Hair of the Dog

If the previous track was a wound, this one is a swagger. Built on one of the most recognizable riffs in hard rock — a low, churning, blues-drenched phrase that practically vibrates the floorboards — the song announces itself with the confidence of a band that knows exactly what they're doing and has absolutely no interest in being polite about it. The rhythm section locks into a groove that's simultaneously heavy and hypnotic, drawing from Chicago blues traditions while cranking the voltage into proto-metal territory. McCafferty's vocals here are a different instrument entirely: snarling, contemptuous, dripping with masculine bravado. The lyric is essentially a warning — a declaration directed at someone messing with the wrong man — and the delivery makes every syllable feel like a physical threat. The track belongs to that fertile early-70s moment when British and Scottish hard rock bands were distilling American blues into something louder, dirtier, and more confrontational. It became a stadium anthem precisely because it taps into something primal about communal aggression — crowds roaring back that central refrain as a shared act of release. Best experienced at volume, in a car, on a road that stretches out ahead of you.