“Cum On Feel the Noize” by Quiet Riot isn’t just a song—it’s a war cry from the front lines of glam metal’s meteoric rise in the 1980s, a raucous anthem that barreled its way into the American consciousness with such force that it practically dared rock fans to resist its explosive energy. Originally written and performed by British rock band Slade in 1973, the song was reimagined by Quiet Riot a decade later and transformed into an unrelenting hit that brought the hard rock underground into the mainstream, smashing the barricades between heavy metal and commercial radio play. Its impact was seismic. With its snarling vocals, pounding drums, and an instantly iconic chorus that demanded audience participation, “Cum On Feel the Noize” played a pivotal role in ushering in an era of big hair, louder guitars, and arena-sized rebellion.
The story of Quiet Riot’s version of the song starts with resistance, irony, and ultimately, destiny. Producer Spencer Proffer pushed for the band to cover Slade’s UK hit, believing it could be a breakthrough moment for the group in the U.S., but frontman Kevin DuBrow initially hated the idea. Quiet Riot, known for their original material and still smarting from the uphill battle of trying to gain traction in a music industry that had largely overlooked them, weren’t keen on the idea of being defined by a cover. Legend has it they attempted to sabotage the recording, delivering a first take that was purposefully rough around the edges. But Proffer, hearing the rawness and rebellious edge that bled through, knew they had captured lightning in a bottle. He kept that take. That one recording, intended as a throwaway, ended up becoming one of the most enduring rock songs of the 1980s and the launchpad for Quiet Riot’s ascent to superstardom.
“Cum On Feel the Noize” works because it’s not polished within an inch of its life—it’s brash, unrefined, and almost unruly, wearing its imperfections like a badge of honor. The band turned what could have been a by-the-numbers cover into something that felt uniquely their own. Kevin DuBrow’s vocal delivery is snarling and full of attitude, the kind of performance that practically spits in the face of decorum. Carlos Cavazo’s guitar work provides a gritty counterpoint, full of punch and crunch, while the rhythm section lays down a beat that doesn’t march so much as stomp with steel-toed boots. It’s a sonic punch to the jaw that doesn’t apologize for its aggression. It doesn’t ask to be liked—it demands to be heard.
When the song exploded onto radio and MTV, it did so in an era that was just beginning to understand the power of metal and glam aesthetics combined. Quiet Riot’s album Metal Health, which featured “Cum On Feel the Noize,” became the first heavy metal album to hit number one on the Billboard 200 chart, a watershed moment for the genre. That chart-topping status shattered the glass ceiling for metal acts and proved there was a massive audience hungry for louder, bolder, and more theatrical rock music. It made Quiet Riot the first band to pry open a door that would soon be kicked wide by bands like Mötley Crüe, Ratt, Twisted Sister, and eventually Bon Jovi. The crossover success of “Cum On Feel the Noize” demonstrated that metal could be both ferocious and commercial, that a song with attitude and grit could also be a sing-along stadium smash.
There’s a primal quality to the song that transcends cultural and generational boundaries. That chorus—“Cum on feel the noize / Girls rock your boys”—is not just catchy; it’s ritualistic. It’s a call-and-response declaration of intent, designed for mass unity through volume. It speaks to the adolescent in all of us, the defiant kid blasting music in a bedroom, the teenager at their first concert, the adult who remembers what it felt like to lose their mind in a pit of sweat, leather, and power chords. It’s not poetry in the classical sense, but it captures a kind of poetic truth: that music, when loud enough, becomes a shared language of freedom and abandon.
It also carries the DNA of its original creators, Slade, whose songwriting and showmanship had a profound influence on later glam and metal acts. But Quiet Riot’s version strips away some of the boozy swagger of the original and replaces it with American grit. It’s sleazier, meaner, and more desperate. It sounds like a band kicking and screaming their way into the spotlight. That urgency comes through in every note, every rasp in DuBrow’s voice, every sledgehammer of Frankie Banali’s drums. It’s not a tribute—it’s a takeover.
The impact of the song on MTV cannot be overstated. The video, full of live performance footage, big hair, and leather, looked exactly like what middle America imagined metal to be: dangerous, sexy, rebellious, and loud. It gave faces to the sound—glammed-up, sweaty, unapologetically over-the-top faces. Quiet Riot weren’t trying to be subtle; they were embodying the spirit of the song. MTV was still in its relative infancy, but it was becoming a kingmaker, and “Cum On Feel the Noize” made Quiet Riot overnight celebrities, their image beamed into millions of households across the country. It wasn’t just a song anymore. It was a movement, a flashpoint in the culture.
The deeper magic of “Cum On Feel the Noize” lies in its ability to bring people together through sheer volume and shared abandon. It’s not introspective. It doesn’t try to deliver any grand message. What it does do is tap directly into the raw joy of music as release. The pounding rhythms, the howling vocals, the defiant lyrics—all of it comes together to create a feeling that’s less about listening and more about being overtaken. You don’t simply play “Cum On Feel the Noize”—you scream it, blast it, live inside it for three and a half glorious minutes.
Over the decades, the song has retained a remarkable staying power. It’s one of those tracks that continues to pop up in soundtracks, commercials, and even sports arenas. The fact that a song recorded with reluctant intent, meant as a nod to a British glam band, could become one of the defining anthems of American rock speaks volumes about its resonance. It’s a song that refused to die, even when the glam metal era faded into the shadows of grunge and alt-rock. Long after trends changed, people still wanted to feel the noise. They still wanted to rock their boys. They still wanted that chorus to punch through the speakers and give them something to scream along with.
The legacy of Quiet Riot and this song in particular is complicated, of course. The band struggled to match the success of Metal Health, and internal tensions, lineup changes, and changing musical tides made their post-Noize career a rock 'n' roll soap opera. Kevin DuBrow, as loud offstage as he was on it, was often his own worst enemy, clashing with other bands and members of the press. But none of that diminishes what “Cum On Feel the Noize” accomplished. It was the song that opened the floodgates, the spark that ignited a genre’s moment in the sun.
What makes “Cum On Feel the Noize” endure is its unashamed sense of fun. There’s no irony here, no hidden meaning to decipher. It’s about the physical experience of music. It’s about the volume, the sweat, the stomp of a hundred boots on a concrete floor. It’s about the tribal joy of screaming a chorus with strangers and not caring how you look or sound doing it. It’s about noise as liberation, distortion as identity, and chaos as communion.
Today, hearing the opening chords of “Cum On Feel the Noize” still triggers a visceral reaction. It’s like a flare fired into the sky, signaling that it’s time to let go, to remember the days when music felt like rebellion. It’s a time capsule of 80s excess and energy, yes, but it’s also timeless in its refusal to be quiet, to be neat, to be anything but loud and proud. It’s a reminder of a moment when rock music felt like a revolution, and when a song could come from nothing, be recorded against a band’s wishes, and still end up becoming the soundtrack to countless lives.
There are louder songs, technically more complex songs, songs with deeper lyrical meanings—but none that embody the essence of rock quite like “Cum On Feel the Noize.” It roars. It dares. It moves. It is the sound of unrepentant joy and youthful rebellion, bottled and blasted through amplifiers into eternity. And every time it plays, no matter the year or the crowd, somebody, somewhere, sings along.
