The riff that opens the song and continues ostinato throughout is a belter: raucous, loud, prickly, awkward, with a dropped beat halfway through to keep you on your toes. The riff is played in unison by organ, guitar & bass and even manages to survive being honked out by Brown himself for one of the repetitions.
A sub Troggs (or Wild Ones) riff and vocals from the heyday of archaic rock. The vocals are typical of this genre of British archaic rock, descending (and rising) with male plaintive phrasings that are meant to signify meaningfulness, a stylistic archness that heralded the pathway to supergroups and pomp rock. The lyrics are less than engaging but seeking similarly to be meaningful in that dire sub-sub Bob Dylan style that witters on. The guitar when left to get on with it (which is not often) plays some lively melody sequences but all too soon it is back to the power riffs that become exhausting to listen to. The organ breaks in at certain points but seems to head in other directions to the rest of the band. This is very much from a genre that the Harvest records had a prediliction for that their white male A and R guys of a certain age went for. Not a song I will ever listen to again.
“She sits in the city with wings on her mind
She waits for the birdman who left her behind
He had to fly almost straight into hate
There is only one though the race is run
Pilot of her love feels him far above”
Dense, lyrically ambiguous stomper with a distinctive riff that sounds like a Cream coda and a lighter chorus section which prefigures Genesis. The riff spawns an endless guitar solo from Jim Mullen. The organ work by Dave Thompson holds it together. Brown’s vocal is gutsy but tonally minimalist, more of a lyricist than a singer.