And your ears shall hear…

If there’s one song that captures everything I love about Catherine Wheel, it’s “Black Metallic.”

“Black Metallic” works because of its space. It breathes. The drums and bass in the verse do most of the heavy lifting—steady, hypnotic—while the rhythm guitar hangs back, sketching out simple chords, and the lead guitar leans into atmospherics. Nothing is rushed. Nothing is overplayed. Brian Futter’s Stratocaster creates melodic textures that evolve, deepening the emotion rather than crowding it.

But then the chorus hits—and it hits. A full-on rock swell. The distorted chords bloom and boom, and suddenly the whole band feels like it’s lifting off together.

That contrast is the magic.

Rob Dickinson’s voice floats right down the middle of it all—haunting and melodic, a little distant but never detached. Not timid, just controlled. Present without pushing. He never oversells it, which somehow makes it land even harder.

But the real moment—the one that makes this song stick with you—is the breakdown. That jam session in the middle. It strips everything down to this pulsing groove: bass, drums, just a hint of guitar texture. It feels almost weightless, like the song is drifting for a minute, figuring itself out—like the heartbeat in The Tell-Tale Heart, getting louder and louder, building tension with every second, quietly revealing their love of prog rock.

This isn’t a move most Britpop bands would make—unless you’re Radiohead or Elbow. That’s where Catherine Wheel really set themselves apart.

And then, without warning, it opens all the way up into this massive, glowing finale.

“Your skin is black metallic…”

Over and over. Bigger each time. And somehow, it never feels repetitive—it feels necessary.

There’s something strange and beautiful in the imagery too. That shimmering guitar sounds like a sunrise, warm and full of light—but the lyrics paint something colder. Someone distant. Untouchable. Armor instead of skin. You can throw anything at her—love, anger, whatever—and it just bounces off. She’s not breaking. She’s not bending. “She’s turning black metallic.”

Not fragile. Not human. Not reachable.

The first time I heard it, I was walking into a record shop—one of those moments you don’t realize is going to stick with you. I walked up to the counter and asked what was playing. Bought the single on the spot. Then the album. And here we are, 30 years later, still chasing that same feeling when the song opens up and takes off.

Some songs age. Some songs fade.
This one just expands.

“Black Metallic” didn’t just make me a fan of Catherine Wheel—it made them work for me. And yeah, I’ll coin the phrase if I have to (Also, Walmart has the version on vinyl that comes with the original live EP that came with the first version of the US release on CD).