Welcome to another edition of From My Collection. 1976 was a banner year for Thin Lizzy. After years of slogging it out in the sweaty pubs of Ireland and storied academies of the UK, the band finally broke in America, bursting onto the scene in a big way. Their sixth studio album, Jailbreak, was an overnight sensation, reaching #18 on the Billboard 200 and selling in excess of half a million copies. Furthermore, tracks like “The Boys Are Back in Town” and “Jailbreak” became FM radio staples, and are still regularly played to this day. The band were on a roll, and kept their hot streak going with Johnny the Fox: An album that, for some reason, seems to have gotten lost in the shuffle. Written, recorded, and released just 7 months after Jailbreak, the band hardly had a moment to breathe. This stress resulted in strife, and this strife resulted in one of the finest moments of Thin Lizzy’s career. This is the story of Johnny the Fox.
Thin Lizzy were about to embark upon a countrywide tour of the United States, their newfound goldmine, when frontman Phil Lynott fell ill with a bout of hepatitis. This led to a nearly two month hospital stay, during which Lynott wrote what would become the Johnny the Fox album on an acoustic guitar. Come August, the band hit the studio to begin recording, and to say it was a strenuous process would be an understatement. Lynott was still in the processing of writing songs, and the band clashed over musical direction immediately. The most intense of these clashes was between Lynott and guitarist Brian Robertson, who fought over arrangements, specifically that of “Don’t Believe a Word”, but we’ll get to that shortly.
Nevertheless, the band persisted, and come October of 1976, Johnny the Fox was on record store shelves. Whereas Jailbreak was a largely accessible slab of ’70s hard rock, at times teetering on pub rock with its downhome, feelgood spirit, the hard-edge moments of Johnny the Fox seem sharper, meaner, and more focused by comparison, as if expanding upon the rough and tumble spirit of 1975’s Fighting. Contrasting these riff-driven bruisers were cuts that saw Thin Lizzy exploring new sonic territory, with Lynott ever eager to grow his musical muscles.
Side A opens with “Johnny”: A tough metallic tale chronicling the album’s titular character. It was confirmed in interviews by guitarist Scott Gorham that this “Johnny” was the same “Johnny” sung of in past Lizzy tunes, “The Boys Are Back in Town” and “Showdown”. In this regard, one could view “Johnny” as Lynott’s villainous alter ego: A cold-blooded maniac with a complete disregard for morality and the law. How appropriate that such a tense tale is set to a dark metallic backdrop, resulting in one of the heaviest ’70s Lizzy tunes ever recorded.
The equally punchy “Rocky” keeps the aggression going with its bone-crunching riffs and Lynott’s raspy vocals tearing through our stereos. As the title foreshadows, “Rocky” introduces a new character into the Thin Lizzy universe, in this case, a “cocky” rockstar (“Rocky” for short). While some of Lynott’s characters were merely fictitious, others were based off of real life figures, including his bandmates. “Rocky” was one such example, apparently modeled after Lynott’s bullheaded guitarist, Brian Robertson. This would make Robbo the second Lizzy guitarist to have a song written after him, as Lynott wrote “Romeo and the Lonely Girl” for Gary Moore an album earlier.
The delicate, country-tinged “Borderline” serves as a palette cleanse, slowing down the tempo and weaving a musical tapestry of twangy guitars, nostalgic lyrics, and Lynott doing his best southern drawl. Much like “Cowboy Song” before it, “Borderline” is bleeding with the heart and soul of true country, Lynott proving that even a black Irishman could hang with the likes of troubadours like Willie, Waylon, and the Man in Black himself. At no point does the song feel hokey or a cheap imitation, but rather a genuine offering of bittersweet country rock brilliance.
Next up, the song that nearly imploded Thin Lizzy altogether (or at least this incarnation), “Don’t Believe a Word”. Originally brought to the band as a slow blues ballad, Robertson blasted it as “utter shite”, instead proposing a hard-boogie shuffle to keep the flow going. The usually stoic Lynott was deeply hurt by this, disappearing for a few days before returning to the studio to hear the new arrangement. Upon hearing what Robbo, Gorham, and drummer Brian Downey cooked up, Lynott was pleased, and agreed to go forth with it. For those who’d like to hear the original ballad arrangement, Lynott recorded it with Gary Moore on his 1978 solo album, Back on the Streets. While that version certainly has its merit, I’ll take the short and sweet, proto-NWOBHM attack of the Lizzy version every day.
Of course, it wouldn’t be a Lizzy album without a nod to the band’s Irish heritage. The epic “Fool’s Gold” does this, chronicling the infamous Irish Potato Famine of the 1840s. In this tale, the protagonists flee their homeland in hope of a new life in America, only to be greeted by broken promises and dashed dreams, sometimes living in even greater poverty than when they were back home. In this respect, one can draw parallels between the characters of “Fool’s Gold” and Lizzy themselves: A band who set forth to America in hopes of fame and fortune, only to implode due to a myriad of inner turmoil, drug use, and commercial underperformance.
As we flip over to side B, we’re greeted by one of the most infamous outliers in the Lizzy catalog, “Johnny the Fox Meets Jimmy the Weed”. I’ll never forget the first time I heard this song as a youngster on Music Choice’s Classic Rock channel, roughly 17 years ago. Having already been familiar with the likes of “Boys”, “Jailbreak”, “Cowboy Song”, and “Bad Reputation”, I couldn’t believe this was the same band. In my little head, I tried to reason: “A metal band…playing a funk song? And it doesn’t suck?!” Yes, this sounded less like headbanging material and more like ass-shaking material, less Sabbath and more Earth, Wind & Fire. Well, my parallel wasn’t far off. Lynott namedropped The O’Jays and their hit record, “For the Love of Money”, as the inspiration between this funk rock groover.
Similar to “Borderline” on the A side, “Old Flame” showcases the folksy, singer-songwriter side of Lynott’s output. Let me tell you, folks: I’m not sure there’s anyone in the history of hard and heavy music who could sing of love and heartbreak the way Lynott did. He came from this angle at the same way someone like say Dylan would, but with a million times greater musical talent, obviously. The images his lyrics conjure are like that of a masterpiece painting, or a cinematic escape. Couple these words with the intoxicating twin guitars of Robbo and Gorham, and you’ve got magic.
The aptly titled “Massacre” amps up the aggression, marrying funk-infused rhythms, grim lyricism, and hefty riffage into a ’70s metal melee. Robertson goes absolutely haywire behind the kit, laying down one of the best performances of his career. He hits damn near every piece of his kit, toms and cymbals alike, not in a blind Keith Moon-inspired rage, but with precision and purpose, amplifying the intensity of Lynott’s lyrical content and the twin guitar attack. Between cuts like “Massacre”, “Rocky”, and “Johnny”, it might be safe to brand Johnny the Fox as Lizzy’s most metal album of the ’70s.
Ironically, “Massacre” is then contrasted by the gentle “Sweet Marie”. Unlike “Borderline” and “Old Flame”, this song never clicked with me particularly. I don’t want to say it’s TOO soft, but coming off the heels of “Massacre”, there seems to be a pacing dilemma. Furthermore, even by Lynott’s singer-songwriter standards, while “Sweet Marie” is most certainly a good song, it isn’t necessarily great like the aforementioned two. At worst, it speaks to how the band was pressured with this album, in terms of both writing and recording, throwing ideas together at the eleventh hour to meet record label deadlines, like the song that closes this album out.
“Boogie Woogie Dance” was written by Lynott on the fly. Both the band and producer John Alcock felt it was not worthy of inclusion on the album, and while it certainly pales in comparison to “Massacre”, “Fool’s Gold”, and “Don’t Believe a Word”…man, this is one where I’m glad Lynott won! This proto-funk metal jam smokes in all its simplistic glory. Again, Downey proves why he’s one of the most underrated drummers of his era, while Lynott, Robbo, and Gorham lock in, heavy rocking and rolling from one groovy riff to the next. It’s less a song proper and more a ’70s metal jam, but it jams hard!
Despite being equally as good as its predecessor, if not better in certain regards, Johnny the Fox was a commercial failure, not even breaking gold in the States and only charting at #52 on the Billboard 200. The album produced no hits stateside, but “Don’t Believe a Word” remains a classic rock staple in Europe to this day. On the bright side, Johnny the Fox served as the springboard for Lizzy to finally tour the States in ’77 alongside fellow legends of the era, Queen. This tour would be the the straw that broke the camel’s back for Lizzy’s classic ’70s lineup, but more on that in another essay. Until then, “Don’t Believe a Word”, unless your old pal Joe told ya!