A Glitter-Flecked Love Letter to the Big Apple: The Sweet’s “New York Connection”
In the crisp spring of 2012, The Sweet, Britain’s glam-rock survivors led by guitarist Andy Scott, dropped “New York Connection”, a single that didn’t chart but anchored an album of the same name, self-released on April 27. The album—a covers collection with one reworked original—peaked at a modest #147 on the UK Albums Chart, a far cry from their ‘70s heyday, yet it pulsed with the band’s signature swagger. For those of us who strutted through the glitter-dusted ‘70s, when platforms clacked and choruses soared, this track is a weathered vinyl groove—a nostalgic nod to a city that never sleeps, a memory of nights when rock was loud and life was louder still. It’s the sound of a jukebox flickering in a dive bar, a call to the wild streets of New York, tugging at the heart of anyone who recalls the thrill of chasing dreams under a neon sky.
The story behind “New York Connection” is a bittersweet echo of The Sweet’s rollercoaster ride. By 2012, Scott—sole torchbearer after Brian Connolly’s 1997 death and Steve Priest’s 2020 passing—was keeping the flame alive with Pete Lincoln on vocals and bass, Tony O’Hora on keys, and Bruce Bisland on drums. The song, originally a B-side to 1972’s “Wig Wam Bam,” was dusted off from its early ‘70s roots, born in a haze of Nicky Chinn and Mike Chapman’s hit factory. Re-recorded at Huntenhull Studios, Scott punched it up with crunchy guitars and those high-pitched harmonies that once ruled Top of the Pops. The album’s concept—a tribute to New York via covers like The Ramones’ “Blitzkrieg Bop” and Ace Frehley’s “New York Groove”—sprang from a late-night brainstorm, a way to bridge their glam past with a fresh spin. After a decade since Sweetlife in 2002, it was a labor of love, a defiant stomp against time’s march, even as their chart glory faded to festival circuits and loyal fans.
At its core, “New York Connection” is a restless yearning for escape—a glam-soaked plea to break free. “It takes eight days where I wanna go / Well, there’s just me, am I only go,” Lincoln belts, his voice a gritty echo of Connolly’s, over Scott’s chugging riffs, “All I need is a New York connection / Really need a woman’s affection.” It’s a lone soul lost in the sprawl—“Somebody help me get home / I don’t wanna be on my own”—dreaming of the city’s pulse, a lover’s touch to anchor the drift. For older listeners, it’s a portal to those ‘70s nights—spinning 45s in a bedsit, the air thick with patchouli and promise, the ache of a world just out of reach. It’s the clatter of a tube station, the flash of a sequined jacket, the moment you felt the pull of somewhere bigger. As the final “I don’t wanna be on my own” fades, you’re left with a tender sting—a nostalgia for when every song was a map, and New York was the destination you’d chase forever.