Part 2 of our 2-part feature. Read Part 1
This second drop dives deeper into the undercurrents of 1984: a year when Australian music unsettled, seduced and provoked. Whether blissed-out, bruised or defiant, the sounds of that year have a powerful pull, revealing something novel about us with each listen. Curated by Sarah Little, written by Kate Scott.
A slow-burn reflection on the price of survival
In ‘Good Die Young’, Divinyls take the reckless energy of ‘Boys in Town’ and turn it inward, swapping defiance for reflection. While ‘Boys in Town’ – first released in 1981 and eventually folded into the band’s debut album Desperate in 1983 – was a battle cry for outrunning your past, ‘Good Die Young’ confronts the cost of escape. Both tracks circle the same themes of disillusionment and survival, but where ‘Boys in Town’ bursts and blisters, ‘Good Die Young’ is its bruised, introspective twin. Together, these songs form a multi-hued portrait of youth: rebellion, exhilaration, and the quiet reckoning that follows.
Music video for 'Good Die Young' (1984) by Divinyls. Song taken from the album What a Life! (Chrysalis Records, 1985). NFSA title: 554187
The sound: ‘Good Die Young’ captures the ache of knowing too much, too soon. Chrissy Amphlett’s voice – one of the decade’s most potent instruments – summons its full intensity to soar through the chorus, a raw force harnessed with new command. The ascent of the chorus is earned, each note bending to match the song’s emotional arc. Sadness runs through her delivery, too, every word cutting deeper for how carefully it’s placed. ‘City air, toxic taste / A girl falls from innocent grace,’ Amphlett sings, pleasure and danger blurring, erasing those who slip through the cracks. Producer Mark Opitz ensures the track never collapses under its own weight, balancing sparse percussion and sharp guitar lines that teeter between hope and heartbreak, unsure whether to surge forward or hold back.
The look: Visually, Divinyls carry the same duality as their music – glamour and grit, allure and defiance. In the video for ‘Good Die Young’, Amphlett’s signature school uniform and torn fishnets remain, but cloaked in a black cape – hero versus anti-hero, hiding versus revealing. The visuals veer between surreal and stark: mimes drift, neon signs fritz, and rooftop fires send smoke signals of urban decay. A giant clock ticks toward midnight (time running out, but not fast enough?), and the sunrise is grimy. In a lesser song, these elements would come across as tired '80s tropes, but they nail the track’s propulsive exhaustion here. Amphlett’s gaze stays constant in lingering, almost accusatory shots, underscoring a battle that can’t be fought with swagger alone.
Why it still matters: While US audiences primarily know Divinyls for their 1991 hit ‘I Touch Myself’, the works from their ascent reveal their fully formed depth and range. ‘Boys in Town’ and ‘Good Die Young’ are essential to understanding the band – not merely provocateurs but finely-honed storytellers. Both songs remain vital in their discography, underlining the brawn in staying true to who you are – even when the world insists otherwise.
This masterpiece doesn’t endure, it haunts
Conceived initially as filler on a cassette, 'Dead Eyes Opened' defied its modest beginnings – twice. Released in 1984 and revived by a 1994 remix, the track became Severed Heads' (reluctant) signature. Deeply danceable and genuinely terrifying, it blends a horror voice-over fit for Vincent Price ('By a strange coincidence, a thunderstorm had been brewing…') with spectral proto-trance. This fan post nails its singularity: 'Is there any other country that would take a story meant for campfire chills and turn it into a dance track? Maybe the Scots?'
The sound: Built on a framework of oscillating arpeggios, 'Dead Eyes Opened' unfurls over six-and-a-half minutes; its sonic shifts less progression than a tightening grip. Cascading synths are mesmeric, unabashedly beautiful, slashed open by a blast of pure noise at the two-minute mark: nightmare freefall. The central sample – a spoken-word narration by Edgar Lustgarten – is taken from a BBC radio series, which recounts a 1924 murder. Lustgarten's detached, matter-of-fact delivery cleaves to the siren call of those synths, adding a sense of eerie inevitability – like hearing a ghost tell its own story. The song's dream-within-a-dream structure is still unmatched, its loping melodies turning repetition into revelation.
The 1994 redux: 'Dead Eyes Opened' has been reissued multiple times since its debut, with each release plumbing greater depths. But it was Robert Racic's 1994 remix that cut through. This rework amplified the original's eerie hypnotism, driving it into harder, darker territory with a thundering four-on-the-floor beat. The remix surged to No. 10 on triple j's Hottest 100, matching rising stars the Prodigy in adrenaline but surpassing the newcomers' ranking significantly.
Why it still matters: Tom Ellard, Severed Heads' frontman, has famously expressed ambivalence about 'Dead Eyes Opened', calling it 'insipid' in interviews and, on stage, introducing it as 'a song we've all come to hate'. Artefacts from its original 1984 release – see the promo image shared here – capture the band's unorthodox intent: anti-aesthetic, defiantly strange, and unflinchingly outside the mainstream. Australia is rich in art-noise avant-gardists, but few can claim a 'crossover banger' among their experiments. In some ways, Severed Heads are the inverse of sympathetic conceptualists KLF. Where the KLF set out to manufacture rave anthems, Severed Heads stumbled upon one by kismet. 'Dead Eyes Opened' doesn't just endure: it haunts.
A small dancefloor revolution of flair and soul
‘Trust Me’ hit the airwaves in late 1984: a velvet punch through the wall of pub rock. I’m Talking took space with rhythms that demanded equal footing, reshaping the musical landscape in the process. With Kate Ceberano and Zan Abeyratne – vocalists of Filipino and Sri Lankan heritage – up front, the band quietly redefined who could command the spotlight. They challenged assumptions about identity, style and ownership on the Australian stage, cracking open new possibilities with every beat.
The sound: The band’s unlikely origin was the cult experimental outfit Essendon Airport. On its dissolution, members Robert Goodge (guitar), Barbara Hogarth (bass) and Ian Cox (sax) carried its spirit of sonic exploration into I’m Talking – now with movement marrowing its bones. ‘Trust Me’ braids funk and freestyle rhythms into the nerve centre of Australian pop. Ceberano and Abeyratne’s melodies drive the pulse, creating a cadence made for both radio waves and after-hours dancefloors. The track nods to American touchstones – Shannon’s ‘Let the Music Play’ (1983), the swagger of Chaka Khan, and the sharp edges of Cameo – but the groove lands entirely on their terms. DJs adored it, stretching the energy across 12-inch mixes that never wore thin.
The look: This was the era of 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun', when flouncy skirts had movement sewn into each fold. In this press shot, Ceberano and Abeyratne wore twinning versions. The rest of the band dons two-tone checks and natty shirts. In short, they dressed the way they sounded – polished, playful, always ready to tip into exuberance.
Why it still matters: I’m Talking opened space for voices and rhythms that had been waiting in the wings. Their genre-blurring compositions invited others to experiment with fresh textures and sounds, more complex but no less electrifying than the blunt force of guitar. And, of course, Ceberano’s career would go stratospheric. The lesson? Australian artists don't need to follow the old rules to make their mark.
Full of small surprises that catch like a sigh
Control was hot currency in the '80s. Janet Jackson demanded it. Laura Branigan lost it at night. The Motels would have sold their soul to grasp it totally. Machinations, meanwhile, abandoned it altogether in a jubilant, three-minute swoon. ‘No Say in It’ is as close to pop perfection as it gets.
Music video for 'No Say in It' (1984) by Machinations, as broadcast on Nightmoves, 15 October 1984. Courtesy: Network Ten. Song taken from the album Big Music (1985). NFSA title: 744707
The sound: ‘No Say in It’ rides on an elastic bassline – a pulse that doesn’t push forward so much as expand outward; a dry-ice spell cast across the dancefloor. Drawn from Big Music, the album was delayed for a year to accommodate their favoured producer, Julian Mendelsohn. The gamble paid off. Mendelsohn – known for his work with Pet Shop Boys, Models, Pseudo Echo, Nik Kershaw, the Associates, and Dusty Springfield – channelled the band’s relentless, six-nights-a-week touring schedule into the recording. Machinations transitioned from drum machines to live percussion in this period, adding very-human unpredictability to their sound; the thrill of a heartbeat quickening its thrum.
Singular delights: The song’s magic lies in its precision, sharp claps, restless synths and mischievous chord changes injecting tension and surprise. It’s a track that reveals new layers with each listen and delivers on its central promise: the rapture of surrender.
Singular strangeness: Lyrically, ‘No Say in It’ walks a high wire between autonomy, instinct and abandon, placing it within a lineage of tracks that stretches long before the Rolling Stones' ‘Under My Thumb’ (1966) and persists long after Depeche Mode's ‘Master and Servant’ (1984). In this humid universe, control is illusory – desire will always lead.
The look: At a live gig in Paddington Town Hall, the band mimed ‘No Say in It’ over the PA, only revealing afterwards it had been filmed for the music video. The result distils Machinations' bracing alchemy: the evanescence of live performance preserved with painstaking studio polish. Singer Fred Loneragan’s outfit, suspenders over a crisp white shirt, gave him the dual air of a numbers man moonlighting as a frontman. But the energy is anything but buttoned-up. And their performance of ‘No Say in It’ on Countdown remains one of the show’s most euphoric moments – a collective exercise in mass catharsis.
Why it still matters: ‘No Say in It’ hovered on the edge of greatness, even landing on the Ruthless People soundtrack alongside Mick Jagger and Bruce Springsteen. But just as Machinations built momentum, a promising US deal unravelled, and Fred Loneragan’s car accident put the band’s rise on hold. Though they reformed years later, the inciting fever pitch had passed.
Today, the song stands as a bittersweet reminder of what might have been – a sonic document from a band that flirted with the big time but remained on the fringe. Yet its infectious groove and lyrical precision endure, cementing Machinations among Australia’s most intriguing near-misses. In a decade obsessed with mastering every moment, ‘No Say in It’ dared to let go.
A flash of brilliance that harboured something more lasting
‘Everywhere I Go’ might not have dominated the charts, but it carried the unmistakable voltage of a star. Kiwi-born Jenny Morris is the voice and the song’s anchor. Her delivery turns what could have been an ‘almost’ hit into a moment that glows decades later. ‘Everywhere I Go’ knows how to live in two places at once, nudging listeners to dream big but hold on to what’s tender
The sound: ‘Playing this game of cat and mouse / Is so exciting / But isn’t it about time that we cooled the fire?’ ‘Everywhere I Go’ taps into the skittish push-and-pull that made Blondie and the Go-Go’s so magnetic, flirtation brushing against something real. The verses brood, but when the chorus lifts, it’s like the clouds part. Producer Mark Moffatt (the Saints’ ‘I’m Stranded’, Yothu Yindi’s ‘Treaty’) mirrors this emotional ebb, weaving the arrangement with spangling synths, sax flourishes and guitars that smart just enough to sting. And the rhythm surges forward – always moving, as if it knows the spark could be snuffed at any moment.
The look: The video leans into the era’s playful oddity. Smoke drifts through fragmented frames, and high-tech zooms keep everything slightly off-kilter. Morris dazzles in a purple sequin blazer, her make-up perfectly matching the shimmer – a reminder of when pop stars made it work with their own two hands. Then comes the twist: Morris as a nun, wearing sunglasses – at night. It’s a wink to the artifice and ambition of '80s pop – strange, self-aware and sincere all at once.
Music video for 'Everywhere I Go' (1984) by QED. Song taken from the album Animal Magic (EMI, 1984). NFSA title: 11685
Why it still matters: QED was a fascinating blip, uniting an unlikely lineup: Rex Goh, formerly of Air Supply, and Ricky Fataar, once with the Beach Boys and the parody group the Rutles. Their swift rise and sudden disbandment encapsulate the rock'n'roll fantasy in miniature. Morris seized the moment to vault forward, leading to collaborations with INXS and laying the groundwork for a career that spanned decades. It might be a stretch to say she carried other female artists with her, but not all victories need to be permanent to resonate. Some songs, including this one, capture a fleeting brilliance – possibility that crackles long after the initial charge fades.
Read Part 1 of 1984: Australia finds its voice
'Taking the Town' – Icehouse
'Come Said the Boy' – Mondo Rock
'My Girl' – Hoodoo Gurus
'Bachelor Kisses' – The Go-Betweens
'Saturday Night' – Cold Chisel
'Soul Kind of Feeling' – Dynamic Hepnotics
'Computer One' – Dear Enemy
'Bitter Desire' – Kids in the Kitchen
'Midnight Man' – Flash and the Pan
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