The Music of 1985 stands out for both its variety and excellence. As Britain endured ongoing economic and social divides under Margaret Thatcher’s conservative rule, music provided a cloak of creativity, escapism, and meaning. Revisiting the major songs of 1985 reveals a breadth of iconic acts at creative peaks, the development of groundbreaking videos, and a social commentary set to catchy synth beats. Synthesised dance-pop, slick funk, and powerful rock anthems, a unifying theme was British artists resonating globally while reflecting the diversity of UK culture. 1985 represented a pinnacle for UK music.

Gather round, my friends, and let me regale you with tales of the musical glory that was 1985. It was a time when Britain was in the throes of Thatcher’s iron rule, yet the country’s music scene refused to be shackled by austerity or social divides. No, these plucky lads and lasses channelled the era’s complexities into an outpouring of iconic tunes that shook the world to its core.

From synthesised dance-pop bangers to slick funk grooves and thunderous rock anthems, the songs of ’85 represented a delicious smorgasbord of sounds. Though the underlying thread was distinctly British talent reflecting the diversity of the UK’s rich culture. Mark my words, that year was the shining pinnacle for music on these fair isles – a time when nobody could resist the siren song emanating from Blighty.

So let’s have ourselves a laugh and take a whimsical trip back to when big hair, bigger riffs, and even bigger trousers reigned supreme. I’ll be your guide as we revisit these timeless classics, from the emotional gut-punches to the deliriously happy bops. Just try and resist the urge to dance like a loon in your living room.

First up, we simply must pay our respects to ol’ Roland Orzabal and Tears for Fears’ magnum opus “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” As the story goes, Roland was having a right deep chin-wag with some sage bloke in a London pub one rainy night. This tweed-jacketed philosopher got all existential about humanity’s endless lust for power and domination being our eternal downfall. Fair play to Roland, he soaked up those musings like a sponge and proceeded to pen one of the most sweeping, grandiose anthems known to mankind.

When the demo hit the ears of bandmate Curt Smith, the pair knew lightning had struck. Curt’s driving bass-lines and synth wizardry elevated the track to dizzying heights, perfectly capturing that universal desire for control with soaring vocal hooks. “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” encapsulated the decadence and unease of the 80s, yet still glimmered with idealistic hope that we puddings might one day rein in our ravenous egos. For Roland, it’ll forever be a rain-soaked reminder of that wise old boozer who kickstarted a true classic.

Speaking of iconic cinema, who could forget Simple Minds’ “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” – the beating heart of The Breakfast Club? Lead singer Jim Kerr’s brooding baritone captured the very essence of adolescent angst over those dramatic synth-rock riffs. It was an anthem of youthful longing and the burning desire to belong that lodged itself in the very soul of a generation.

Yet the true magic lay in Simple Minds’ ability to blend arty sensibilities with pure mainstream appeal. While the likes of moody art-rockers would turn green at Kerr’s raw, plaintive yearning, the unabashed pop hooks had the masses eating out of the band’s tartan palm. An impressive high-wire act, to be sure – walking the tightrope between angsty credibility and chart-conquering gold.

From the lofty emotional heights of teenage turmoil, we descend into the sophisticated world of the Pet Shop Boys and their cheeky 1984 smash “West End Girls.” Over a hip-hop-influenced groove and Neil Tennant’s ironic spoken vocals, we got a window into the era’s great cultural divide as the duo painted a vivid portrait of London’s haves and have-nots under Thatcherism.

Draped in that signature slick production and East-meets-West flair, “West End Girls” was both a razor-sharp satire and an undeniable dance-pop earworm rolled into one. The Boys deftly juggled socio-economic commentary with pure pop craft in a way only the Brits could pull off. While the stuffy elite tutted at such cheeky upstart antics, the common folk were throwing shapes on the dance floor, united in exuberant revelry. Vive la Pet Shop Boys!

Of course, no retrospective of 1985’s biggest smashes would be complete without a nod to the Purple One himself. Yes, Prince had us partying like it was “1999” with his electrifying apocalyptic funk banger of the same name. Between those cryptic nuclear war references and the slap bass groove from the depths of Hades, you couldn’t help but succumb to the urge to live every night like Armageddon was on its way.

Leave it to Prince to take premillennial dread and turn it into a sweat-drenched celebration of life itself. When that “Mommy, why does everybody have a bomb?” sample hit, listeners were instantly transported to the heart of a Purple Rain-soaked orgy of musical hedonism. As cities burned and missiles flew overhead, those penetrating synths and that stratospheric vocal scream commanded you to shake your moneymaker with wild abandon. In Prince’s purple-tinted world, the only way to face oblivion was to go out dancing.

After basking in the warm, funky glow of impending doomsday, let’s all take a collective breath and get in our feelings for a bit, shall we? Anyone who survived the emotional wringers of adolescence has surely wept along to Foreigner’s bombastic power ballad “I Want to Know What Love Is.” From that celestial gospel-tinged intro to the full rock climax soaked in luscious reverb, this was a true tour de force of unapologetic sentimentality.

The beauty of this one lay in how Mick Jones’ raspy vocals turned simple longing into a universal lament that crashed over you in waves of searing emotional intensity. At the risk of sounding utterly sappy, “I Want to Know What Love Is” felt like someone had wrung out their very soul and pressed it into vinyl form. It’s the kind of song that could unite jaded loners and lovey-dovey couples alike under its vast emotional umbrella. No wonder it soundtracked countless drunken singalongs and emotionally charged personal epiphanies during the Reagan era. Here’s a tune guaranteed to instantly transform even the burliest bloke into a hopeless Romantic heap.

If overwrought 80s balladry isn’t really your jam, let’s reset the mood with the wistful, bittersweet storytelling of Don Henley’s “The Boys of Summer.” Over understated, tastefully employed guitar noodling, the former Eagle frontman waxed poetic about a faded summer romance slowly retreating into the rearview mirror of nostalgia. Henley’s warm yet weary rasp ached with the weight of lives passing unnoticed while the good times and freedom of youth vanished far too quickly.

It’s a bittersweet antidote to all those songs that mythologize youth and coming-of-age tropes. “The Boys of Summer” is steeped in unavoidable melancholy, shining an introspective light on those oh-so-brief windows of unbridled joy before the harsh winds of adult responsibility come sweeping in. Yet for all its wistful musings, the song manages a strangely comforting quality – a reminder that we all carry priceless memories wherever the seasons of life take us next. The ultimate soundtrack for sunset reminiscences, misty-eyed recollections of idyllic days gone by.

Okay, enough soul-searching for now – let’s get back to unbridled pop euphoria! If you came of age in the UK in the 80s, there’s no way you can hear Feargal Sharkey’s “A Good Heart” without instantly being transported back to walking on sunshine in the spring of your youth. The former Undertones man captured hearts and charts alike by gracefully eschewing the artifice and decadence of so much 80s pop.

Over a tender piano backdrop, Sharkey employed his lilting Irish brogue to tenderly champion the virtues of faithful, enduring love. His dewy-eyed, sincere delivery encapsulated everything good and decent in the Thatcher-era world, a much-needed emotional palate cleanser amidst all that materialism and greed. In a decade filled to the brim with pop stars going to increasingly gaudy extremes for attention, Sharkey carved out his little niche of low-key, humble charm. For anyone who longed for a safe haven from all the spandex and hair spray happening elsewhere, “A Good Heart” beckoned like a welcoming candlelight on the windowsill.

How’s that for a tonal U-turn? Let’s get back to the good stuff with Madonna’s quintessential 80s grooveathon, “Into the Groove.” There’s a reason this hypnotically throbbing ode to the dance floor became Madge’s first number-one smash – those insidiously seductive synth lines and teasing vocal hooks burrow straight into the primal pleasure centres of your brain. Hit play and try not to get impossibly, irresistibly “INTO THE GROOVE”.

No mere mortal could resist that relentless beat egging them to cut loose and get footloose! While Madge always positioned herself as the mistress of media manipulation and high-concept artistic statements, “Into the Groove” was pure liquid disco nirvana, a place where she could just fixate on making the people move. Oh sure, there’s some lyrical winking about desire and coquettish flirtation tucked away amidst the rhythmic tsunami, but the enduring appeal lay in its sweaty euphoria. If you didn’t shed your inhibitions entirely and lose yourself on the floor to this one, you simply weren’t doing the 80s correctly.

From one UK pop juggernaut, we slide on over to the more slick, sophisticated funk stylings of Level 42 and their synth-bass masterclass “Something About You.” More than just a lesson in fretless bass virtuosity from the great Mark King, this groove vehicle also showcased the band’s ability to blend glossy pop hooks with deeply ingrained jazz chops in a way that had broader commercial appeal.

As King’s frisky, undulating bass-lines seduced you into a trance state, the impossibly tight horn arrangements and layered harmonies whisked you through a whirlwind of blissful instrumental ecstasy. “Something About You” exemplified Level 42’s musical duality as eggheads who could still get you grooving in the aisles. By striking that delicate balance between heady musicality and pure dancefloor pleasure, the band wormed their way into the hearts of discerning pop fans and happy-go-lucky movers alike. This was the kind of lushly produced, groove-centric sound that made Level 42 one of the 80s’ great unsung funk ensembles.

If we’re going to properly explore the dense sonic landscape of 1985, we’d be utterly remiss not to dive deep into the esoteric avant-garde realms of Kate Bush. Her towering opus “Running Up That Hill” managed to be both a stratospheric commercial crossover smash and a conceptual masterwork that expanded the boundaries of pop. Spurred on by the universal human desire for mutual understanding between lovers, Bush crafted a hauntingly introspective track steeped in rich, impressionistic imagery and complex metaphysical conceits.

While lesser artists might have gotten lost in such gnarled philosophical thickets, Bush’s ethereal, emotion-drenched vocals and the stark, widescreen production managed to convey profound emotional resonance amidst all that deep-thinking abstraction. “Running Up That Hill” unfolded like some vivid romantic dream – all lush textures, undulating rhythms, and lyrics that felt almost mythical in their grandeur. It’s sonic sorcery of the highest order, using the mainstream pop medium to explore the human psyche’s furthest reaches while miraculously remaining intensely listenable, even irresistibly catchy. Leave it to Kate to push the avant-garde envelope while still penning a downright smash.

While we’ve traversed into some lofty artistic territory with the wondrous Ms Bush, fear not – this romp through 1985’s biggest hits simply wouldn’t be complete without checking in with Mr Good-Time Party Dude himself, Bryan Adams. With the nostalgic kick of “Summer of ’69,” the raspy-voiced Canadian rocker turned the clock back and gave voice to every warm-weather adolescent fantasy we all cherish deep down.

Cruising seamlessly from the opening riffs, Adams painted a vivid, instantly relatable picture of youthful innocence, first loves, and hastily thrown-together bands channelling the sonic gods of the classic rock pantheon. If “Born in the USA” caused some Springsteen fans to raise a suspicious eyebrow at its lyrical ambiguity, “Summer of 69” was pure, grinning adolescent wish fulfilment from beginning to end. This was Adams at his most light-hearted and charismatic, reminding us all how intoxicating those first brush strokes of youth can be when you’re up and chasing your dreams with a bunch of mates – no cares in the world beyond pleasing the rock gods and finding someone to smooch in the backseat after the show.

Alas, even the most blissed-out summer daze must inevitably end. Thankfully, we have Phil Collins and Philip Bailey’s slinky R&B crossover smash “Easy Lover” to serve as the perfect soundtrack for subsequent grown-up romances. Coming together in a glorious meeting of Phil’s everyman charm and Bailey’s stratospheric vocal virtuosity, the duo crafted an instantly legendary blue-eyed soul moment straight out of a deliciously retro romantic fantasy.

As Collins’ shuffling rhythms and Bailey’s impossibly silky vocal runs enveloped you in a lovers’ embrace, the track elevated the art of the smooth seduction anthem to soaring new heights. “Easy Lover” was pure escapist pleasure – the kind of slick, satin-sheet jam that could simultaneously transport you into a world of uptown sophistication while still providing a hell of a sexy vibe for those private boudoir moments. Listening to it now, you can practically envision the mood lighting and billowing curtains. Phil and Philip weren’t shy about laying it on thick, but dammit if their collaborative chemistry didn’t make you believe in the power of lovemaking all over again.

Speaking of good vibrations and the eternal allure of seductive pop magic, we’d be dead wrong to ignore The Cars’ quintessential slice of melancholy synth-rock, “Drive.” Guided by Ric Ocasek’s trademark emotive baritones, the track materialised as some phantom spectre summoned forth from between the dimly lit streets of a neon-drenched nocturnal cityscape.

From the gossamer synth textures to the hollow, ambient production giving Ocasek’s voice an ethereal glow, “Drive” lured you into its introspective orbit and soaked you in a downcast urban malaise. Yet even as it oozed with loneliness and lost connections, the whole song throbbed with a palpable, cinematic romantic tension. You could practically feel the acceleration of a sleek midnight cruiser racing through deserted alleyways in search of some elusive human connection. While offering little in the way of narrative specifics, “Drive” still effortlessly captured that uniquely hollow, melancholy state of modern longing and displacement. It seethed with existential ennui, yet maintained an oddly hypnotic, even alluringly moody mystique. The Cars had a real knack for crafting inscrutable rock gems, and “Drive” may well be their most sustained bout of moody, atmospheric mastery.

Okay, enough simmering in the vaporous post-punk vibes – let’s get back to pure, unadulterated rapture! If you didn’t shamelessly bust a move to the Eurythmics’ “There Must Be An Angel (Playing with My Heart),” you basically weren’t living your best life in 1985. This sweeping, gospel-tinged slice of pop grandeur found Annie Lennox and Dave Stewart at their most deliriously crowd-pleasing, throwing down a heavenly storm of exuberant synth-pop catharsis.

Lennox’s heavenly incantations soared to the heavens over surging tides of cinematic strings and guitars, creating that quintessential 80s feeling of being transported to some idyllic emotional plane of romantic fantasy. The lyrics were pure storybook mysticism, a love-stoned reverie that built to delicious crescendos of release, only to simmer down and do it all over again in euphoric waves. “There Must Be an Angel” was the musical equivalent of an IMAX romance, lathering the senses in lush, theatrical rapture. While the Eurythmics were never afraid to embrace the dark, paranoid side of humanity at times, this one was all about channelling the light – an outsized affirmation of romance and surrendering to life’s sweeter instincts. To hear it was to lose yourself in full-on blissed-out swoon ecstasy.

My goodness, all this talk of angels and ecstatic swoons and waves of melodic rapture has me feeling a bit…delicate. How’s about we reset with some rollicking experimental grooves, eh? Enter Paul Hardcastle and his brilliant, sample-driven meditation on the Vietnam War, “19.”

Seamlessly blending propulsive synth rhythms with haunting audio snippets of news reports and military statistics, Hardcastle crafted something that managed to be both a certifiable dance-floor filler and a searing anti-war statement. Amidst all the throbbing, kinetic momentum, those jarring real-world samples hit like a sobering moral wake-up call. One minute, you’re grooving blissfully to the infectious beat, the next you’re being confronted with the grim human toll and trauma of armed conflict.

It was a bold, uncompromising artistic move that could have easily fallen flat, yet “19” emerged as one of 1985’s definitive works – sonically innovative and deeply resonant. Hardcastle’s pioneering use of sampling and his marriage of social consciousness with club-ready grooves set a new precedent for what pop music could achieve in the increasingly technological age. This wasn’t just a dance track, it was a startlingly vivid oral history lesson integrated seamlessly into the rhythm and flow. Decades later, “19” still has the power to uplift and disturb in equal measure.

From Paul Hardcastle’s searing sociopolitical hybrid, we groove on over to Stevie Wonder and his sly, tongue-in-cheek classic “Part-Time Lover.” If anyone could make juggling a harem of romantic partners sound downright charming and playful, it was the funky genius of Steveland.

Over an irresistible shuffle of syncopated rhythms and Wonder’s signature harmonica licks, the man winkingly spins tales of his scattered schedule of romantic dalliances. Yet there’s no seediness or disrespect to be found – just that unmistakable Wonder charisma and knack for deft comedic storytelling making this potentially dicey premise feel like an all’s fair romantic romp. He casts himself as the suave, good-natured player spinning plates, guided by nothing more than a zest for life and a desire to spread the love around like an incorrigible Casanova.

Of course, this being Stevie freakin’ Wonder, even a frivolous ode to debauchery is executed with immense melodic craft and instrumental verve. “Part-Time Lover” is an irresistible slice of effervescent, butter-smooth funk that demands to be consumed in a state of pure blissful reverie. It’s carefree, lascivious, and utterly joyful all at once – a signature Wonder moment of transforming even the most morally questionable scenario into something that just makes you grin from ear to ear. The man was a wizard when it came to this sort of good-natured ribaldry, and “Part-Time Lover” remains one of his most impishly delightful compositions.

From the amorous antics of the Stevie Wonder playbook, we transition to one of the most towering, audience-unifying pop/rock juggernauts of the 80s – Huey Lewis and The News’ classic “The Power of Love.” I defy anyone, regardless of age, background, or general music snobbery levels, to not get at least a little misty-eyed and sentimental at those iconic opening piano refrains.

The quintessential thematic centrepiece of that cinematic time-travelling romp Back to the Future, “The Power of Love” was Huey and the lads firmly staking their claim for arena-anthem supremacy. From the moment Lewis’ unmistakable rasp takes centre stage amidst the surging tide of synths and electric guitars, the whole thing just elevates into the stratosphere of shamelessly rousing, fists-in-the-air musical rapture.

On paper, the lyrics veer perilously close to bland romantic platitudes about love’s ability to transcend the boundaries of space and time. But the genius lies in the borderline-campy levels of unabashed passion and sheer sonic muscularity on display. Irony and subversion get tossed out the window as Lewis and his cohorts fully commit to transforming saccharine sentiment into a bona fide musical endurance test of the heart. With soaring harmonic runs and lyrical refrains that just beg for drunken mass sing-alongs, “The Power of Love” is an outrageously effective gospel-tinged juggernaut crying out to be unleashed within the hallowed walls of arenas worldwide. Leave it to those beloved purveyors of blue-collar American rock to turn what could have been throwaway pop fluff into a certifiable emotional tour de force.

Fresh off witnessing the sheer anthemic power of Huey Lewis and his emotionally aerobic “Power of Love” sonic boom. Let’s change gears slightly and pay our respects to the iconic Tina Turner and her gleefully defiant rock banger “We Don’t Need Another Hero.”

Recorded for that wacky post-apocalyptic Mel Gibson vehicle Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome, Tina’s entrance into the hermetically sealed 80s movie soundtrack pantheon was nothing short of a volcanic eruption of primal rock energy. From those opening bluesy guitar licks, you just knew the Queen of Rock was about to lay waste to any preconceived notions of subtlety or restraint.

Tina’s scorched-earth vocal workout was a true tour-de-force – an unapologetic declaration of self-reliance and the refusal to be pigeonholed by society’s expectations. With each sandblasted wail and rapid-fire lyrical uppercut, she staked her claim as a force of nature unbowed in the face of an increasingly conformist cultural landscape. “We Don’t Need Another Hero” was a rallying cry for the perpetually disenchanted – a full-throated rebuke of the era’s obsession with easily digestible iconography and the endless parade of rebel idols to mindlessly worship.

Yet within Turner’s spirited rejection of such idolatry lay the greater truth that she herself was carving out an indelible place as one of the most heroically iconic figures of the decade. Even in her self-proclaimed abnegation of “heroes,” Tina was basically announcing her own peerless badassery in the most thunderous way possible. It was a deliciously self-contradictory conceit that only she could pull off with such swaggering conviction.

Like all of Turner’s greatest works, “We Don’t Need Another Hero” crackled with the raw energy and uncompromising attitude that made her such a transcendent artistic force in the 80s. As the clouds of hairspray fumes dissipated, her unbridled vocal power and streetwise, plainspoken authenticity claimed the decade’s pop culture throne. She took no prisoners, brooked no dissent, and engraved her name in the pantheon of all-time greats in the process. Even three decades later, this track remains the quintessential Tina Turner statement piece – big, brash, and eminently heroic in its defiant self-belief.

On the complete other end of the pop music spectrum from Tina’s sandblasted vocals and monolithic rock stomp, we find Bryan Ferry luxuriating in the velvet-lined confines of “Slave to Love.” The ex-Roxy Music crooner conjured up a lush, thoroughly debauched pop fantasia with this quintessential slow jam for the martini-swilling sophisticate in us all.

From the opening seconds of Ferry’s unmistakable baritone gliding across a shimmering synthetic soundscape, you’re instantly transported to some dimly lit, wood-paneled lounge where elegant debauchery hangs thick in the air. The whole vibe reeks of high-thread-count indulgence – the very embodiment of the Decade of Excess’s overriding mating call for opulence, worldly gratification, and unbridled hedonism.

And who better to serve as the consummate avatar of such louche lyrical daydreaming than Bryan Ferry himself? The man was born to ooze louche, narcotised cool from every pore as a sensual sonic siren luring listeners into an impossibly chic romantic fantasy. You can practically envision him draped across a fainting couch, silk robe artfully askew as he lovingly lathers on the sordid romantic details that rendered “Slave to Love” such an instant object of pop culture fetishisation.

Unlike the vast majority of his 80s contemporaries, Ferry didn’t feel the need to dress up his preoccupations with affairs of the boudoir in any sort of coy euphemistic garb. No, this was unabashed, full-frontal lyricism about the intoxicating power of sexual allure and the willingness to freely submit to one’s carnal urges. From the chap’s gloriously louche perspective, there was absolutely no shame in being a “slave to love’s insisting” – merely an acknowledgement of the primal forces that guide us all at some level. That frank, open sensuality, coupled with the impeccable production polish, ferry brought to the table, transformed “Slave to Love” into a universally beloved anthem for the inveterate bon vivant among us. No other Pop song better encapsulated that sleazy yet strangely refined 80s jet-set spirit.

Of course, you can’t properly discuss the sensual siren songs of 1985 without giving centre stage to smooth operator Bryan Adams. Few tracks captured the longing romantic soul better than the man’s iconic power ballad “Run to You.” Over a steady propulsive chug of electric guitars, pianos and Adams’ trademark ravaged vocal rasp, the open-hearted rocker spun a tale of pining for a lost love as vivid as it was painfully relatable.

Part of what made “Run to You” such an indelible favourite was the sheer unpretentious sincerity Adams brought to the performance. This was a guy incapable of ironic detachment when it came to affairs of the heart – he sold every lovelorn lyric and simmering hook like he was that guy, desperately hoping to somehow rekindle the dying embers of a faded romance. No emotional stone was left unturned, no gut-punching turn of anguished phrase undelivered. The man laid it all on the line with a disarming honesty and street-level swagger.

Yet for all its raw-boned candour and deliciously relatable romantic flailing, the true towering achievement lies in Adams’ masterful grasp of craft and pure pop universality. “Run to You” managed to miraculously encapsulate that most elusive of songwriter’s grails – taking a highly specific personal narrative and rendering it as an incredibly infectious, shamelessly crowd-pleasing anthem for the lovelorn of all stripes. Give the guy credit, from those shimmering synth textures to the epic, arena-ready guitar runs to that unmistakable Adams rumbling yowl punching you square in the chest, he fully understood how to pluck those heartstrings into the stratosphere.

For anyone who has ever experienced the slings and arrows of unrequited love, “Run to You” endures as a quintessential getting-your-shit-back-together power move. Adams is there leading the charge, a battering ram of hope and resilience at the ready, for anyone looking to soldier on after romantic calamity. I dare you to crank this one up in the aftermath of your latest heartbreak and not feel at least a tinge of your fighting spirit returning. The man was operating at peak inspirational power on this one.

Shifting gears wildly, it’s time we swivelled back towards the slick, sardonic grooves of new wave’s resident smart-asses, Dire Straits. Yes kids, when it came to lampooning the excesses of the music industry elite, nobody dropkicked self-importance in the goolies quite as mercilessly as Mark Knopfler and Co. with their immortal “Money for Nothing.”

Like so many of the biggest hits of the 1980s, “Money for Nothing” emerged from a collision between old and new – more specifically, working stiff cynicism and open mockery of the vacuous self-absorption sweeping MTV’s wall-to-wall music video parade. Over those unforgettable, dive-bombing synth riffs and Knopfler’s sinewy unforced guitar mastery, the song served as one big raised middle finger to the ludicrous pageantry of excess and preening that the music world was rapidly descending into.

As Knopfler narrated a construction worker’s dismay at today’s outlandishly materialistic music “superstars” with his trademark detached, darkly humorous sneer, a cultural touchstone was born. The irony-steeped satire played out with gleeful perversity over those hyperactive, futurist grooves and endlessly quotable “Money for nothin’ and chicks for free” refrains. You couldn’t help but revel in Dire Straits’ mischievously lowbrow snipping at the s