A Southern Rock Freight of Heartbreak: Blackfoot’s “Train, Train”
In the crisp fall of 1979, Blackfoot, Jacksonville’s Southern rock torchbearers, steamed “Train, Train” to #38 on the Billboard Hot 100, a standout single from their third album, Strikes, which dropped on March 7 via Atco Records and peaked at #42 on the Billboard 200. Released in September as their second Top 40 hit after “Highway Song” (#26), this track—penned and harmonica-haunted by Rickey Medlocke’s grandfather, Shorty—helped the album roar to platinum status, selling over a million copies. For those of us who cruised the late ‘70s, when long hair whipped in the wind and rock carried a rebel’s twang, this song is a rusted rail spike—a lonesome howl of escape, a memory of nights when the road was salvation. It’s the sound of a V8 rumbling past a depot, tugging at the soul of anyone who’s ever fled a love gone cold.
The tale of “Train, Train” is steeped in grit and lineage. By 1979, Blackfoot—Rickey Medlocke, Charlie Hargrett, Greg T. Walker, and Jakson Spires—were clawing their way up, their first two albums barely a blip until Strikes hit. Shorty Medlocke, a Delta bluesman of Blackfoot Indian descent, wrote it years earlier, a banjo-and-harmonica relic from his 1971 single with Mickey and the Fla. Plow Hands. Rickey, raised by Shorty after tragedy, dusted it off, electrifying it at Sound Suite Studios in Detroit with producers Al Nalli and Henry Weck. That opening harmonica—Shorty’s wail—mimics a locomotive’s cry, then Medlocke’s growl and Hargrett’s riff kick in, a Southern rock freight train born. Released as disco flickered and punk snarled, it was a raw antidote—a bar-band anthem that bridged Skynyrd’s legacy with Blackfoot’s bite, propelling them to arenas before their early ‘80s fade.
At its core, “Train, Train” is a bluesy plea to roll away pain—a man’s ticket out of heartbreak. “Train, train, take me on out of this town,” Medlocke belts, his voice a gravelly ache over Shorty’s lonesome harp, “Well, that woman I’m in love with, Lord, she’s Memphis bound.” It’s a raggedy hobo’s goodbye—“Goodbye, pretty mama, get yourself a money man”—a soul ditching the wreckage for the midnight run: “Take that midnight train to Memphis, Lord, leave if you can.” For older listeners, it’s a portal to those ‘70s nights—spinning 45s in a roadhouse, the air thick with beer and dust, the sting of a lover’s taillights fading fast. It’s the clatter of rails under a harvest moon, the rush of a harmonica’s wail, the moment you traded tears for the open road. As the final “take that train” fades, you’re left with a rugged hum—a nostalgia for when every chord was a getaway, and trouble was just a whistle in the dark.
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