There are songs that age.
And then there are songs that wait.
Lightning Crashes doesn’t belong to the 90s in the way flannel, distortion pedals, or MTV do. It sits outside the decade, suspended in something heavier. Something human. Something unresolved.
Released in 1994 by Live, this track still lands with the same quiet violence it did the first time it crept out of a car stereo or late-night radio show. No rush. No hooks-for-hire. Just patience, grief, birth, death, and the uncomfortable truth that they sometimes share the same room.
This is not nostalgia bait.
This is a reckoning.
The Sound of Holding Your Breath
From the opening moments, Lightning Crashes feels like it’s restraining itself. The drums don’t push. The guitars don’t demand attention. Everything moves as if it’s afraid to disturb something sacred.
And maybe that’s the point.
The song builds not through aggression, but inevitability. Each verse adds weight, not volume. When the chorus finally breaks through, it doesn’t explode — it opens. Like a window in a room you didn’t realise you were suffocating in.
This is rock music unafraid of silence. It’s uncomfortable. It’s unresolved. And that’s exactly why it works.
Most songs want to tell you how to feel. This one trusts you to feel something.
