They got a machine that writes the hook, They got an algorithm for the look. Every track is perfectly in time, But they forgot to make the chorus shine. I spin the dial but it all sounds cold... Where did the music go, that grabbed your soul? It used to be a band in a wooden room, Sweating out the rhythm beneath the moon. Just four chords and the honest truth... Now it's just a preset in a vocal booth. Oh, take me back to the golden days! Put on the vinyl, let the needle play! From the fifties' fire to the nineties' grit, Back when a broken heart wrote every hit. Yeah, I'm yearning for the melody... The kind of song that used to set you free. I miss the crackle of the radio waves, The liner notes and the tape cascades. When a singer's voice would crack and break, And you could feel the beautiful mistakes. No auto-tune to hide the pain, Just a six-string crying in the rain. It used to be a band in a wooden room, Sweating out the rhythm beneath the moon. Just four chords and the honest truth... Now it's just a preset in a vocal booth. Oh, take me back to the golden days! Put on the vinyl, let the needle play! From the fifties' fire to the nineties' grit, Back when a broken heart wrote every hit. Yeah, I'm yearning for the melody... The kind of song that used to set you free. We traded the magic for the digital screen, Lost the ghosts inside the machine. But somewhere out there, on a dusty shelf, The real music is waiting to sing itself... Oh, take me back to the golden days! Put on the vinyl, let the needle play! From the fifties' fire to the nineties' grit, Back when a broken heart wrote every hit. Yeah, I'm yearning for the melody... The kind of song that used to set you free. Yeah... just leave the record spinning. They don't make 'em like this anymore.
