THE PRETENDERS ARE DEPRESSED. MEETING PETE SILVERTON MAKES THINGS WORSE. AND CHALKIE DAVIES DOESN’T HELP MUCH, EITHER
“WHAT IT’S basically down to is pressure.”
Peter Farndon speaks slowly, his voice coloured with deliberation, exhaustion and a hint of bewilderment. The soft water vowels of his still distinct Hereford accent add bite to his new-found disillusionment with the ways of the world.
Read the article from Sounds August 1979
“There’s something I dread about talking to female musicians,” my co-editor DiMartino sighed as we drank beer and worried in the bar of Chrissie Hynde’s Detroit hotel.
I knew this wasn’t just sexism – we’ve gone too many rounds in the Editorial room on those grounds.
Read the article from Creem August 1980 
THE REBEL in Chrissie Hynde is positively squirming today. Perched on a chair in a Kilburn dressing room, where the Pretenders are rehearsing for their next bout of gigs, she confesses to “shitting in my pants at the thought of going on stage again in a few weeks.” She knows she’s on the rock’n’roll treadmill of product and promotion. “And rock’n’roll’s dead! I hate rock’n’roll! I spit on rock ‘n’ roll!”
Read the article from Zig Zag August 1981 
SENSIBLE. THAT’S the word for Pretenders drummer Martin Chambers. Playing everything from progressive rock to proto-pub-rock professionally since 1967, he’s a stolid albeit logical player and sometimes a lot better. But since the Pretenders last concert in April of 1982, the band has been hit with mishaps aplenty.
Read the article from Creem June 1983
In the last two turbulent years, Chrissie Hynde has had a baby by the man who once personified for her the rock and roll myth, and lost two of her closest friends — fellow members of The Pretenders — to one of the ruinous aspects of that myth. But the myth endures for her — some would say in her. This is the story of Chrissie Hynde’s chequered rock and roll life…
Read the article from The Face February 1984
IT IS JUST POSSIBLE, I SUPPOSE, THAT SOMEWHERE IN Chrissie Hynde’s attic, there lurks a portrait of a withered old crone hunched over an electric guitar with many of its strings broken.
Read the article from Mojo magazine October 1994
