Aussie pub-rock classics of the 80s

The late Bernard ‘Doc’ Neeson and The Angels were among Australia’s most influential rock acts, known for razor-sharp riffs, powerhouse shows and Neeson’s magnetic presence. Their career is steeped in Aus-rock lore: signed to a label thanks to Bon Scott and Malcolm Young, produced by George Young, and later inspiring Guns N’ Roses and Pearl Jam. ‘No Secrets’, from 1980’s Dark Room, is classic Angels – gritty, clever and cinematic. The video places the band in stark shadows, intercut with silhouettes of a mysterious ‘Amanda’ before Neeson climbs a staircase to nowhere, whispering ‘Can you please tell me what the time is?’ at the climax. The noir visuals jar with the lyrics, but the mood is pure ’80s paranoia. Overblown? Definitely. But it’s also The Angels at their most theatrically unsettling.

‘Run to Paradise’ exploded in 1987, hitting No. 3 on the charts and ending the decade as one of Australia’s highest-selling singles. Written by frontman Mark Gable, it’s both an anthem and a sly critique of Northern Beaches hedonism – surfboards, booze and bliss masking deeper aimlessness. The track itself still roars, but the video is very much of its time. The band lark about on a soundstage while a team of glamorous female ‘roadies’ haul equipment around them, a nod to Robert Palmer’s ‘Addicted to Love’. The result is big riffs, bigger hair and an un-woke fantasy that hasn’t aged gracefully. Critically, though, it shows how ’80s rock revelled in excess – part celebration, part cautionary tale.

Chrissy Amphlett was impossible to ignore. In her schoolgirl uniform, fronting Divinyls with a mix of menace and allure, she redefined what an Australian rock frontwoman could be. ‘Science Fiction’, released in 1982, cemented the band's place in the canon – a spiky love song that blended New Wave riffs with raw energy. The video is stripped back: Amphlett standing centre stage, jogging on the spot, lit by moody blue-green light and drenched in smoke-machine haze. Nothing much happens, but you can’t take your eyes off her. That simplicity is the point – it’s charisma as spectacle. The song peaked at No. 13, and the clip still shows why Amphlett remains one of the most compelling figures in Australian rock.

Released in 1985, Warumpi Band’s ‘Blackfella/Whitefella’ was a call for unity sung in both English and Luritja. Powerfullydirect and unapologetic, it voiced reconciliation at a time when few bands dared. This live clip from Broome Town Hall is rough but electrifying: George Rrurrambu’s soaring vocals, Sammy Butcher’s bluesy bass and Neil Murray’s grounding guitar, captured with all the quirks of amateur camerawork – missed cues, zoom-happy pans, audience sweeps. What matters is the energy. The track became the heartbeat of the landmark Blackfella/Whitefella tour with Midnight Oil, and it endures as both protest song and cultural milestone. As music history, it’s essential; as performance, it still crackles.

‘Take Me Back’ (1987) pushed Noiseworks into the mainstream when it peaked at No. 7. Produced by Mark Opitz, it has the era’s signature drum sound and a soaring chorus courtesy of Jon Stevens – mullet, leather jacket and all. The video flips between warehouse performance shots and Stevens walking out of a tunnel into strobe-lit close-ups, Bono-style. Guitarist Stuart ‘Chet’ Fraser takes his solo high up on scaffolding, and the whole thing is drenched in late-’80s rock aesthetics: headless bass, yearning vocals, moody colour palette. It’s pure Bon Jovi by way of Sydney, a time capsule of what Aussie rock was striving for on the international stage.

Adopted by Australia despite her Kiwi roots, Sharon O’Neill carved out a solid ’80s career with hits like ‘Maxine’ and a knack for sharp songwriting. ‘Power’ (1984) went heavier, pairing electro-rock with a video that screams ’80s excess. There’s a mask-wearing mogul who peels off his face to reveal a robot, Sharon harmonising with her own close-ups, and intense neon lighting throughout. It’s very Bonnie Tyler, minus the Hollywood budget – theatrical, surreal and completely of its era. The song’s themes of control and resilience shine through, but the visuals are what make it memorable: a fever dream of ’80s video culture.

Formed in Western Sydney in 1978, The Radiators embodied pub-rock grit. ‘No Tragedy’ (1983) was their breakthrough hit, and the video captures both their rough edges and their appeal. Performance shots inside Sydney Town Hall – organ pipes looming behind them – mix with car scenes shot on green screen (complete with no seatbelts) and guitarist Stephen ‘Fess’ Parker shredding on the bonnet. It’s gloriously dated, but the energy is real. The finale outside the long-gone Manly Vale Hotel, showing them greeting fans, grounds the clip in its suburban roots. It’s a joyful snapshot of a band relishing their moment.

Released in 1986, ‘Say Goodbye’ was inspired by a domestic argument overheard by Mark Seymour.Hunters and Collectors turned the woman’s furious complaint into a pounding rock anthem. The video strips away ’80s gloss: the band plays in a stark white room, cut with shots of Seymour near a wheat field, a lone cat padding across the floor. It’s almost anti-MTV – no neon, no glitz, just grit and atmosphere. The contrast between minimalism and the song’s emotional weight makes it unforgettable. The line ‘You don’t make me feel like I’m a woman anymore’ became a crowd-chanting moment, sung back at Seymour by male-heavy audiences. It's a reminder that sometimes restraint makes the biggest impact.

Cold Chisel defined the pub-rock sound, and ‘Cheap Wine’ (1980) distilled it into a Top Ten single. Written by Don Walker, it focused on someone down on their luck but still having a good time – a theme the band embodied. Directed by Peter Cox, the video was shot in Jimmy Barnes’ Elizabeth Bay flat, and shows him getting dressed among the detritus of a party while the band jam in the lounge. The clip includes a cockfight scene and Barnes in a cocaine-referencing T-shirt – elements that feel edgy, even troubling, today. But that’s Chisel: unvarnished and unrepentant. The song is scrappy, anthemic and utterly theirs, cementing the band as the sound of working-class rebellion.

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