thy started with a simple bass line. Added a matching guitar hook on top. Then something ominous in the air. They built up to a crescendo and then peeled apart the layers for an instrumental section before returning to the opening theme. There were no lasers this time. No bullets cutting through bone. Just some middling Soul music with too much synth, too much vocal delay and not enough tempo. For forty years, I could not forget “Twilight Zone.” But I forgot “My Killer My Shadow” in about forty minutes.

For a while, “Keeper of the Flame” depressed me. It neither proved nor disproved any of my theories. I still didn’t understand how a band could be that great at times and that good occasionally and that mediocre everywhere else. I wanted to believe that, beneath the mystery, were a half dozen great albums and two more classic singles, performed in Dutch. But, there weren’t. I even began to wonder if maybe they did belong near Uriah Heep in the final accounting. Maybe they disappeared from my airwaves because they just weren’t good enough. I stewed on it, briefly dispirited.

But then, I returned to Youtube, pressed play again on the video for “Twilight Zone” and reframed the premise. Maybe I was looking for evidence of a crime that didn’t exist. Maybe there was no tragic “Why.” Maybe it was not that success evaded them but that they found happiness. Barry Hay lives happily on a beach in Curaco. They were the first band to be put on a postage stamp in The Netherlands. They sold millions and millions of albums. They discovered “The Bourne Identity” many years before Hollywood. Maybe Golden Earring had the perfect career.

by Matty Wishnow