A sugar-coated anthem of late-70s pop that bottled the glow of disco’s final shimmer and the restless spark of a new musical dawn.
When “Some Girls” burst onto the airwaves in 1979, it arrived at a moment of transformation. Disco balls were still spinning, but the pulse of punk and new wave was already reshaping youth culture. In that fleeting in-between space, Racey delivered a song that felt both carefree and urgent—a three-minute rush of claps, hooks, and bright harmonies that refused to let the party fade quietly.
The single soared to No. 2 on the UK Singles Chart and became a pan-European sensation, spreading its infectious energy from Britain to Australia and beyond. It wasn’t just another pop hit. It was a bridge between eras, capturing the neon sparkle of the 1970s while hinting at the sharper edges of the 1980s waiting just around the corner.
The Hitmakers Behind the Magic
At the heart of “Some Girls” was the legendary songwriting and production partnership of Nicky Chinn and Mike Chapman—the masterminds often credited with defining the polished, hook-heavy “Chinnichap” sound of the decade. This duo had already powered hits for Sweet, Suzi Quatro, and Smokie, and they knew precisely how to craft a melody that lodged itself in your memory after just one listen.
Interestingly, the song was initially offered to Blondie while Chapman was producing their landmark album Parallel Lines. One can imagine Debbie Harry’s cool detachment wrapping around those verses. But destiny intervened. Instead, Racey—four young British musicians with a pub-rock friendliness—stepped up to claim the tune.
And perhaps that twist of fate was the key. Where Blondie might have delivered ironic cool, Racey offered exuberance. Their version wasn’t aloof; it was warm, cheeky, and brimming with youthful charm.
A Soundtrack for the Dance Floor
From the first sharp drumbeat and handclap pattern, “Some Girls” wastes no time. The rhythm feels immediate—almost physical. It’s a song that demands movement, whether you’re under a spinning disco ball or tapping your steering wheel during a late-night drive.
The production carries a faint echo of Phil Spector’s “wall of sound,” but scaled for a late-70s pop sensibility. Guitars shimmer without overpowering. The bassline pulses steadily. And layered vocals create a communal, almost chant-like feel that makes the chorus irresistible.
Richard Gower’s slightly rough-edged delivery adds personality. His voice doesn’t aim for technical perfection; instead, it leans into character. That subtle grain in his tone gives the song its “pub-rock” authenticity—a reminder that pop doesn’t need to be pristine to be powerful.
Listening today, the track still feels vibrant. It has none of the heaviness that sometimes weighs down nostalgic hits. Instead, it’s buoyant, almost effervescent—like opening a bottle of soda and hearing that first joyful fizz.
Lyrics: Simple, Yet Universally Familiar
On paper, the lyrics are deceptively straightforward. The song sketches different “types” of girls—the ones who catch your eye, the ones who offer a smile, the ones who leave you guessing. It’s playful, observational, and rooted in the universal dance of attraction.
But beneath that simplicity lies something timeless. “Some Girls” isn’t trying to analyze romance. It captures the thrill of possibility—the charged air in a crowded room, the nervous glance across the dance floor, the rush of wondering whether tonight might change everything.
For anyone who remembers the late 1970s, the song becomes more than a narrative about flirtation. It’s a snapshot of youth itself: spontaneous, hopeful, and unburdened by overthinking. It reflects an era when connection felt immediate and music was the shared language that brought strangers together.
The Album and the Afterglow
“Some Girls” served as the lead single from Racey’s debut album, Smash and Grab. The title alone hinted at their mission: seize the moment, deliver the hook, leave the crowd buzzing. While the band would be remembered primarily for this breakout hit, what a hit it was—an anthem that defined their place in British pop history.
There’s often a bittersweet quality in revisiting songs like this. “Some Girls” arrived at what many now see as the twilight of disco’s innocence. Within a year, synthesizers and drum machines would dominate charts. The playful stomp of handclaps would give way to colder, more mechanical textures.
Yet that transition is part of the song’s magic. It feels like the last warm sunset before night falls—a celebration before the scene changes. In that sense, it stands as both a culmination and a farewell.
Why It Still Resonates
So why does “Some Girls” endure when so many late-70s singles have faded into obscurity?
Part of the answer lies in craftsmanship. Chinn and Chapman understood pop structure at a molecular level. Every section of the song builds toward the chorus with precision. Nothing lingers too long; nothing feels wasted.
Another reason is emotional accessibility. There’s no cynicism here. No heavy social commentary. Just the uncomplicated joy of rhythm and attraction. In a world that often feels increasingly complex, that simplicity can be refreshing.
And perhaps most importantly, it taps into memory. Music has a unique ability to transport us. A single drum fill can bring back the smell of vinyl records, the hum of a crowded club, or the thrill of a first crush. When “Some Girls” begins, it doesn’t just play—it opens a door.
A Time Capsule in Three Minutes
In retrospect, Racey may have been labeled a “singles band,” but that description undersells their achievement. Capturing lightning in a bottle is no small feat. With “Some Girls,” they preserved a fleeting cultural moment in the grooves of a 7-inch record.
It represents the final flourish of carefree 70s pop before the sleek sophistication—and sometimes detachment—of the 80s took over. It’s a reminder that music doesn’t need grand ambition to become immortal. Sometimes, all it takes is a killer hook, a pounding beat, and a chorus that makes you want to shout along.
Nearly half a century later, “Some Girls” still pulses with life. It invites us back to neon-lit nights, to laughter echoing under mirrored ceilings, to the boundless optimism of youth.
And when that opening rhythm kicks in, we don’t just hear a song—we hear the echo of who we once were, dancing without a care as the decade slipped quietly into history.