Barry Martin’s Got A Whole Lot Of Loving To Do – A Rockin’ Aussie Gem That’ll Stick With Ya
Alright, let’s talk about this wild ride of an album. Barry Martin’s Got A Whole Lot Of Loving To Do is one of those records that feels like it was made for jukeboxes in smoky pubs and late-night drives with the windows down. It’s rock, sure, but not just any rock—this thing bounces between rockabilly swagger and mod vibes so effortlessly you’d think Barry had been living in both the ‘50s and the ‘60s at the same time. And coming out of Australia on RCA? Mate, this album has grit and charm written all over it.
Now, I gotta say, the title track “Got A Whole Lot Of Loving To Do” hits hard right from the get-go. The opening riff grabs you by the collar and doesn’t let go. You can almost picture Barry strutting across some tiny stage, sweat dripping off his forehead as he belts out lyrics full of heartache and longing. There’s something raw about how unapologetically earnest it is—you don’t hear music like this anymore. It reminds me of falling headfirst into a crush you know is gonna end badly, but damn if it doesn’t feel good while it lasts. This song sticks because it’s messy, real, and impossible to ignore.
Then there’s “Why’d I Have To Fall In Love With You,” which flips the mood a bit. If the first track is all fiery passion, this one’s more like staring at your shoes after a breakup, wondering what the hell went wrong. The melody slows things down, letting Barry’s voice take center stage. He sounds tired, man—like he’s lived through every word he’s singing. But instead of wallowing, the tune builds into this groovy little number that makes you wanna snap your fingers and pretend you’re cooler than you actually are. By the second chorus, I found myself humming along even though I didn’t mean to. Sneaky bastard of a song.
The mix of rockabilly twang and mod punch keeps the whole album fresh. One minute you’re tapping your toes like you’re at a sock hop; the next, you’re nodding along like you’re front-row at some underground club where everyone’s wearing sharp suits and thick-framed glasses. Barry pulls it off without ever sounding like he’s trying too hard, which is no small feat.
Here’s the kicker, though: listening to this record feels like finding an old photograph tucked inside a book you haven’t opened in years. It’s nostalgic, yeah, but not in a cheesy way—it’s personal, like it’s telling your story even though Barry probably never met you. Maybe that’s why it still resonates decades later. Or maybe it’s just really, really good.
Anyway, here’s the unexpected part: halfway through writing this review, my cat jumped onto my desk and knocked over my coffee cup. As I scrambled to clean it up, I realized life’s kinda like this album—messy, unpredictable, but full of moments that make you smile despite yourself. Cheers to Barry Martin for capturing that chaos in 12 tracks.
