20. "Juicy" - The Notorious B.I.G.
The Notorious B.I.G. holds a place in the rap canon chiefly for two reasons: his murder in 1997, making him the great martyr of the East Coast in the East-West hip-hop wars, and his status as the undisputed master of flow. All great raps are composed chiefly from three elements: lyrics (self-explanatory), cadence (the inflection and volume of the vocals), and flow (the rhythmic dexterity of the rapper's voice). Plenty of em cees have laid claims to being masters of all of these elements, but no one challenges Biggie Smalls as the greatest master of flow in rap history. It didn't matter what rhythm one presented him with - chops, hemiolas, triplets, anapests - Biggie not only mastered all styles, but practically invented half the techniques used today (the other half were developed by Rakim in 1987). Combine Biggie's innovative approach to rapping with his confidence and spectacular lyricism, and one bears witness to one of the best em cees to ever live. His magnum opus, "Juicy," is the story of his rise to the very pinnacle of the genre.
The key to "Juicy" is its emphasis on having nothing as opposed to having everything; though the song does make many allusions to material possessions and disposable women, like the vast majority of popular hip-hop songs today, it presents these status symbols as opposed to a life of urban decay and constant want. When Biggie raps, "we used to fuss when the landlords dissed us/no heat, wonder why Christmas missed us," one hears his frustrations about some of the most miserable times in his life; Christmas, typically the most joyful time of the year, becomes a day of despair. Best of all, the song doesn't backpedal on its focus at any point, taking time to reference Biggie's harsh youth in each verse; in this way, "Juicy" develops a flexible chronology, developing a psychology for the narrator that understands its place within time. Such memory adds life to Biggie's poetry unlike most any other developmental narrative in rap music.
The music of "Juicy" is pretty much a verbatim sample of Mtume's 1983 hit, "Juicy Fruit." However, once one listens to the Notorious B.I.G.'s version, it is pretty much impossible to listen to the original without feeling somewhat gypped. The production flourishes that provide little to illuminate the "themes" of the original only serve to enhance "Juicy"'s message. The bouncing bass suggests the decadence and happiness of the present, while the wistful synthesizer glissandos cue the flashbacks. Plus, the alterations to the chorus of "Juicy Fruit" are greatly appreciated. While the original was about little more than sex, "Juicy" flips the chorus to discuss the importance of both clarifying and pursuing one's goals. While the singing might not be as good, pretty much everything else about "Juicy"'s music is superior to the original.
Additionally, "Juicy" is reflective of the story of hip-hop itself as a musical genre. Being released in 1994, "Juicy" emerged at a moment when hip-hop had finally established itself as a standard music genre with its own Billboard chart, its own critical standards, and its own place in the popular consciousness. One of the most telling lyrics is "remember Rappin' Duke? duh-ah duh-ah/You never thought that hip-hop would take it this far." The Rappin' Duke was a 1984 novelty spoken-word song featuring a rapping John Wayne sound-alike, as if mocking the then fledgling hip-hop genre for being a mere fad. Yet the 80s and early 90s did what they could to transform rap into a legitimate artistic genre, with its own musical intricacies and language. By 1994, rap had reached what some still consider its artistic peak. "Juicy" functions as a moment of apotheosis, realizing how far hip-hop has come and how far it can still go should listeners continue to purchase the records. Seeing how masterfully "Juicy" was executed, it certainly convinced many a hip-hop doubter.
"Juicy" is quite possibly the finest story-telling rap of the 1990s, combining nostalgia, somberness, confidence, and pure cool to produce a true masterpiece of a song. All of the Notorious B.I.G.'s rhythmic and lyrical tricks are put on full display for the listener to enjoy. It thus serves as an excellent introduction to Biggie's discography as well as a classic for current fans to reflect upon. It's one of my absolute favorite rap records, and it's one of the most acclaimed rap songs in history. Its place in the top 20 is well-earned indeed.
The key to "Juicy" is its emphasis on having nothing as opposed to having everything; though the song does make many allusions to material possessions and disposable women, like the vast majority of popular hip-hop songs today, it presents these status symbols as opposed to a life of urban decay and constant want. When Biggie raps, "we used to fuss when the landlords dissed us/no heat, wonder why Christmas missed us," one hears his frustrations about some of the most miserable times in his life; Christmas, typically the most joyful time of the year, becomes a day of despair. Best of all, the song doesn't backpedal on its focus at any point, taking time to reference Biggie's harsh youth in each verse; in this way, "Juicy" develops a flexible chronology, developing a psychology for the narrator that understands its place within time. Such memory adds life to Biggie's poetry unlike most any other developmental narrative in rap music.
The music of "Juicy" is pretty much a verbatim sample of Mtume's 1983 hit, "Juicy Fruit." However, once one listens to the Notorious B.I.G.'s version, it is pretty much impossible to listen to the original without feeling somewhat gypped. The production flourishes that provide little to illuminate the "themes" of the original only serve to enhance "Juicy"'s message. The bouncing bass suggests the decadence and happiness of the present, while the wistful synthesizer glissandos cue the flashbacks. Plus, the alterations to the chorus of "Juicy Fruit" are greatly appreciated. While the original was about little more than sex, "Juicy" flips the chorus to discuss the importance of both clarifying and pursuing one's goals. While the singing might not be as good, pretty much everything else about "Juicy"'s music is superior to the original.
Additionally, "Juicy" is reflective of the story of hip-hop itself as a musical genre. Being released in 1994, "Juicy" emerged at a moment when hip-hop had finally established itself as a standard music genre with its own Billboard chart, its own critical standards, and its own place in the popular consciousness. One of the most telling lyrics is "remember Rappin' Duke? duh-ah duh-ah/You never thought that hip-hop would take it this far." The Rappin' Duke was a 1984 novelty spoken-word song featuring a rapping John Wayne sound-alike, as if mocking the then fledgling hip-hop genre for being a mere fad. Yet the 80s and early 90s did what they could to transform rap into a legitimate artistic genre, with its own musical intricacies and language. By 1994, rap had reached what some still consider its artistic peak. "Juicy" functions as a moment of apotheosis, realizing how far hip-hop has come and how far it can still go should listeners continue to purchase the records. Seeing how masterfully "Juicy" was executed, it certainly convinced many a hip-hop doubter.
"Juicy" is quite possibly the finest story-telling rap of the 1990s, combining nostalgia, somberness, confidence, and pure cool to produce a true masterpiece of a song. All of the Notorious B.I.G.'s rhythmic and lyrical tricks are put on full display for the listener to enjoy. It thus serves as an excellent introduction to Biggie's discography as well as a classic for current fans to reflect upon. It's one of my absolute favorite rap records, and it's one of the most acclaimed rap songs in history. Its place in the top 20 is well-earned indeed.
19. "Midnight in a Perfect World" - DJ Shadow
DJ Shadow's masterful ...Endtroducing is one of the finest albums of the 1990s, being the pioneering work of instrumental hip-hop and ambient trip-hop in the critical and popular consciousness. Unlike most any other release in either hip-hop or trip-hop, it has not aged a day, with its innovative record cuts and sample mixes still sounding fresh. ...Endtroducing was one of the first albums ever composed of samples only, but it remixes said samples in a way as to wholly re-texture them, producing entirely new compositions. The album's emotional core is the haunting "Midnight in a Perfect World," a trip-hop inspired piece that harmonizes a wide variety of musical styles to produce an ideal midnight, one of cultural unity that our current age suggests cannot exist.
The key to "Midnight in a Perfect World"'s success is the broad range of samples. The main melodic line and musical core of the song comes from the opening of a song called "Sekoilu Seestyy" by Pekka Pohjola, best known as the bass player from the 70s Finnish prog rock band, Wigwam. It's a very bright riff, melodically, but its lower harmonics churn with uncertainty. After all, the title of the original piece translates to "The Madness Subsides," suggesting hope after a period of moral and mental instability. The main bass part, however, comes from a piece called "Dolmen Music" by American contemporary classical composer Meredith Monk; while I wouldn't especially recommend that piece, the application of the cello riff adds a darker tone while also alluding to the influences of Neolitihic music (a dolmen being the primary form of grave during the Neolithic age). The drums are compiled from underrated soul songs from the 1960s, "California Soul" by Marlena Shaw and "Life Could" by the Rotary Connection. The haunting piano melodies come from the American composer David Axelrod's most famous song, "The Human Abstract." Finally, and most importantly for this list (as it provided words permitting the song to qualify), the vocals are taken from the song "Sower of Seeds" by a barely known LA rock band called Baraka. The original melody leads into a fairly standard 70s groove rock song, but, in DJ Shadow's hand, it's made into a particularly moving vocal line. All of these samples meld together to create an ambience that is at once mysterious and inviting, providing a sense of calm while also affording no clear on answers on what world it truly represents.
The best way to visualize the effect of "Midnight in a Perfect World" is to liken the song to the view out of the window of a car driving through a city at night. Each brief piano line is a passing streetlight or lamp-lit window, while the churning bass is the steady rotation of the wheels. The vocals take on a new form: individual human thoughts popping into and out of a world defined by human artifice as opposed to raw nature. The unnatural cuts of the drums in the final chorus seem to suggest the dominance of technology, urbanization, and globalization over individuality, yet this paradigm shift is not to be seen as a failure of human freedom. Rather, "Midnight in a Perfect World" anticipates a more ideal human existence within a world of disaggregated identity; with us valuing each other less on the individual level, we are more capable of tolerance and acceptance of humanity's merits and flaws. As the song culminates in its midnight, it raises the question of whether such a world can exist and what the consequences of such a world would be.
"Midnight in a Perfect World" itself is a culmination of sampling craft, trip-hop sensibilities, and atmospheric sculpting. Few other sonic experiments of the 90s truly pushed the boundaries to this extent while maintaining listenability and avoiding pretension. "Midnight in a Perfect World" hits a perfect medium, making it approachable to just about anyone fortunate enough to listen to it. Though known mostly by music nerds, this song is slowly gaining a larger audience, one I can only hope to expand through giving it such a high place on my list.
The key to "Midnight in a Perfect World"'s success is the broad range of samples. The main melodic line and musical core of the song comes from the opening of a song called "Sekoilu Seestyy" by Pekka Pohjola, best known as the bass player from the 70s Finnish prog rock band, Wigwam. It's a very bright riff, melodically, but its lower harmonics churn with uncertainty. After all, the title of the original piece translates to "The Madness Subsides," suggesting hope after a period of moral and mental instability. The main bass part, however, comes from a piece called "Dolmen Music" by American contemporary classical composer Meredith Monk; while I wouldn't especially recommend that piece, the application of the cello riff adds a darker tone while also alluding to the influences of Neolitihic music (a dolmen being the primary form of grave during the Neolithic age). The drums are compiled from underrated soul songs from the 1960s, "California Soul" by Marlena Shaw and "Life Could" by the Rotary Connection. The haunting piano melodies come from the American composer David Axelrod's most famous song, "The Human Abstract." Finally, and most importantly for this list (as it provided words permitting the song to qualify), the vocals are taken from the song "Sower of Seeds" by a barely known LA rock band called Baraka. The original melody leads into a fairly standard 70s groove rock song, but, in DJ Shadow's hand, it's made into a particularly moving vocal line. All of these samples meld together to create an ambience that is at once mysterious and inviting, providing a sense of calm while also affording no clear on answers on what world it truly represents.
The best way to visualize the effect of "Midnight in a Perfect World" is to liken the song to the view out of the window of a car driving through a city at night. Each brief piano line is a passing streetlight or lamp-lit window, while the churning bass is the steady rotation of the wheels. The vocals take on a new form: individual human thoughts popping into and out of a world defined by human artifice as opposed to raw nature. The unnatural cuts of the drums in the final chorus seem to suggest the dominance of technology, urbanization, and globalization over individuality, yet this paradigm shift is not to be seen as a failure of human freedom. Rather, "Midnight in a Perfect World" anticipates a more ideal human existence within a world of disaggregated identity; with us valuing each other less on the individual level, we are more capable of tolerance and acceptance of humanity's merits and flaws. As the song culminates in its midnight, it raises the question of whether such a world can exist and what the consequences of such a world would be.
"Midnight in a Perfect World" itself is a culmination of sampling craft, trip-hop sensibilities, and atmospheric sculpting. Few other sonic experiments of the 90s truly pushed the boundaries to this extent while maintaining listenability and avoiding pretension. "Midnight in a Perfect World" hits a perfect medium, making it approachable to just about anyone fortunate enough to listen to it. Though known mostly by music nerds, this song is slowly gaining a larger audience, one I can only hope to expand through giving it such a high place on my list.
18. "Sour Times" - Portishead
Massive Attack might have invented trip-hop, Tricky might have been the trip-hop artist with the most edge, and DJ Shadow might have created the most inventive trip-hop album, but, in my eyes, no trip-hop group was better than Portishead. No other group managed to combine melody, atmosphere, rhythmic dexterity, and raw emotion on the same level as Portishead, especially as they did on their debut, Dummy. The centerpiece of that masterpiece is "Sour Times," the Bond theme that never was. A song at once depressing and lustful, "Sour Times" was Portishead's breakout single, the landmark that allowed for all their subsequent hits to chart. Yet none of them hit quite as hard as the first.
The music video for "Sour Times" comes from Portishead's own short film, To Kill a Dead Man. It's a fairly standard spy thriller, yet "Sour Times" completely fits the mood, emphasizing the V chord just like the James Bond theme. Each instrument adds an aura of mystery, from the single mandolin note that pierces through the song every two measures to the string section during the chorus to the sparse synthesizer saws at the song's end. Most important is Adrian Utley, the group's bassist, who lays down one of the most sinuous bass lines of the decade; the descending intervals communicate desire, elusiveness, and intrigue.
And, of course, one cannot discuss Portishead without discussing the lovely voice of Beth Gibbons. Gibbons's sultry alto distinguished Portishead from their peers, with her silky tones charming every listener fortunate enough to pop Dummy into the CD player. Her voice practically melts over the melody, aching its way into the chorus. When she declares "nobody loves me, it's true," the listener's heart burns with empathy, and, for some listeners, desire. Much like Bridgette Bardot and Jane Birkin before her, Beth Gibbons realizes that the perfect way to lead the listener on is to taper off the voice right before the end of the phrase; the collapse in the sound pulls the listener forward in his or her seat, as he or she wants to hear the melody brought to its conclusion. In short, the musical refusal baits the listener. Some might say the dropping of a phrase's final notes is indicative of musical amateurism and hackery, but Gibbons's performance on "Sour Times" does not indicate vocal strain or limitation; in her stellar performance of the song at Roseland, NYC, she turns the final chorus into a practical storm of belting and longing. She most definitely can maintain the notes; her artistic choice is wholly intentional.
The central theme of "Sour Times"'s lyrics is a tension between sorrow and desire. The verses of "Sour Times" can be somewhat impenetrable, but this intentionally so; Portishead often tries to obscure the events and moods of the present in order to emphasize the urges of the past. Said lyrical obstructions are not without poetic tact, as Portishead emphasize both alliteration and consonance in the first two verses of the song: "forbidden fruit," "blind belief," "sinful screens." However, all of these elements are trivial compared to the song's main conceit: its chorus. "Nobody loves me it's true/Nobody loves me it's true/Not like you do" The first two phrases are drawn out so to create a mood of unabated sorrow. However, when the last phrase pops up, the entire tone of the chorus changes, focusing on the II7 chord, so as to create a brighter sound within a minor key song. The sorrow suggested by the first line turns into a coy sexual come-on, pulling the listener ever further into the song's world. It's a simple trick, but it works oh so well.
With "Sour Times," Portishead struck a home run for trip-hop. Not only did it revolutionize trip-hop, not only did it provide an emotional climax for Dummy, not only did it become a significant hit in the United Kingdom, but it also converted a certain blogger into a lifelong trip-hop fan. This is the song that made me want to listen to more trip-hop, and I am forever in its debt. "Sour Times" is everything trip-hop can and should be, and it's one of my personal favorites on the entire list.
17. "California Love" - 2pac feat. Dr. Dre
2pac's return to this list features him at his musical peak, headlining the greatest West Coast rap song of the 1990s. As powerful as "Dear Mama," "Brenda's Got a Baby," and the previously mentioned "I Ain't Mad at Cha" are, Tupac was undoubtedly at his lyrical best when he was bragging and having a good time. This is why "Hit 'Em Up" and "Keep Ya Head Up" are often considered his finest rap performances; Tupac's confidence translated into more innovative and creative lyrics and flows. Nowhere did he shine brighter than on "California Love," one of the most infectious hip-hop songs to ever top the pop charts. Yes, you did read that correctly: "California Love" was one of relatively few rap songs to actually become a number one hit. It did not attain this accolade without warrant.
The beat of "California Love" is based on two samples: Joe Cocker's 1972 hit, "Woman to Woman," and the 1982 Ronnie Hudson hit, "West Coast Poplock." However, in each case, the sample is dramatically improved. Dr. Dre shifts the piano riff from "Woman to Woman" down a half-step, making the sforzando introduction to the riff that much more powerful and mysterious. Better yet is the vocal hook. Along with changing the words, Dre hired the legendary funk vocalist and god of talk box, Roger Troutman, to provide the vocals for "California Love." The talk box brings "California Love" into conversation with dozens of classic synth-funk tracks, Zapp's "More Bounce to the Ounce" in particular. The West Coast is laying claim to rap's dancehall roots, and the entire song bangs. The East Coast might have had more lyricism, but the West Coast certainly had more fun.
Yet "California Love" does have one lackluster element: Dr. Dre's verse. The entire verse seems somewhat phoned in, with Dr. Dre giving some of the dullest cadences of his career. One of the lines even contains one of Dr. Dre's greatest lyrical blunders, referring to California as the "Sunshine State" when that nickname clearly belongs to Florida. Though Dr. Dre appropriately discusses his dominance in the studio, he fits his entire reputation into two measly lines; a producer of his stature has the right to brag more. Yet this lack of effort is somewhat understandable: Dr. Dre never originally planned to release the beat to "California Love," as he never particularly liked it. It was only at Tupac's urging that he ultimately released it. Thus, though Dr. Dre was responsible for crafting much of the song, Tupac is the real mastermind here.
It's thus fitting that Tupac's verse is the best part of the song. While Dr. Dre's infamous lyrical slip-up indicates a lack of care for his state, Tupac clearly gives everything to his home. "Let me serenade the streets of L.A./From Oakland to Sac-town/the Bay Area and back down" - his verse reads like a catalogue of the places that have inspired his career. The ode is especially timely given that this was the first single Tupac released after getting out of jail. The king of the West Coast wastes no time to set up perhaps the finest cadential rap verse of the decade. One can hear Tupac's love for his state in every tinge of his voice. Combine this with a flow that emphasizes internal and off-beat rhymes, and one has a practical masterpiece of a verse. When Tupac demands that we "give him love" at the end of the song, he more than earns it.
"California Love" might represent the most materialistic elements of West Coast raps, but it does so with a tact far greater and a beat far better than other classics of the era, such as Dr. Dre's "Nuthin But a G Thang" and Snoop Dogg's "Gin and Juice." The beat pulses with energy, rocking the piano riff for all its worth. Tupac's verse is one of his very best, even if it's not his most lyrical. Add in the fact that this was the rap song that resonated most with listeners of the time, being perhaps the song most associated with Tupac, and one's got one of the most important hip-hop songs of the 90s.
The beat of "California Love" is based on two samples: Joe Cocker's 1972 hit, "Woman to Woman," and the 1982 Ronnie Hudson hit, "West Coast Poplock." However, in each case, the sample is dramatically improved. Dr. Dre shifts the piano riff from "Woman to Woman" down a half-step, making the sforzando introduction to the riff that much more powerful and mysterious. Better yet is the vocal hook. Along with changing the words, Dre hired the legendary funk vocalist and god of talk box, Roger Troutman, to provide the vocals for "California Love." The talk box brings "California Love" into conversation with dozens of classic synth-funk tracks, Zapp's "More Bounce to the Ounce" in particular. The West Coast is laying claim to rap's dancehall roots, and the entire song bangs. The East Coast might have had more lyricism, but the West Coast certainly had more fun.
Yet "California Love" does have one lackluster element: Dr. Dre's verse. The entire verse seems somewhat phoned in, with Dr. Dre giving some of the dullest cadences of his career. One of the lines even contains one of Dr. Dre's greatest lyrical blunders, referring to California as the "Sunshine State" when that nickname clearly belongs to Florida. Though Dr. Dre appropriately discusses his dominance in the studio, he fits his entire reputation into two measly lines; a producer of his stature has the right to brag more. Yet this lack of effort is somewhat understandable: Dr. Dre never originally planned to release the beat to "California Love," as he never particularly liked it. It was only at Tupac's urging that he ultimately released it. Thus, though Dr. Dre was responsible for crafting much of the song, Tupac is the real mastermind here.
It's thus fitting that Tupac's verse is the best part of the song. While Dr. Dre's infamous lyrical slip-up indicates a lack of care for his state, Tupac clearly gives everything to his home. "Let me serenade the streets of L.A./From Oakland to Sac-town/the Bay Area and back down" - his verse reads like a catalogue of the places that have inspired his career. The ode is especially timely given that this was the first single Tupac released after getting out of jail. The king of the West Coast wastes no time to set up perhaps the finest cadential rap verse of the decade. One can hear Tupac's love for his state in every tinge of his voice. Combine this with a flow that emphasizes internal and off-beat rhymes, and one has a practical masterpiece of a verse. When Tupac demands that we "give him love" at the end of the song, he more than earns it.
"California Love" might represent the most materialistic elements of West Coast raps, but it does so with a tact far greater and a beat far better than other classics of the era, such as Dr. Dre's "Nuthin But a G Thang" and Snoop Dogg's "Gin and Juice." The beat pulses with energy, rocking the piano riff for all its worth. Tupac's verse is one of his very best, even if it's not his most lyrical. Add in the fact that this was the rap song that resonated most with listeners of the time, being perhaps the song most associated with Tupac, and one's got one of the most important hip-hop songs of the 90s.
16. "Would?" - Alice in Chains
Most casual fans of grunge music and Alice in Chains will call them a great group because they sounded "beautiful" or "haunting" as compared to their peers. No other grunge group of the big four prominently used harmonies in their songs, so Alice in Chains stood out. Yet Alice in Chains' harmonies differed from those that had come before; they did not sound like those of the Everly Brothers or the Beatles for a very clear reason: they broke the rules. The first rule of classical counterpoint composition is to not stack harmonies in parallel fifths; one should strive to change the harmonic interval, as keeping the harmony on the fifth leads to an open and unresolved sound. Yet this unresolved sound is exactly what Alice in Chains sought to achieve, and nowhere did their lack of musical resolution work better than on the cryptic final track to their Dirt album, "Would?"
"Would?" begins with a slinking bass riff, monstrous and foreboding, from Mike Starr. Oddly enough, though, this bass riff is arguably the most melodic portion of the entire song, dominating the verses; it is as if the core of the band's existence comes from below. Jerry Cantrell's guitar lines are sparse and frail, quickly ebbing out into an echo. Layne Staley and Cantrell's voices glide over the parallel fifths, as if barely skimming the air. A sense of impermanence and spiritual weakness permeates the verses, only to burst forth into a roar of desperation and rage in the chorus. Staley's cracking vocals on the peak phrase might suggest lack of technique to some, but I see them as a sign of raw frustration. Yet why is this song so disturbed? The answer: heroin.
Cocaine was the rock star drug of choice of the 1980s; its high-octane, stimulative effects can be heard all over the era's most popular songs. The 1990s, however, were the era of heroin - more addictive, more violent, and more intense. The members of Alice in Chains witnessed the effects of heroin first-hand after Andrew Wood, the lead singer of the proto-grunge group, Mother Love Bone, overdosed in 1990. Jerry Cantrell, Alice in Chains' chief songwriter, was a close friend of Wood; he even dedicated Alice in Chains' first album, Facelift, to the deceased singer. Yet "Would?" was Cantrell's first true attempt to grapple with the nature of Andrew Wood's addiction and the role of friends in trying to curb it; indeed, "Would?" is a homophone of "Wood." The narrative of "Would?" depicts a man who recognizes his addiction and his inability to face it alone: "know me broken by my master/Teach me, a child, love hereafter." Each chorus is a new relapse into drug usage, coupled with vindictiveness at those who would dare judge the narrator for his actions.
The best part of "Would?" is the coda. "Would?"'s first chorus modulates to the key of the supertonic through the use of the iv chord. However, the coda then leaps from the key of the supertonic to the key of the subtonic, using the dominant chord of the supertonic key before scaling down with a VII-III#-III-i progression. This is a highly disjointed musical phrase, but it has a clear function when one considers the lyrics. "Am I wrong? Have I run too far to get home?/Have I gone? Left you here alone?" At this point, the narrative style becomes unclear. Has the addict realized the extent of his addiction and turned for help, recognizing the dangers of abandoning those he loves? Or, even worse, has the narration shifted to the friends of the addict? Is this a moment in which they realize their responsibility for their friend's behavior extends beyond even their friend's desires? The song ends on the most cryptic question of the grunge era: "if I would, could you?" Its meaning is uncertain to this day.
Yet, in the case of Alice in Chains, it appears that question has been applied in the most tragic of ways. In 2002, Layne Staley died of a heroin overdose. The circumstances: the fallout of an argument with Mike Starr. In 2011, Starr too died of a heroin overdose. Frighteningly enough, in the case of Alice in Chains, the question seems to be this: "if I would die of a heroin overdose, could you follow me?"
"Would?" begins with a slinking bass riff, monstrous and foreboding, from Mike Starr. Oddly enough, though, this bass riff is arguably the most melodic portion of the entire song, dominating the verses; it is as if the core of the band's existence comes from below. Jerry Cantrell's guitar lines are sparse and frail, quickly ebbing out into an echo. Layne Staley and Cantrell's voices glide over the parallel fifths, as if barely skimming the air. A sense of impermanence and spiritual weakness permeates the verses, only to burst forth into a roar of desperation and rage in the chorus. Staley's cracking vocals on the peak phrase might suggest lack of technique to some, but I see them as a sign of raw frustration. Yet why is this song so disturbed? The answer: heroin.
Cocaine was the rock star drug of choice of the 1980s; its high-octane, stimulative effects can be heard all over the era's most popular songs. The 1990s, however, were the era of heroin - more addictive, more violent, and more intense. The members of Alice in Chains witnessed the effects of heroin first-hand after Andrew Wood, the lead singer of the proto-grunge group, Mother Love Bone, overdosed in 1990. Jerry Cantrell, Alice in Chains' chief songwriter, was a close friend of Wood; he even dedicated Alice in Chains' first album, Facelift, to the deceased singer. Yet "Would?" was Cantrell's first true attempt to grapple with the nature of Andrew Wood's addiction and the role of friends in trying to curb it; indeed, "Would?" is a homophone of "Wood." The narrative of "Would?" depicts a man who recognizes his addiction and his inability to face it alone: "know me broken by my master/Teach me, a child, love hereafter." Each chorus is a new relapse into drug usage, coupled with vindictiveness at those who would dare judge the narrator for his actions.
The best part of "Would?" is the coda. "Would?"'s first chorus modulates to the key of the supertonic through the use of the iv chord. However, the coda then leaps from the key of the supertonic to the key of the subtonic, using the dominant chord of the supertonic key before scaling down with a VII-III#-III-i progression. This is a highly disjointed musical phrase, but it has a clear function when one considers the lyrics. "Am I wrong? Have I run too far to get home?/Have I gone? Left you here alone?" At this point, the narrative style becomes unclear. Has the addict realized the extent of his addiction and turned for help, recognizing the dangers of abandoning those he loves? Or, even worse, has the narration shifted to the friends of the addict? Is this a moment in which they realize their responsibility for their friend's behavior extends beyond even their friend's desires? The song ends on the most cryptic question of the grunge era: "if I would, could you?" Its meaning is uncertain to this day.
Yet, in the case of Alice in Chains, it appears that question has been applied in the most tragic of ways. In 2002, Layne Staley died of a heroin overdose. The circumstances: the fallout of an argument with Mike Starr. In 2011, Starr too died of a heroin overdose. Frighteningly enough, in the case of Alice in Chains, the question seems to be this: "if I would die of a heroin overdose, could you follow me?"
15. "Sabotage" - Beastie Boys
The Beastie Boys were one of the most important hip-hop groups of the 1980s: a group of rowdy New Yorkers who didn't care how snotty they were and, more importantly, what listeners thought of them. Their debut album, Licensed to Ill, was the album that solidified the budding fusion of rap and hard rock that was rap-rock. That album had an aggressive and entertaining sound that instantly charmed listeners who loved their "Fight for Your Right to Party" attitude. Their next album, Paul's Boutique, was a critical darling, full of innovative sampling and more complex flows. However, its radical approach didn't win over nearly as many listeners; as compared to its platinum-certified predecessor, it was lucky to be certified gold. Check Your Head saw a return to their hard rock sound, but it still took room to experiment on the production end with songs like "So What'cha Want"; while the more conventional sound did draw in some more listeners, the album barely cracked the top ten. It was only with 1994's Ill Communication that the Beastie Boys once again topped the album charts. In my opinion, it's the group's best album: combining jazz, hard rock, and hip-hop in a more complete fashion than on any of the Beasties' other albums. The album's lead single, "Sabotage," is everything right about it, and it's perhaps the greatest rap-rock single of the decade.
"Sabotage" begins with quite possibly the greatest guitar riff of the 1990s. The hammered-on seventh hearkens to the heavy metal riffs upon which the Beastie Boys built their initial hard rock legacy, but the layers of feedback and mechanical chugging suggest a harder hip-hop edge. It's meant to be a guitar riff for a new era. Best of all, it's not a sample; the Beastie Boys composed all of the music for "Sabotage" themselves. This riff provides the pulse for the entire song, adding a tongue-in-cheek savagery to the track that makes all the other elements pop, from the blaring cut of the saw synthesizers to the dominant whine of the guitar feedback to the slinking bass line to the punchy snare cracks. It generates an attitude upon which the rest of the song is built.
While the lyrics of Beastie Boys' songs are never the main attraction, they are usually not wanting for lack of wit. "Sabotage" is mostly about the Beastie Boys' discontent with the post-Nixon political machine; the influence of money and executive privilege has, in essence, "sabotaged" any political future for up and comers. However, unlike other hip-hop artists, such as Nas or GZA, the Beastie Boys do not disguise their discontent with flowery language, taking the route of punk stars like Iggy Pop and Johnny Rotten with direct lyrics: "So while you sit back and wonder why/I got this f****** thorn in my side/oh my God, it's a mirage/I'm tellin' ya'll it's sabotage." My personal favorite line in the song is "I'm Buddy Rich when I fly off the handle," a reference to the highly volatile temperament of the greatest drummer to ever live. It's the little bits of wit that make "Sabotage" more than petulant whining from a bunch of intellectually lazy New Yorkers.
The absolute best portion of the song is the brief ritornello after the second verse. All the instruments drop out, letting the feedback provide a slight release and echo. Then, the guitar chugs in right before the most emphatic declaration of "why" in rap history. The song then builds into a massive crescendo in the bridge, with the chant of "listen all y'all, it's a sabotage" becoming practically anthemic. The song enters its final verse at full force, having earned its fortissimo dynamic. Most rap-rock songs, even the very best tunes like Run-DMC's "Walk This Way" or Faith No More's "Epic," don't have a proper sense of dynamics. In this sense, "Sabotage" set a new standard for the genre.
"Sabotage" became a massive MTV hit, carried on the strength of its amazingly ridiculous music video: a parody of popular 70s cop shows, such as Hill Street Blues. However, as fun as the music video is, it's the song itself that has stood the test of time. While few Millennials and Generation Y-ers would readily be able to identify the references contained in the video, most can recite "Sabotage" lyric for lyric and identify every facet of the arrangement and production. It's a hip-hop song that everyone loves: rock fans, hip-hop fans, punk fans, even pop music fans. Sometimes, one merely needs to cut loose and express some rage; with "Sabotage," the Beastie Boys gave the 90s the finest and healthiest release it could want.
"Sabotage" begins with quite possibly the greatest guitar riff of the 1990s. The hammered-on seventh hearkens to the heavy metal riffs upon which the Beastie Boys built their initial hard rock legacy, but the layers of feedback and mechanical chugging suggest a harder hip-hop edge. It's meant to be a guitar riff for a new era. Best of all, it's not a sample; the Beastie Boys composed all of the music for "Sabotage" themselves. This riff provides the pulse for the entire song, adding a tongue-in-cheek savagery to the track that makes all the other elements pop, from the blaring cut of the saw synthesizers to the dominant whine of the guitar feedback to the slinking bass line to the punchy snare cracks. It generates an attitude upon which the rest of the song is built.
While the lyrics of Beastie Boys' songs are never the main attraction, they are usually not wanting for lack of wit. "Sabotage" is mostly about the Beastie Boys' discontent with the post-Nixon political machine; the influence of money and executive privilege has, in essence, "sabotaged" any political future for up and comers. However, unlike other hip-hop artists, such as Nas or GZA, the Beastie Boys do not disguise their discontent with flowery language, taking the route of punk stars like Iggy Pop and Johnny Rotten with direct lyrics: "So while you sit back and wonder why/I got this f****** thorn in my side/oh my God, it's a mirage/I'm tellin' ya'll it's sabotage." My personal favorite line in the song is "I'm Buddy Rich when I fly off the handle," a reference to the highly volatile temperament of the greatest drummer to ever live. It's the little bits of wit that make "Sabotage" more than petulant whining from a bunch of intellectually lazy New Yorkers.
The absolute best portion of the song is the brief ritornello after the second verse. All the instruments drop out, letting the feedback provide a slight release and echo. Then, the guitar chugs in right before the most emphatic declaration of "why" in rap history. The song then builds into a massive crescendo in the bridge, with the chant of "listen all y'all, it's a sabotage" becoming practically anthemic. The song enters its final verse at full force, having earned its fortissimo dynamic. Most rap-rock songs, even the very best tunes like Run-DMC's "Walk This Way" or Faith No More's "Epic," don't have a proper sense of dynamics. In this sense, "Sabotage" set a new standard for the genre.
"Sabotage" became a massive MTV hit, carried on the strength of its amazingly ridiculous music video: a parody of popular 70s cop shows, such as Hill Street Blues. However, as fun as the music video is, it's the song itself that has stood the test of time. While few Millennials and Generation Y-ers would readily be able to identify the references contained in the video, most can recite "Sabotage" lyric for lyric and identify every facet of the arrangement and production. It's a hip-hop song that everyone loves: rock fans, hip-hop fans, punk fans, even pop music fans. Sometimes, one merely needs to cut loose and express some rage; with "Sabotage," the Beastie Boys gave the 90s the finest and healthiest release it could want.
14. "Bitter Sweet Symphony" - The Verve
So, let's address the elephant in the room and discuss the plagiarism issue first. Is "Bitter Sweet Symphony" a shameless and illegal rip from the Rolling Stones? Yes and no. It is true that the Verve were found guilty of plagiarizing the main melodic line from the Andrew Oldham Orchestra's adaptation of the Rolling Stones' "The Last Time" and that the main violin line that grounds "Bitter Sweet Symphony" sounds eerily similar to the second verse of said adaptation; even the percussion sounds similar. However, I'd say the Verve improved the melody to such an extent that "Bitter Sweet Symphony" becomes its own beast worthy of criticism and appreciation on its own terms. Its aesthetic and meaning is wholly different from that of "The Last Time," and the synthesizer and guitar echoes drastically change the nature of the chords the original recording supplied. Not to mention that the transference of the original melody onto a single violin drastically changes how the listener interprets the theme: as a singular voice of defiance against a world gradually becoming a quagmire through its descending bass.
Outside of the legal disputes that have mired the song's history, "Bitter Sweet Symphony" is perhaps the definitive Britpop song. Indeed, it is the highest ranking Britpop on my list, even though I would not place the Verve in the same league as groups like Pulp, Blur, and Suede. It earns its ranking because of one simple factor: its sheer size. No Britpop song, not "Common People," not "The Universal," not even "A Design for Life" sounds quite as massive as "Bitter Sweet Symphony." One might be overwhelmed by the crescendos of a tune such as "A Design for Life," but one can eventually locate the disparate elements and break the song down into its component parts. Not so for "Bitter Sweet Symphony": much like "Born to Run" or "A Day in the Life," it is a collection of parts so numerous and discrete as to form a collage of musical force. When one then pairs this sound with the song's lyrical aspirations, one produces perhaps the most ambitious Britpop song ever recorded.
"Bitter Sweet Symphony" is the quintessential Britpop response to the problem of modernity: how does one find meaning in a meaningless world? The main lyric of the song - "'Cause it's a bitter sweet symphony, that's life" - is the ultimate 90s assertion of life's meaninglessness. As people become "slaves to the money and die," they lose any sense of identity and personal value. The implication: meaning never existed to begin with. The Verve initially try to resolve this issue through finding Proustian salvation through art, namely by listening to the radio ("I let the melody shine/let it cleanse my mind/I feel free now"), yet such an escape proves illusory. Their ultimate conclusion: companionship provides the only consolation in such a bleak existence ("I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down"). While it's far from a perfect solution, it at least provides some comfort within a bleak existence.
From its gargantuan sound to its fantastic percussion section to Richard Ashcroft's spirited vocal line, "Bittersweet Symphony" contains just about everything needed for a 90s classic. It's undeniably the most recognizable and accessible Britpop song, but that recognition doesn't lead to over saturation. It's a song whose acclaim is warranted in spite of its legal trials. It's the highest ranking Britpop song on this list for one key reason: it's a 90s song praised outside of that decade that has earned its reputation.
From its gargantuan sound to its fantastic percussion section to Richard Ashcroft's spirited vocal line, "Bittersweet Symphony" contains just about everything needed for a 90s classic. It's undeniably the most recognizable and accessible Britpop song, but that recognition doesn't lead to over saturation. It's a song whose acclaim is warranted in spite of its legal trials. It's the highest ranking Britpop song on this list for one key reason: it's a 90s song praised outside of that decade that has earned its reputation.
13. "All Apologies" - Nirvana
If one has read all the way through this list, one might have noticed a strain of comments and criticisms that suggest I do not like Nirvana very much. Such inferences are accurate: of the four main grunge groups, I find Nirvana the most overpraised, corrosive, and overrated, as well as the least talented. Were it not for Kurt Cobain's death in 1994, I seriously doubt Nirvana would be considered one of the greatest rock bands of the decade. Let's face it: Mudhoney, Mother Love Bone, and Soundgarden created the grunge aesthetic long before Nirvana's Nevermind broke. Plus, Kurt Cobain himself admitted that the loud-soft dynamic of their songs was taken from the Pixies. There's nothing intrinsically innovative to Nirvana's music. Not to mention, I cannot stand Nirvana's 1993 album, In Utero: a collection of abrasive, discordant tunes loaded with half-hearted references to C-list authors. There's hardly a tune on the album I like, with even the singles only approaching the average level at best ("Heart-Shaped Box") and loathsome levels at worst ("Rape Me").
With one key exception.
"All Apologies," In Utero's final track, is a song difficult to interpret as anything other than the creator's suicide note. Much like Johnny Cash's "Hurt," Tupac Shakur's "Hail Mary," or Layne Staley's "Nutshell," "All Apologies" functions as an effective epitaph for Kurt Cobain and his short but powerful impact on the perception of rock music. Sure, Cobain might not have been the innovator of the grunge movement, but he was the figure who developed the grunge scene's mystique and defining philosophy: emotional authenticity and artistic autonomy above all else, even life, limb, and love. The song ends Nirvana's studio album output on the bleakest note possible, practically presaging the events of the following year, its electric breakdown and haunting channels of feedback offering a sense of decay unlike any other grunge song before or since.
The instrumentation of "All Apologies" is the most appropriately arranged on the In Utero album. While tracks like "Tourette's" and "Serve the Servants" focused too heavily on distortion and pretentious dissonance, "All Apologies" holds its electric guitar tones at bay, only letting them sink in when the emotions of the song demand it. But, when they finally do kick in, the effect is wholly disheartening: the distorted sludge quickly consumes the listener, drowning him or her in the depressing aesthetic of the music. Dave Grohl's simple but effective drum lines serve as the perfect kicking points for Nirvana's most titanic chorus. Most important of all is the cello line, played by Kera Schaley; its acoustic churn perfectly complements the howl of Kurt Cobain's guitar, giving the song a more robust timbre.
Lyrically, "All Apologies" pares down the barrage of apophenia and tepid allusions that bog down the rest of In Utero to the album's blunt message: f*** you. In Utero frames itself as a rejection of the critical and popular appraisal of Nirvana's previous effort, Nevermind; Cobain designed the album with an utter lack of melody and traditional song structure so as to intentionally alienate his audience. From the first line on, the intention is clear: "what else should I be?/All apologies." Never once is the word "apology" used sincerely. Come the chorus, Cobain establishes his emotions more firmly: "in the sun, in the sun/I feel as one/in the sun, in the sun/Married, buried." As I interpret the song, the sun is Cobain's depiction of fame itself. While he is able to subsume himself into a persona and lifestyle consistent with his level of fame, said fame is both binding and claustrophobic, choking out any sense of life or creativity. The stresses of reputation cause Cobain to lose faith in practically everything, with even the "aqua seafoam" of the love goddess, Aphrodite, becoming "shame"-ful.
While Cobain's croaking vocal style grates on me 90% of the time, I can't help but find every second of his performance here genuine. "All Apologies" is the most direct and sincere he ever sounded, and it's the one point in the group's entire history that the past twenty-three years of music have wholly validated. It's got their best guitar riff, their best chorus, and most definitely, their best outro. Sadly, the agony the song expresses proved too much for Kurt Cobain himself. Just as "Smells Like Teen Spirit" brought grunge and alternative rock into the mainstream, Kurt Cobain's suicide sent popular perception of rock music into a tailspin. For a moment, rock came to a halt, as an icon had disappeared. To this day, thousands of teens consider Nirvana a touchstone of rock music sincerity and authenticity. Though I disagree with the extent of Nirvana's legacy on a musical level, their cultural impact cannot be understated. "All Apologies" is thus the epitaph of an era in which grunge was the undisputed king of popular rock: an appropriate ending to one of the most important movements of the decade.
Lyrically, "All Apologies" pares down the barrage of apophenia and tepid allusions that bog down the rest of In Utero to the album's blunt message: f*** you. In Utero frames itself as a rejection of the critical and popular appraisal of Nirvana's previous effort, Nevermind; Cobain designed the album with an utter lack of melody and traditional song structure so as to intentionally alienate his audience. From the first line on, the intention is clear: "what else should I be?/All apologies." Never once is the word "apology" used sincerely. Come the chorus, Cobain establishes his emotions more firmly: "in the sun, in the sun/I feel as one/in the sun, in the sun/Married, buried." As I interpret the song, the sun is Cobain's depiction of fame itself. While he is able to subsume himself into a persona and lifestyle consistent with his level of fame, said fame is both binding and claustrophobic, choking out any sense of life or creativity. The stresses of reputation cause Cobain to lose faith in practically everything, with even the "aqua seafoam" of the love goddess, Aphrodite, becoming "shame"-ful.
While Cobain's croaking vocal style grates on me 90% of the time, I can't help but find every second of his performance here genuine. "All Apologies" is the most direct and sincere he ever sounded, and it's the one point in the group's entire history that the past twenty-three years of music have wholly validated. It's got their best guitar riff, their best chorus, and most definitely, their best outro. Sadly, the agony the song expresses proved too much for Kurt Cobain himself. Just as "Smells Like Teen Spirit" brought grunge and alternative rock into the mainstream, Kurt Cobain's suicide sent popular perception of rock music into a tailspin. For a moment, rock came to a halt, as an icon had disappeared. To this day, thousands of teens consider Nirvana a touchstone of rock music sincerity and authenticity. Though I disagree with the extent of Nirvana's legacy on a musical level, their cultural impact cannot be understated. "All Apologies" is thus the epitaph of an era in which grunge was the undisputed king of popular rock: an appropriate ending to one of the most important movements of the decade.
12. "Loser" - Beck
If one needed to point to a single song to sum up the entire musical culture of the 1990s, "Loser" would probably be a good choice. Alternative rock guitar riff, rapping, trip-hop beats, art pop sitar influences, slacker aesthetic, and almost meaningless lyrics: Beck includes pretty much every major trope of 90s music into one song. While "Loser" is probably not Beck's best song - that's probably "Devil's Haircut" - it is his most identifiable and iconic. Furthermore, its summing up the attitude of its era warrants its inclusion on a list of this nature, which seeks to create an overall picture of the 1990s at its best. Not to mention, even though it is Beck's most overplayed song, its quality still shines through. Just ask: do you know anyone who hates this song?
Pretty much all of "Loser" can be summed up in the opening guitar lick, perhaps the most iconic moment of slide guitar in the 90s musical canon. The octave leap reminds the listener of bass lines from both the Madchester dance scene of groups like the Happy Mondays to the bass lines of James Jamerson on early Motown recordings. Yet no sooner does the riff build up to its melodic peak than does it immediately descend into a pull-off, as if the song is simply giving up. Indeed, when Beck plays this riff live, he intentionally slacks off and diverts his attention to alternating guitar styles and the rapped verses. Such a slacker approach befits a song of "Loser"'s style: the song's internal narrator doesn't care, so why should the composer? That being said, Beck does not slack off in terms of layering the song's other musical elements, from his precise drum-machine work to the pulsating backing bass to the otherworldly sitar work during the verses. Through its varying styles and sounds, "Loser" seeks to be both alien and familiar, both tight and loose, both unfocused and precise. The song's ability to reconcile these differing attitudes in its musical language makes it one of the best pop tunes of its era.
Lyrically, "Loser" is essentially meaningless: much like Elton John's "Take Me to the Pilot" or Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf," the song's individual verses are practically random. However, unlike both of those songs, "Loser" definitely communicates a clear attitude: our narrator is the standard 90s artiste, committed to abstracting meaning from the basest and most basic of observations. What non-pretentious person would draw attention to opinions such as "I'm insane to complain about a shotgun wedding and a stain on my shirt." Such juxtapositions are practically incoherent. Indeed, the verses are practically a Finnegan's Wake of intentional incoherence. The key is the chorus, the satirical punchline for the entire song: "Soy un peredor/I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me?" As I see it, Beck presents "Loser" as a satirical attack upon his 90s alternative contemporaries who didn't actually know what they were doing in musical or artistic terms; while Beck devoted time to practicing his musical craft and accumulating a large database of influences, many other composers within the indie rock scene simply listened to one Sonic Youth record and decided to record discordant, self-loathing gibberish for its own sake. With so many suicide-fetishizing musicians around him, Beck seems to pose the challenge, "Ok, go ahead." Is such self-loathing music the product of a genuine identity crisis, or is it the mere product of a desire to feel special or self-important?
Unfortunately for the mainstream perception of 90s alternative rock, all too many listeners were not in on the joke. Fortunately, the money such surface fans pumped into Beck's bank account allowed Beck to continue making albums that would re-define the sound of 90s alternative rock. Plus, Beck, unlike other 90s alternative rockers who grew successful out of a single that was taken out of context (see Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and Radiohead's "Creep"), never truly fell out of love with "Loser." While he tired of the song for a brief period in the late 90s-early 00s, he has returned the song to a prominent place on his setlist; the shallow fans of the song mostly abandoned him by the time the Aughts turned around, leaving him with those who genuinely care about his music and who appreciate "Loser" for its actual merits instead of purely its catchy chorus. So long as he keeps making classic albums, Beck certainly has one in this critic.
Lyrically, "Loser" is essentially meaningless: much like Elton John's "Take Me to the Pilot" or Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf," the song's individual verses are practically random. However, unlike both of those songs, "Loser" definitely communicates a clear attitude: our narrator is the standard 90s artiste, committed to abstracting meaning from the basest and most basic of observations. What non-pretentious person would draw attention to opinions such as "I'm insane to complain about a shotgun wedding and a stain on my shirt." Such juxtapositions are practically incoherent. Indeed, the verses are practically a Finnegan's Wake of intentional incoherence. The key is the chorus, the satirical punchline for the entire song: "Soy un peredor/I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me?" As I see it, Beck presents "Loser" as a satirical attack upon his 90s alternative contemporaries who didn't actually know what they were doing in musical or artistic terms; while Beck devoted time to practicing his musical craft and accumulating a large database of influences, many other composers within the indie rock scene simply listened to one Sonic Youth record and decided to record discordant, self-loathing gibberish for its own sake. With so many suicide-fetishizing musicians around him, Beck seems to pose the challenge, "Ok, go ahead." Is such self-loathing music the product of a genuine identity crisis, or is it the mere product of a desire to feel special or self-important?
Unfortunately for the mainstream perception of 90s alternative rock, all too many listeners were not in on the joke. Fortunately, the money such surface fans pumped into Beck's bank account allowed Beck to continue making albums that would re-define the sound of 90s alternative rock. Plus, Beck, unlike other 90s alternative rockers who grew successful out of a single that was taken out of context (see Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and Radiohead's "Creep"), never truly fell out of love with "Loser." While he tired of the song for a brief period in the late 90s-early 00s, he has returned the song to a prominent place on his setlist; the shallow fans of the song mostly abandoned him by the time the Aughts turned around, leaving him with those who genuinely care about his music and who appreciate "Loser" for its actual merits instead of purely its catchy chorus. So long as he keeps making classic albums, Beck certainly has one in this critic.
11. "Good Morning, Captain" - Slint
By far the scariest song on the list. One could
legitimately soundtrack a horror film with "Good Morning, Captain."
That's how chilling it is. Musically, the song is little more than two guitar
riffs, but those two riffs make the listener's skin crawl. Dread pervades
the room whenever "Good Morning, Captain" is on, as if someone is
watching, waiting, wanting. The two-note alterations bait the listener until
distorted power chords scream out in the chorus, giving the listener a new
surge of fear. All the while, the drums thud, as if emulating the creaking oars
of a ship crashing against jagged rocks.
And that's before one discusses the disturbing
lyrics. "Good Morning, Captain's" haunting poetry harkens back to the
themes of loneliness and nihilism of Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "Rime of
the Ancient Mariner" and expands upon them. A lonely ship captain, washed
up after his ship has sunk and his crew has died, finds himself before a
solitary door guarded by a young boy. As the captain pleads for help, he
recognizes the boy just as they are about to break apart, with the captain
wailing in agony, "I miss you." Who is the boy? The captain's son,
abandoned in favor of life on the sea? The captain's own innocence, destroyed
by the death of his crew? The captain's sense of morality, now meaningless in
light of the wanton destruction of human life? The ambiguity of the story only
heightens the horror.
"Good Morning, Captain" was the perfect capstone to a short
but extremely influential career from Slint. The band managed to re-define most
every element of math-rock, post-rock, and hardcore punk that had come
before; nearly every band that succeeded Slint was forced to engage with their
musical and thematic innovations. Spiderland came to be
Slint's masterpiece and one of the best albums of the 1990s, and "Good
Morning, Captain" is its final track. These words, in effect, were the
last major statement the band had to make to their audience. Applying the
themes of the song to the band itself, were Slint calling out to their own
aspirations as their career came to an end? This may not have been their
artistic intention, but I don't doubt a band as forward-minded and intelligent
as Slint would have failed to anticipate such interpretations. More
importantly, while the first few songs of Spiderland focused purely
on psychological disturbances, the loud final chorus of "Good Morning,
Captain" brings those fears into the physical, placing the listener into
the captain's seat as he is tossed across the sea and fades away into the
darkness. It's a perfect album ender for a nearly perfect album. It's one of
the most ominous songs ever written, and it's a perfect predecessor to the top
ten songs of the decade.
