Chain Gang of Love :: The Raveonettes :: Album Reviews
When I listen to Chain Gang of Love I feel the overwhelming urge to rent the kind of car that’s meant more for cruising, than for good gas mileage, or environmental stability. I want to drive through the desert with the windows down (or the top down, depending on the car). I want to wear my hair in a messy ponytail with a thrift store scarf holding it in place. I want to wear red lipstick and curl up my eyelashes and smoke way too many cigarettes. I want to stop at every roadside attraction, the more ridiculous the better, taking Polaroid pictures. I want to collect things from the gift shops, like plastic snow globes, and light-up shot glasses.
I want to pretend that if we drive far enough it will be 1963. I could change my name and my birthday, maybe join a motorcycle gang, wear over-the-knee boots, bleach my hair out and wear the biggest sunglasses and leopard print pants ever made.
I’d come back eventually, probably by the end of the weekend, or sometime next year. I’d play this album anytime I’d want to remember the trip, listen to it while I flipped through the postcards, photographs and all the lipstick stained napkins. I’d remember and smile wide, thinking how much that 1963 vacation meant to me.
That’s what I think of when I listen to this album, especially the title song “Chain Gang of Love”.