70. "Song 2" - Blur
I genuinely hate putting "Song 2" as the only Blur song on this list, as it is the song least indicative of their overall style and place in the Britpop canon. It's not Blur's best song ("The Universal" or "For Tomorrow"), the most culturally transformative ("Girls and Boys") or even my favorite Blur song ("This Is a Low"). However, I must ask myself what Blur song had the largest impact on the soundscape of the 90s. While "Girls and Boys" might have been one of the defining songs of Britpop for the British charts, "Song 2" was the song that announced the power of British pop wit to the rest of the world. Blur's biggest international hit, "Song 2" is the greatest satire of grunge of the 90s and the greatest piece of musical satire the decade had to offer.
As wonderful a genre as grunge is (as I shall elaborate upon later in the list), its sheer omnipresence throughout the 90s was undoubtedly tiring. Even worse, the genre, as with most others, became chock-full of posers emulating the dark sounds of grunge while understanding nothing of the genre's themes or origins. Some of the weaker late grunge groups - Bush, Puddle of Mudd, and the Exies, to name a few - would go on to pioneer the musical wasteland that is post-grunge: the most musically stagnant genre in contemporary music history. We would not have had the horrors Nickelback, Creed, or 3 Doors Down without the faux-grunge bands of the late 90s. Thus, it fell to Blur, a Britpop band not associated with grunge in any way, to utterly belittle the stagnancy of American rock in "Song 2," a song in which all of false grunge is distilled into two syllables: "woo hoo."
What's great about "Song 2" is the depth of Blur's understanding of grunge. Consider the opening guitar riff, a clear parody of Nirvana's overplayed "Smells Like Teen Spirit." The reason "Smells Like Teen Spirit" resonates with so many is not the lyrics, the general aesthetic, or the music itself. Rather, it's the sense of urgency that emerges when Cobain shifts from a clean guitar tone to a distorted one. "Song 2" not only captures this sense of urgency better, what with its alteration between on-beat strums and syncopated strums, but it goes even further. Graham Coxon's main guitar line keeps a steady overtone of Ab, a tone that's somewhat grating on the ear due to its constant repetition and occasional dissonance with the rest of the chords. Yet the pitch ultimately centers the listener's attention, revealing just how monotonous grunge at its worst can be. All the while, the lyrics are utterly inconsequential, making slight nods to the "never mind" attitude that permeated grunge through the incorporation of small talk: "pleased to meet 'cha" et. al.
But, in spite of this biting criticism, "Song 2" manages to retain a level of extreme fun absent from most grunge. The percussion line effectively uses every drum on the kit during the verses before transitioning into a full-blown Keith Moon inspired blowout in the chorus. The snidely vocals of Damon Albarn are oddly seductive, in spite of their crudeness; in essence, Albarn invented and perfected Ke$ha's schtick before she even started to ruin music in the 2010s. The tempo is perfect for head banging, and one can't come up with a more delightfully stupid chorus than "woo hoo!"
While it's to Blur's disadvantage that "Song 2" has managed to overshadow the rest of their excellent catalogue in the popular conscience, "Song 2" is a spectacular song in its own right. Blur remembers when rock and roll could be all fun and games while reminding audiences just what they liked about the grunge aesthetic. "Song 2" is the perfect marriage of musical tone and lyrical tone to produce one of the most liberating songs of the decade. A standout track from a standout band.
As wonderful a genre as grunge is (as I shall elaborate upon later in the list), its sheer omnipresence throughout the 90s was undoubtedly tiring. Even worse, the genre, as with most others, became chock-full of posers emulating the dark sounds of grunge while understanding nothing of the genre's themes or origins. Some of the weaker late grunge groups - Bush, Puddle of Mudd, and the Exies, to name a few - would go on to pioneer the musical wasteland that is post-grunge: the most musically stagnant genre in contemporary music history. We would not have had the horrors Nickelback, Creed, or 3 Doors Down without the faux-grunge bands of the late 90s. Thus, it fell to Blur, a Britpop band not associated with grunge in any way, to utterly belittle the stagnancy of American rock in "Song 2," a song in which all of false grunge is distilled into two syllables: "woo hoo."
What's great about "Song 2" is the depth of Blur's understanding of grunge. Consider the opening guitar riff, a clear parody of Nirvana's overplayed "Smells Like Teen Spirit." The reason "Smells Like Teen Spirit" resonates with so many is not the lyrics, the general aesthetic, or the music itself. Rather, it's the sense of urgency that emerges when Cobain shifts from a clean guitar tone to a distorted one. "Song 2" not only captures this sense of urgency better, what with its alteration between on-beat strums and syncopated strums, but it goes even further. Graham Coxon's main guitar line keeps a steady overtone of Ab, a tone that's somewhat grating on the ear due to its constant repetition and occasional dissonance with the rest of the chords. Yet the pitch ultimately centers the listener's attention, revealing just how monotonous grunge at its worst can be. All the while, the lyrics are utterly inconsequential, making slight nods to the "never mind" attitude that permeated grunge through the incorporation of small talk: "pleased to meet 'cha" et. al.
But, in spite of this biting criticism, "Song 2" manages to retain a level of extreme fun absent from most grunge. The percussion line effectively uses every drum on the kit during the verses before transitioning into a full-blown Keith Moon inspired blowout in the chorus. The snidely vocals of Damon Albarn are oddly seductive, in spite of their crudeness; in essence, Albarn invented and perfected Ke$ha's schtick before she even started to ruin music in the 2010s. The tempo is perfect for head banging, and one can't come up with a more delightfully stupid chorus than "woo hoo!"
While it's to Blur's disadvantage that "Song 2" has managed to overshadow the rest of their excellent catalogue in the popular conscience, "Song 2" is a spectacular song in its own right. Blur remembers when rock and roll could be all fun and games while reminding audiences just what they liked about the grunge aesthetic. "Song 2" is the perfect marriage of musical tone and lyrical tone to produce one of the most liberating songs of the decade. A standout track from a standout band.
69. "Under the Bridge" - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Red Hot Chili Peppers: you love 'em or you hate 'em. Unless you happen to be me, who honestly doesn't care about this band enough to either love them or hate them. Let's look at the bad. I think the Red Hot Chili Peppers' "influence" and "uniqueness" is practically non-existent, namely because Mother's Finest and Gang of Four beat them to the funk-rock punch and Faith No More wrote a better funk-rap song than the Red Hot Chili Peppers ever did with 1989's "Epic." I think Anthony Kiedis is a mediocre lyricist and an even worse singer. None of their albums are particularly cohesive or compelling, and their over-sexed image far overstates the appeal of their actual music. Now, the good. Flea is one of the best bassists rock has ever seen. John Frusciante is an incredibly underrated guitarist and musician. While no single one of the Red Hot Chili Peppers' songs is the best funk rock has to offer, as a whole, they offer a more consistently good output than most of their contemporaries. And "Under the Bridge" is one of the best songs of the 90s.
Yes, "Under the Bridge" is an overplayed staple of alternative rock radio. Yes, "Under the Bridge" contains the grammatically inept lyric: "And she kisses me windy." However, what "Under the Bridge" lacks in raw poetry, it makes up for in pure pathos. Prior to "Under the Bridge," the Red Hot Chili Peppers showed hardly any songwriting or emotional range. Most of their songs were about sex and nothing more. "Under the Bridge," however, tells a very different story. At first glance, "Under the Bridge" seems to be a simple ode to the narrator's home of Los Angeles, the city that is able to speak to him when he is without human companionship. However, this narrative soon spins on its head when the chorus kicks in, revealing that, for all his love of the city, the narrator is "under the bridge" shooting up heroin. The only comfort his city truly provides is chemical dependency.
The entire song hinges on the success of this volta, and the musical elements line up accordingly. John Frusciante's fantastic guitar grounds the entire song, using a mix of single picking and broad strums to create a very natural melodic line. Though simple to play on paper, the guitar part belies the complexity of Frusciante's tone; so much as the slightest bend of the strings can distort the sound beyond recognition. As the lyrics turn, however, Frusciante boosts the distortion and infuses a dash of psychedelia to enhance the "druggy" aesthetic. Chad Smith's drumming gets all the more vicious, resounding with crashing timpanis, all while Flea's threatening bass looms in the back. A heavenly choir emerges, as if judging the hapless narrator for his foolishness. The entire song supports the lyrics.
"Under the Bridge" combines intense musicality - Frusciante's guitar being the standout instrument - with a compelling story to produce one of the finest alternative rock songs of the decade. Being such a radical departure from the Red Hot Chili Peppers' signature sound, it's no wonder critics and rock fans alike gave it so much attention. No other rock band has made the transition to rock ballads this effortless; indeed, when Faith No More did so, they wrote ballads in a wholly mocking tone. Red Hot Chili Peppers simply let the music take them where they needed to go, and they became rock superstars. While none of their follow-ups ever came close to the brilliance of "Under the Bridge," the original hit remains a standout of 90s alt rock radio. It's a classic for a reason.
The entire song hinges on the success of this volta, and the musical elements line up accordingly. John Frusciante's fantastic guitar grounds the entire song, using a mix of single picking and broad strums to create a very natural melodic line. Though simple to play on paper, the guitar part belies the complexity of Frusciante's tone; so much as the slightest bend of the strings can distort the sound beyond recognition. As the lyrics turn, however, Frusciante boosts the distortion and infuses a dash of psychedelia to enhance the "druggy" aesthetic. Chad Smith's drumming gets all the more vicious, resounding with crashing timpanis, all while Flea's threatening bass looms in the back. A heavenly choir emerges, as if judging the hapless narrator for his foolishness. The entire song supports the lyrics.
"Under the Bridge" combines intense musicality - Frusciante's guitar being the standout instrument - with a compelling story to produce one of the finest alternative rock songs of the decade. Being such a radical departure from the Red Hot Chili Peppers' signature sound, it's no wonder critics and rock fans alike gave it so much attention. No other rock band has made the transition to rock ballads this effortless; indeed, when Faith No More did so, they wrote ballads in a wholly mocking tone. Red Hot Chili Peppers simply let the music take them where they needed to go, and they became rock superstars. While none of their follow-ups ever came close to the brilliance of "Under the Bridge," the original hit remains a standout of 90s alt rock radio. It's a classic for a reason.
68. "My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)" - En Vogue
Songs about revenge fantasies are always interesting; they end up revealing quite a bit more about the performer than the target of the performer's anger. Near inevitably, the target was a cheater, a liar, or something else of a stereotypical nature. The singer, however, can often end up looking deranged in his/her response. Lily Allen's "Smile" has a clearly sadistic narrator, while Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats" has a narrator who is outright psychotic. But I think my favorite revenge fantasy song is En Vogue's "My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)" - in which a girl gathers all of her best friends and tells off her man to his face in public. New jack swing never sounded so cold.
En Vogue is one of the best studio-created groups of the 90s. Formed essentially by committee, En Vogue was an attempt by Denzil Foster and Thomas McElroy - two then-popular producers who have since fallen out of critical favor - to recapture the magic of the Phil Spector-produced girl groups of the 1960s. Unfortunately, the image of En Vogue was alarmingly sexist, what with the girls being chosen for looks as well as singing ability; the 90s were unable to move past the moral quandaries of the 60s. However, En Vogue's musical skill is undeniable. The vocals on all their songs click, and nowhere do they sound better than on "My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)." Dawn Robinson in particular shows off an impressive range, using her mezzo range to put any naysayers of En Vogue's aesthetic to shame. The harmonies are crisp and trim, using the minor third to simultaneously add sexual allure and biting cynicism.
More impressive still is the implicit story in "My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)." Lead singer Maxine Jones relates a narrative similar to Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive," recalling how her man disgraced her and then came crawling back. Then, in the middle of the verse, Dawn Robinson, playing the role of the concerned best friend, roars in with aggressive insults directed at the man's moral worth. Yet at no point does the song turn into simple man-shaming: En Vogue suggests, "maybe next time you'll give your woman a little respect." However, as far as Maxine is concerned, this bridge has been broken. It's a complete break-up put into the best possible narrative terms.
The musical elements of "My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)" are crisp and on-point. The sample of James Brown's classic "The Payback" creates a monstrous beat, emphasized by sharp synth stabs and a varied percussion section. No other new jack swing song ever incorporated flute so well as "My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)," and no pop song since has understood the flute's value to the same extent. My personal favorite element of the musical structure, though, is the boogie boogie breakdown at the end of the bridge: for a brief moment, En Vogue completely captures the spirit of the Andrews Sisters and delivers some of the best close harmony of the decade. It's a nice little throwback that creates a great conversation between musical eras.
"My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)" might not have been the absolute best R&B single of the 90s, but it's certainly one of the most memorable. The lyrics are quite strong; the singing is excellent, the production is superb. The combination of all the elements snaps into an infectious pop hit that can get stuck in one's head for hours. However, it's the kind of catchy tune one wants stuck in one's head. It's the only revenge fantasy in music I'd like to replay over and over again.
More impressive still is the implicit story in "My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)." Lead singer Maxine Jones relates a narrative similar to Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive," recalling how her man disgraced her and then came crawling back. Then, in the middle of the verse, Dawn Robinson, playing the role of the concerned best friend, roars in with aggressive insults directed at the man's moral worth. Yet at no point does the song turn into simple man-shaming: En Vogue suggests, "maybe next time you'll give your woman a little respect." However, as far as Maxine is concerned, this bridge has been broken. It's a complete break-up put into the best possible narrative terms.
The musical elements of "My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)" are crisp and on-point. The sample of James Brown's classic "The Payback" creates a monstrous beat, emphasized by sharp synth stabs and a varied percussion section. No other new jack swing song ever incorporated flute so well as "My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)," and no pop song since has understood the flute's value to the same extent. My personal favorite element of the musical structure, though, is the boogie boogie breakdown at the end of the bridge: for a brief moment, En Vogue completely captures the spirit of the Andrews Sisters and delivers some of the best close harmony of the decade. It's a nice little throwback that creates a great conversation between musical eras.
"My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)" might not have been the absolute best R&B single of the 90s, but it's certainly one of the most memorable. The lyrics are quite strong; the singing is excellent, the production is superb. The combination of all the elements snaps into an infectious pop hit that can get stuck in one's head for hours. However, it's the kind of catchy tune one wants stuck in one's head. It's the only revenge fantasy in music I'd like to replay over and over again.
67. "I Ain't Mad at Cha" - 2pac
2pac is one of only four artists on this list to have more than one song in the top 100. This isn't to say 2pac was necessarily the best rapper of the 90s, but he was the rapper who had the most range. Em cees to this day praise the intricate rhythms of Tupac's raps, raps that few modern day em cees can replicate. 2pac had everything: speed, flow, cadence, character, musicianship. Even more important, Tupac had a very dynamic emotional range, shifting from the party-loving 2pac of "I Get Around" to the angry-as-hell 2pac of "Hit 'Em Up" to the heartbreaking 2pac of "Dear Mama" and "Brenda's Got a Baby." "I Ain't Mad at Cha" falls into this third category. Granted, it is more of a favorite than a definitive "best 2pac song"; however, I do think the musical elements of "I Ain't Mad at Cha" are sharper than those on most of 2pac's other great personal tracks. It's a poignant track with spectacular production and, most important, spectacular rapping.
Each verse of "I Ain't Mad at Cha" tells a different story, with 2pac relating the story from three separate points in his life. In the first verse, 2pac takes on the character of a gangster speaking to a friend who has "gone legitimate." The entire verse has a tone of arrogance and naiveté: when 2pac declares, "Oh, you a Muslim now? No more dope game?,"it's practically a challenge to his friend. While he asserts that "he ain't mad" at his friend for leaving him alone in the game, there's a tone of disappointment, as if hustling will no longer have its fun now that his friend is avoiding it. There's a feeling of petulance and ignorance, as if 2pac is an upstart gangster who doesn't understand the true penalties of the life he's leading.
Transition to the second verse, and things change dramatically. This time, the verse is addressed to a girl with whom 2pac has fallen in love. The "game" has caught up to 2pac, and he's going to jail for his crimes. The chief sentiment is regret, as 2pac "reminisce[s] on all the times [they] shared" in the past. Oddly enough, the rage in this verse seems to be directed towards 2pac himself, as he realizes that he needs jail to teach him the harsh realities of street life. Though he made a mistake in the past, his punishment is serving its purpose. Thus, when he gets free, he can be the proper source of emotional support that any good partner should be. The third verse reveals this actualized 2pac, now a dominant rapper who has turned his back on the life of crime. Thus, when people accuse him of lacking street cred, he merely shrugs off the insult, having learned "the hard way." He cannot be mad at his former friends, as they have yet to learn the cruelties of the world.
"I Aint Mad at Cha" is also a masterpiece of flow and delivery. 2pac might not have had as strong a flow as his chief rival, the Notorious B.I.G., but he's still in the top tier of rhythmic rappers. From verse to verse, 2pac alters his style, adding in syncopations and quadrupling his meter. Each of his inflections pops, and his diction is spectacular. The echoes emphasize just the right words, almost in the fashion of rap pioneers Run-DMC. Unlike Run-DMC, 2pac uses a very somber tone, but he never lets his melancholy overwhelm his raw technique.
The beat: spectacular. Daz Dillinger, the same man who produced the no. 80 entry, "Gin and Juice," outdoes himself again with a sample of DeBarge's "Stay with Me." While the original song is one of the worst songs ever to come out of Motown during the 1980s, the new beat is a neo-soul-inspired classic that echoes "I Ain't Mad at Cha"'s lyrical themes of reflection and temporality. Just as important is the vocal contribution of soul singer Danny Boy, whose riffs and chorus hearken back to the soul classics of the early 1970s. It's a lush production that only enhances 2pac's raps.
2pac's legacy is unimpeachable. "I Ain't Mad at Cha" isn't even his most beloved hit song, though it certainly has the right to be. We'll have to wait and see what other rap classic made the list.
Each verse of "I Ain't Mad at Cha" tells a different story, with 2pac relating the story from three separate points in his life. In the first verse, 2pac takes on the character of a gangster speaking to a friend who has "gone legitimate." The entire verse has a tone of arrogance and naiveté: when 2pac declares, "Oh, you a Muslim now? No more dope game?,"it's practically a challenge to his friend. While he asserts that "he ain't mad" at his friend for leaving him alone in the game, there's a tone of disappointment, as if hustling will no longer have its fun now that his friend is avoiding it. There's a feeling of petulance and ignorance, as if 2pac is an upstart gangster who doesn't understand the true penalties of the life he's leading.
Transition to the second verse, and things change dramatically. This time, the verse is addressed to a girl with whom 2pac has fallen in love. The "game" has caught up to 2pac, and he's going to jail for his crimes. The chief sentiment is regret, as 2pac "reminisce[s] on all the times [they] shared" in the past. Oddly enough, the rage in this verse seems to be directed towards 2pac himself, as he realizes that he needs jail to teach him the harsh realities of street life. Though he made a mistake in the past, his punishment is serving its purpose. Thus, when he gets free, he can be the proper source of emotional support that any good partner should be. The third verse reveals this actualized 2pac, now a dominant rapper who has turned his back on the life of crime. Thus, when people accuse him of lacking street cred, he merely shrugs off the insult, having learned "the hard way." He cannot be mad at his former friends, as they have yet to learn the cruelties of the world.
"I Aint Mad at Cha" is also a masterpiece of flow and delivery. 2pac might not have had as strong a flow as his chief rival, the Notorious B.I.G., but he's still in the top tier of rhythmic rappers. From verse to verse, 2pac alters his style, adding in syncopations and quadrupling his meter. Each of his inflections pops, and his diction is spectacular. The echoes emphasize just the right words, almost in the fashion of rap pioneers Run-DMC. Unlike Run-DMC, 2pac uses a very somber tone, but he never lets his melancholy overwhelm his raw technique.
The beat: spectacular. Daz Dillinger, the same man who produced the no. 80 entry, "Gin and Juice," outdoes himself again with a sample of DeBarge's "Stay with Me." While the original song is one of the worst songs ever to come out of Motown during the 1980s, the new beat is a neo-soul-inspired classic that echoes "I Ain't Mad at Cha"'s lyrical themes of reflection and temporality. Just as important is the vocal contribution of soul singer Danny Boy, whose riffs and chorus hearken back to the soul classics of the early 1970s. It's a lush production that only enhances 2pac's raps.
2pac's legacy is unimpeachable. "I Ain't Mad at Cha" isn't even his most beloved hit song, though it certainly has the right to be. We'll have to wait and see what other rap classic made the list.
66. "Goddess on a Hiway" - Mercury Rev
There are no songs by the Flaming Lips on the list. Though their album, The Soft Bulletin, is often considered one of the best of the decade, I'm not a fan in the slightest. The whole album sounds too alien for me to enjoy, with harsh saw synthesizers that grate on the ear. Plus, Mercury Rev outclassed the Flaming Lips in pretty much every category. Songwriting, production, album quality, innovation: heck, Mercury Rev's landmark albums, Yerself is Steam and Deserter's Songs, both preceded The Soft Bulletin! "Holes" is already the honorable 101st entry on this list. And "Goddess on a Hiway" is a better song than anything the Flaming Lips have ever released.
"Goddess on a Hiway" is fairly repetitive, with the verses and chorus being composed of two lines each. The song's central lyrical conceit is the similarity between the word, "goddess," and the phrase "got us." It's not as lyrically brilliant as 2pac's rhymes on "I Ain't Mad at Cha" but it's certainly effective in context. As I interpret the song, the narrator introduces his girl to the freedom of the open road, in a somewhat similar fashion to Bruce Springsteen in "Born to Run." Once there, the girl embraces the spirit of freedom and actualizes her potential as an autonomous spirit. By the end of the journey, the third verse, the narrator comes to see his beloved as a being fully realized, a "goddess on a highway."
The real kicker, though, of "Goddess on a Hiway" is the music. "Goddess on a Hiway" is very much a departure from most of the other tracks on Deserter's Songs, as it does not rely on the ethereal strings and synthesizers of "Holes" and "Opus 40" to provide musical spirit. Rather, it turns to standard piano, bass, and guitar: the standard instruments for any good rock band. The bass line in particular is slick, almost sexually suggestive in its lumbering beat. The piano progression reminds me very much of Aerosmith's "Dream On" - always a plus in my book, seeing as "Dream On" is one of my absolute favorite songs. Dave Fridmann does a subtle job on the drums, emphasizing the hi-hat so to make the chorus that much more effective.
And what a chorus it is.
"Goddess on a Hiway" is in the key of F#m. The chorus is in the key of A, the III of the original key. This in itself is somewhat unorthodox; most pop songs with a modulation simply use the V of the original key. Making things even more interesting, "Goddess on a Hiway" transitions to the IV/III, AKA the VI chord of the original key. This shift into major hits with an explosive force, producing a huge adrenaline rush in the listener. Meanwhile, mandolin strings in the background of the chorus add brief suspensions towards the end of each phrase, continuing the song's forward momentum. The musical structure of the song pushes the audience towards the inevitable shift back into the F#m key. It's an immaculately executed volta that few 90s pop songs can match.
One of the finest 90s pop songs that never actually charted, "Goddess on a Hiway" is a piece of spectacular dream-pop that never got its due. It didn't even chart, despite having the excellent instrumentation and musical chops. Even worse, few indie publications gave it the attention it deserved. Sure, New Musical Express called Deserter's Songs the album of the year and later recognized "Goddess on a Hiway" as one of the 150 best songs of the past 15 years in 2011. However, it was the only publication to even mention this song. No one else - Pitchfork, Rolling Stone, Beats Per Minute, Treble - even brought up the song in their evaluations of the best songs of the 90s. It's an oversight I am not willing to make. Mercury Rev, this is a classic song that deserves to endure.
As for the misspelling of the word "highway" in the title... I have no idea...
"Goddess on a Hiway" is fairly repetitive, with the verses and chorus being composed of two lines each. The song's central lyrical conceit is the similarity between the word, "goddess," and the phrase "got us." It's not as lyrically brilliant as 2pac's rhymes on "I Ain't Mad at Cha" but it's certainly effective in context. As I interpret the song, the narrator introduces his girl to the freedom of the open road, in a somewhat similar fashion to Bruce Springsteen in "Born to Run." Once there, the girl embraces the spirit of freedom and actualizes her potential as an autonomous spirit. By the end of the journey, the third verse, the narrator comes to see his beloved as a being fully realized, a "goddess on a highway."
The real kicker, though, of "Goddess on a Hiway" is the music. "Goddess on a Hiway" is very much a departure from most of the other tracks on Deserter's Songs, as it does not rely on the ethereal strings and synthesizers of "Holes" and "Opus 40" to provide musical spirit. Rather, it turns to standard piano, bass, and guitar: the standard instruments for any good rock band. The bass line in particular is slick, almost sexually suggestive in its lumbering beat. The piano progression reminds me very much of Aerosmith's "Dream On" - always a plus in my book, seeing as "Dream On" is one of my absolute favorite songs. Dave Fridmann does a subtle job on the drums, emphasizing the hi-hat so to make the chorus that much more effective.
And what a chorus it is.
"Goddess on a Hiway" is in the key of F#m. The chorus is in the key of A, the III of the original key. This in itself is somewhat unorthodox; most pop songs with a modulation simply use the V of the original key. Making things even more interesting, "Goddess on a Hiway" transitions to the IV/III, AKA the VI chord of the original key. This shift into major hits with an explosive force, producing a huge adrenaline rush in the listener. Meanwhile, mandolin strings in the background of the chorus add brief suspensions towards the end of each phrase, continuing the song's forward momentum. The musical structure of the song pushes the audience towards the inevitable shift back into the F#m key. It's an immaculately executed volta that few 90s pop songs can match.
One of the finest 90s pop songs that never actually charted, "Goddess on a Hiway" is a piece of spectacular dream-pop that never got its due. It didn't even chart, despite having the excellent instrumentation and musical chops. Even worse, few indie publications gave it the attention it deserved. Sure, New Musical Express called Deserter's Songs the album of the year and later recognized "Goddess on a Hiway" as one of the 150 best songs of the past 15 years in 2011. However, it was the only publication to even mention this song. No one else - Pitchfork, Rolling Stone, Beats Per Minute, Treble - even brought up the song in their evaluations of the best songs of the 90s. It's an oversight I am not willing to make. Mercury Rev, this is a classic song that deserves to endure.
As for the misspelling of the word "highway" in the title... I have no idea...
65. "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" - Public Enemy
Public Enemy is the greatest rap band, greatest rap artist, greatest rap thing ever, and I will hear no argument to the contrary. Public Enemy fused the hard-hitting sounds of Run-DMC with the flow of Rakim with the cultural commentary of Melle Mel. They not only predated N.W.A. but also surpassed them on every level - lyrical dexterity, sonic innovation, album quality, studio output, flow, and energy. I ask: where is their movie? It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back is undoubtedly the finest rap record ever made, and it will probably never be surpassed. What's more: 1990's Fear of a Black Planet has a good claim on the number two spot. And Fear of A Black Planet's first track, "Brothers Gonna Work It Out," is as good an album opener as any rap group has ever written.
Terminator X, Public Enemy's DJ extraordinaire, and the Bomb Squad, rap's greatest production team, start off "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" with a beat on par with other legendary Public Enemy tunes like "Bring the Noise," "Rebel Without a Pause," and "Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos." Starting off with some brutal record scratches from Terminator X, the Bomb Squad layers in the synthesizer of Melvin Bliss's "Synthetic Substitution," the percussion of James Brown's "Get Up, Get Into It, Get Involved," the bass of George Clinton's "Atomic Dog," and the guitar solo from Prince's "Let's Go Crazy" to create one of their most intricate beats. As is the case most great rap songs, the beat works to bring various eras of African-American music into harmony with one another. Even better, "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" quotes from Public Enemy's own songs, including the classics "Rebel Without a Pause," "Don't Believe the Hype" and "Bring the Noise" - the three best dance tracks on It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back. It's a beat that never fails to pump up the listener, priming the listener for Chuck D's spectacular rhymes.
As with most Public Enemy songs, "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" centers around Public Enemy's Afrocentric philosophy. Chuck D spits out his rhymes with a vitriol unmatchable in hip-hop, using each verse to set up the next. The first verse functions mostly to hype up the audience; of course, Flavor Flav's additions make the bars that much more energetic. In the second, Chuck D dares black youths to take up their rightful roles in society. My personal favorite line in the whole track is "Histories shouldn't be a mystery/Our story's real history/Not his story." It's a powerful indictment of Winston Churchill's quote that "history is written by the victors." In three brief lines, Public Enemy gives a defiant rebuttal: the black man will not sit back and let those who have previously enjoyed cultural dominance to trample upon their culture. They will not let traditional Western narratives trump their own equally valuable stories. But, even after a line this good, Chuck D never relents, flipping quotes from Martin Luther King Jr. to Abraham Lincoln. "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" is a tour de force of political rap.
Equally important to note is "Brothers Gonna Work It Out"'s function on its album. The true start of Fear of a Black Planet, "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" establishes a sense of inevitability. In a manner similar to Marx's Communist Manifesto, "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" boldly claims that the black revolution it speaks of is inevitable. Even if Public Enemy's song goes unheard in its own time, in political hindsight, it will be seen as a masterpiece. Then, consider the final track on the album: "Fight the Power." While "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" speaks to the future, "Fight the Power" speaks to the present. It is the call to arms that "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" says will happen. In essence, "Fight the Power" shows that the present is the living future itself, and the revolution must be ongoing.
(For the record, had it not been first released as a single in 1989, "Fight the Power" would have been the Public Enemy song on this list. Furthermore, it would have been number one on this list.)
Though "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" isn't as good as most of the tracks on It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back or the disqualified "Fight the Power," it's still a landmark hip-hop track. It's just another instance of Public Enemy being the best rap act in history, and it's one killer song for any listener to appreciate. If, for some reason, you haven't had the opportunity to enjoy this band's lyrical and musical majesty, buy It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back or Fear of A Black Planet right now. If you're short on cash, just listen to "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" to hear just how much you are missing.
Terminator X, Public Enemy's DJ extraordinaire, and the Bomb Squad, rap's greatest production team, start off "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" with a beat on par with other legendary Public Enemy tunes like "Bring the Noise," "Rebel Without a Pause," and "Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos." Starting off with some brutal record scratches from Terminator X, the Bomb Squad layers in the synthesizer of Melvin Bliss's "Synthetic Substitution," the percussion of James Brown's "Get Up, Get Into It, Get Involved," the bass of George Clinton's "Atomic Dog," and the guitar solo from Prince's "Let's Go Crazy" to create one of their most intricate beats. As is the case most great rap songs, the beat works to bring various eras of African-American music into harmony with one another. Even better, "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" quotes from Public Enemy's own songs, including the classics "Rebel Without a Pause," "Don't Believe the Hype" and "Bring the Noise" - the three best dance tracks on It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back. It's a beat that never fails to pump up the listener, priming the listener for Chuck D's spectacular rhymes.
As with most Public Enemy songs, "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" centers around Public Enemy's Afrocentric philosophy. Chuck D spits out his rhymes with a vitriol unmatchable in hip-hop, using each verse to set up the next. The first verse functions mostly to hype up the audience; of course, Flavor Flav's additions make the bars that much more energetic. In the second, Chuck D dares black youths to take up their rightful roles in society. My personal favorite line in the whole track is "Histories shouldn't be a mystery/Our story's real history/Not his story." It's a powerful indictment of Winston Churchill's quote that "history is written by the victors." In three brief lines, Public Enemy gives a defiant rebuttal: the black man will not sit back and let those who have previously enjoyed cultural dominance to trample upon their culture. They will not let traditional Western narratives trump their own equally valuable stories. But, even after a line this good, Chuck D never relents, flipping quotes from Martin Luther King Jr. to Abraham Lincoln. "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" is a tour de force of political rap.
Equally important to note is "Brothers Gonna Work It Out"'s function on its album. The true start of Fear of a Black Planet, "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" establishes a sense of inevitability. In a manner similar to Marx's Communist Manifesto, "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" boldly claims that the black revolution it speaks of is inevitable. Even if Public Enemy's song goes unheard in its own time, in political hindsight, it will be seen as a masterpiece. Then, consider the final track on the album: "Fight the Power." While "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" speaks to the future, "Fight the Power" speaks to the present. It is the call to arms that "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" says will happen. In essence, "Fight the Power" shows that the present is the living future itself, and the revolution must be ongoing.
(For the record, had it not been first released as a single in 1989, "Fight the Power" would have been the Public Enemy song on this list. Furthermore, it would have been number one on this list.)
Though "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" isn't as good as most of the tracks on It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back or the disqualified "Fight the Power," it's still a landmark hip-hop track. It's just another instance of Public Enemy being the best rap act in history, and it's one killer song for any listener to appreciate. If, for some reason, you haven't had the opportunity to enjoy this band's lyrical and musical majesty, buy It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back or Fear of A Black Planet right now. If you're short on cash, just listen to "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" to hear just how much you are missing.
64. "Mr. Krinkle" - Primus
One of my favorite musicians from any era is Frank Zappa, rock's most literate composer and most accomplished satirist. He made avant-garde music approachable, witty, virtuosic, and hilarious. The man was so accomplished a composer that he was one of four composers to headline the 1992 Frankfurt Music Festival, right up there with 20th century classical giants Karlheinz Stockhausen and John Cage. Zappa died in 1993, leaving behind a massive legacy of spectacular albums from the poppy, the virtuosic, to the outright absurd. With his death, though, the question was: who would be the new champion of absurd rock? While Zappa's contemporary, Don Van Vliet AKA Captain Beefheart, had some claim to the throne, a newer band snatched the title right out from under him: Primus.
Primus perfectly captured Zappa's virtuosity - what with Les Claypool being one of the best bassists to ever live - and his biting sense of humor. Primus contented themselves to sing songs about utterly stupid subject matter, subverting classic rock and roll's conventions by enhancing the musical dialogue while completely draining away the lyrical dialogue. Seriously, the band wrote a song called "Wynona's Big Brown Beaver" in which the beaver of the song isn't a double entendre, but an actual pet aquatic rodent. But their crowning achievement, in my eyes, is 1993's "Mr. Krinkle," one of the darkest songs in Primus's entire catalogue. Pretty much anything on the Pork Soda album is black humor gold, but "Mr. Krinkle" has an edge no other Primus song can match.
"Mr. Krinkle" starts the absurdity from the very first note; Claypool isn't playing an electric bass, but an upright bass. That being said, he plays the upright bass in a complete rock fashion, practically chopping at the strings as if with an axe. Larry LaLonde's dissonant guitar solo incorporates an intentionally uncomfortable melody, just memorable enough to leave an impression but just grating enough to put the listener off-kilter. Tim Alexander's drums build and ebb in a fashion intended to terrify the listener, with each fill coming as a shock; the only steady part of the percussion is an ominous pedal. However, amidst this musical chaos, the bass riff is steady and imposing. As the bow tears across the strings, the listener is forcefully dragged into the speakers.
While most Primus lyrics are straight-foward satire, "Mr. Krinkle" seems to have higher aspirations. Here's my interpretation. Mr. Krinkle, as suggested by his auditory-evocative name, is an elderly man who has observed a tremendous amount of change over the course of his lifetime. Now, in the waning years of his life, the last few vestiges of his life are ebbing away. The hometown sports team he loves to watch moves away. The boating industry that has kept his town's economy afloat goes under. The music he loved hearing on the radio has been replaced by a New Wave fusion of Hendrix, James Brown, and Cher. Now, as he watches everything he cherished fall to pieces, he hears a taunting voice in his head, asking the incessant question "why." Based on Les Claypool's sinister vocal, I assume this voice is either demonic or schizophrenic, taunting Krinkle with the inevitability of his own death.
Also, I cannot discuss "Mr. Krinkle" without discussing its music video, one of the most intricately choreographed and executed pieces of surrealism in MTV history. It's a morbid circus shot from an angle, fit with Siamese twins jump-roping, clowns sword fighting, a man in a metal mask on a unicycle, a hot dog salesman, a man performing the hat-switching routine from Waiting for Godot, a man whipping another guy while being carried on a litter, a woman riding a frozen tank of fish, sun and moon deities, all topped off by Les Claypool wearing a pig mask and shaking his behind into the camera. Oddly enough, though, the video fits the music perfectly. Larry LaLonde's main riff suggests the animated spirit of the circus, while Claypool's bass suggests the morbidity of the act. Framing these themes of theatrics around the previous lyrical interpretation, it appears as if Primus is maliciously mocking this character's suffering, acting as living representations of his growing insanity.
Few songs in existence are truly evil in every element of their execution. "Mr. Krinkle" is one of these rare few songs, fitting in the pantheon of Howlin' Wolf's "Back Door Man" and Suicide's "Frankie Teardrop." It's a delightfully morbid tale that uses Primus's special absurdity to make it work. It's a musical experience that pulls us right down the rabbit hole into a wonderland of psychosis.
While most Primus lyrics are straight-foward satire, "Mr. Krinkle" seems to have higher aspirations. Here's my interpretation. Mr. Krinkle, as suggested by his auditory-evocative name, is an elderly man who has observed a tremendous amount of change over the course of his lifetime. Now, in the waning years of his life, the last few vestiges of his life are ebbing away. The hometown sports team he loves to watch moves away. The boating industry that has kept his town's economy afloat goes under. The music he loved hearing on the radio has been replaced by a New Wave fusion of Hendrix, James Brown, and Cher. Now, as he watches everything he cherished fall to pieces, he hears a taunting voice in his head, asking the incessant question "why." Based on Les Claypool's sinister vocal, I assume this voice is either demonic or schizophrenic, taunting Krinkle with the inevitability of his own death.
Also, I cannot discuss "Mr. Krinkle" without discussing its music video, one of the most intricately choreographed and executed pieces of surrealism in MTV history. It's a morbid circus shot from an angle, fit with Siamese twins jump-roping, clowns sword fighting, a man in a metal mask on a unicycle, a hot dog salesman, a man performing the hat-switching routine from Waiting for Godot, a man whipping another guy while being carried on a litter, a woman riding a frozen tank of fish, sun and moon deities, all topped off by Les Claypool wearing a pig mask and shaking his behind into the camera. Oddly enough, though, the video fits the music perfectly. Larry LaLonde's main riff suggests the animated spirit of the circus, while Claypool's bass suggests the morbidity of the act. Framing these themes of theatrics around the previous lyrical interpretation, it appears as if Primus is maliciously mocking this character's suffering, acting as living representations of his growing insanity.
Few songs in existence are truly evil in every element of their execution. "Mr. Krinkle" is one of these rare few songs, fitting in the pantheon of Howlin' Wolf's "Back Door Man" and Suicide's "Frankie Teardrop." It's a delightfully morbid tale that uses Primus's special absurdity to make it work. It's a musical experience that pulls us right down the rabbit hole into a wonderland of psychosis.
63. "Ready or Not" - The Fugees
In 1997, Celine Dion won the Grammy Award for Best Album for Falling into You, quite possibly the worst record nominated that year. Three landmark alternative albums were nominated that same year, and all of them deserved the award more than Dion. While I enjoy both Beck's Odelay and the Smashing Pumpkins' Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, I would have chosen the Fugees' The Score, a masterful collection of hip-hop re-imaginings of classic 70s soul songs. The break-out hit from the album was "Killing Me Softly," a fairly straight cover of Roberta Flack's immaculate "Killing Me Softly with His Song." It's a good cover, but it's not extraordinary. The most critically respected song nowadays seems to be "Fu-gee-la," often considered the most definitive expression of the Fugees' lyrical prowess. In my opinion, though, the strongest track is the third track and final single, "Ready or Not."
Suggestion: listen to "Ready or Not" while wearing headphones. The opening wave of synthesizers passes from one ear to the next, practically bathing the listener in sound. When Lauryn Hill makes her entrance, however, she comes from both sides: studio magic at its finest. This small detail reveals the extent of the Fugees' craftsmanship: few artists since the Beatles and Black Sabbath really took care to notice what sound goes in what ear. The song's production has a very clear artistic intention, and it's that much more effective when one hears the amount of effort put into the track. When the drums enter the track later on, the snare snaps with a decisive groove, using the syncopated beat of the bass drum to emphasize the third beat of the bar.
As with most of the Fugees' songs, "Ready or Not" is framed around a cover of a classic soul song. The subject: the Delfonics' 1968 hit "Ready or Not Here I Come (Can't Hide from Love)." It's far from the zenith of the genre; the Delfonics themselves had multiple superior hits. If one factor weighs the track down, it's the excess of harmony. With multiple layers of doubled vocals and a lush strings orchestration, the somewhat threatening tone of the lyrics ends up subdued and less effective. Compare that to Lauryn Hill's version. With a mere minor-third harmony, she ends up evoking far more emotion and intention than the original song: it's just a sharper performance.
And let's not forget the rapping itself. Wyclef Jean, Lauryn Hill, and Pras all have strong verses, each showcasing their signature flow and subject matter. Wyclef discusses his life at the top of a criminal empire, using the chorus to present himself as a threatening figure; his laid-back flow suggests the ease at which he could kill his critics. Lauryn's verse takes a different approach, asserting her presence as a female rapper in a male-dominated genre. In fact, throughout the entire verse, she manages to rhyme all the words within a simple ABCD framework. Not all of her rhymes are spectacular, certainly, but her confidence is clear. Pras's verse is the worst on the track, as is typical, but even he brings something new to the table. His verse shows how the chorus applies to poorly-treated refugees, searching for some resting place from the law. In each case, the Fugees use the chorus to ground their verses. It's a fairly uncommon structure for a rap song, and it works exceedingly well.
The Fugees' music has continued to age spectacularly. In the midst of 1996, an otherwise fairly standard year, The Score managed to bring something new to hip-hop. "Ready or Not" is a breath of fresh air, revitalizing a 60s classic and turning it into a dark but thoroughly entertaining hip hop tune. It's an under-appreciated song that will likely be remembered as the Fugees' finest tune in twenty or so years. I just hope I can help more people appreciate it in the present.
Suggestion: listen to "Ready or Not" while wearing headphones. The opening wave of synthesizers passes from one ear to the next, practically bathing the listener in sound. When Lauryn Hill makes her entrance, however, she comes from both sides: studio magic at its finest. This small detail reveals the extent of the Fugees' craftsmanship: few artists since the Beatles and Black Sabbath really took care to notice what sound goes in what ear. The song's production has a very clear artistic intention, and it's that much more effective when one hears the amount of effort put into the track. When the drums enter the track later on, the snare snaps with a decisive groove, using the syncopated beat of the bass drum to emphasize the third beat of the bar.
As with most of the Fugees' songs, "Ready or Not" is framed around a cover of a classic soul song. The subject: the Delfonics' 1968 hit "Ready or Not Here I Come (Can't Hide from Love)." It's far from the zenith of the genre; the Delfonics themselves had multiple superior hits. If one factor weighs the track down, it's the excess of harmony. With multiple layers of doubled vocals and a lush strings orchestration, the somewhat threatening tone of the lyrics ends up subdued and less effective. Compare that to Lauryn Hill's version. With a mere minor-third harmony, she ends up evoking far more emotion and intention than the original song: it's just a sharper performance.
And let's not forget the rapping itself. Wyclef Jean, Lauryn Hill, and Pras all have strong verses, each showcasing their signature flow and subject matter. Wyclef discusses his life at the top of a criminal empire, using the chorus to present himself as a threatening figure; his laid-back flow suggests the ease at which he could kill his critics. Lauryn's verse takes a different approach, asserting her presence as a female rapper in a male-dominated genre. In fact, throughout the entire verse, she manages to rhyme all the words within a simple ABCD framework. Not all of her rhymes are spectacular, certainly, but her confidence is clear. Pras's verse is the worst on the track, as is typical, but even he brings something new to the table. His verse shows how the chorus applies to poorly-treated refugees, searching for some resting place from the law. In each case, the Fugees use the chorus to ground their verses. It's a fairly uncommon structure for a rap song, and it works exceedingly well.
The Fugees' music has continued to age spectacularly. In the midst of 1996, an otherwise fairly standard year, The Score managed to bring something new to hip-hop. "Ready or Not" is a breath of fresh air, revitalizing a 60s classic and turning it into a dark but thoroughly entertaining hip hop tune. It's an under-appreciated song that will likely be remembered as the Fugees' finest tune in twenty or so years. I just hope I can help more people appreciate it in the present.
62. "Waterfalls" - TLC
Seriously, there are people who hate "Waterfalls?" What?
I find it difficult to take any criticism of "Waterfalls" very seriously. Most of the criticism centers on the song's taking some lyrical motifs from Paul McCartney's underrated 80s love song, "Waterfalls." It's a pretty tender tune, and I would recommend taking a listen. However, the lyrics are admittedly scattershot and random (seriously, what's the deal with "chasing polar bears"?). TLC's song actually imbues McCartney's arbitrary metaphors with true meaning while also having far superior production, melody, social significance, and soul. It's a song so good as to become the second most popular song of 1995, beaten only by a song that will be featured later on the list. "Waterfalls" did not rely on gimmicks or marketing manipulation to get popular; it is simply one of the best written pop songs of the decade, an undeniably good track that made its way to the top of the charts.
The strongest element of "Waterfalls" is the masterful production from hip-hop producers Organized Noize. I personally love the use of the drum machine to tap out sixteenth-note triplets in order to produce the sound effect of water dripping from a tap in an urban neighborhood. The guitar chords too are aqueous, using the "wah-wah" to expert effect. The muted trumpets and other horns channel the spirit of smooth jazz, particularly of the breed used on the popular children's television series, Sesame Street. Such a choice is particularly fitting: since Sesame Street generally teaches children how to stay on the straight and narrow, "Waterfalls" updates the TV classic's warning to children for adult audiences using the same musical structure.
The vocal performances are subtly brilliant in their own way. Tionne Watkins has a voice that is very much reliant upon scraping, a technique that's not considered very healthy for the voice. That being said, the vocal texture adds an edge to the lyrics. The themes of "Waterfalls" are painful, discussing the plights of urban youth on the edge. In a way, the main melody sounds as if Watkins is crying. Rozanda Thomas's backup vocals add a gentle third, allowing each vocal to decrescendo into despair at the end of each phrase. And Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes's rap is effective; some might consider her voice annoying, but I find it perfectly serviceable. There's plenty of soul to go around, combined with a strong sense of musicality. There's even some slight overtones on the chorus; that takes some skill.
"Waterfalls" is also somewhat of a rarity in 90s pop music, as its lyrics are quite conservative. Throughout the track, TLC inveigh against gang violence and unsafe sex, relating multiple stories about the fates of those caught up in such "waterfall"-like activities. The very first line of the song is poetry in and of itself: "A lonely mother gazing out of her window/staring at a son that she just can't touch." The lyrics all capture the spirit of visual story-telling. Of course, the excellent music video for "Waterfalls" brings these images to life, but the song manages to do this all on its own. Through telling such stories, TLC insists upon the listeners following the path of the straight and narrow, always thinking before one gets caught up in a world of sin and death. Some might call the tone patronizing, but, in the hedonistic atmosphere of most 90s R&B, this song must have been quite refreshing.
Even if the only people bought the track were conservative parents hoping to lure their children onto the right path by tempting them with R&B, "Waterfalls" would still be a great track. It has everything a good pop song should have: great production, great musicality, great lyrics. Sure, it's not the most universally likable song should one be overly steadfast in one's political views, but it's a track that shows the other side of the story. In the 1990s, popular music needed figures like TLC to show the underbelly of the social change the 70s and 80s had wrought. And TLC delivered great songs time and time again, with "Waterfalls" being their greatest cultural legacy.
I find it difficult to take any criticism of "Waterfalls" very seriously. Most of the criticism centers on the song's taking some lyrical motifs from Paul McCartney's underrated 80s love song, "Waterfalls." It's a pretty tender tune, and I would recommend taking a listen. However, the lyrics are admittedly scattershot and random (seriously, what's the deal with "chasing polar bears"?). TLC's song actually imbues McCartney's arbitrary metaphors with true meaning while also having far superior production, melody, social significance, and soul. It's a song so good as to become the second most popular song of 1995, beaten only by a song that will be featured later on the list. "Waterfalls" did not rely on gimmicks or marketing manipulation to get popular; it is simply one of the best written pop songs of the decade, an undeniably good track that made its way to the top of the charts.
The strongest element of "Waterfalls" is the masterful production from hip-hop producers Organized Noize. I personally love the use of the drum machine to tap out sixteenth-note triplets in order to produce the sound effect of water dripping from a tap in an urban neighborhood. The guitar chords too are aqueous, using the "wah-wah" to expert effect. The muted trumpets and other horns channel the spirit of smooth jazz, particularly of the breed used on the popular children's television series, Sesame Street. Such a choice is particularly fitting: since Sesame Street generally teaches children how to stay on the straight and narrow, "Waterfalls" updates the TV classic's warning to children for adult audiences using the same musical structure.
The vocal performances are subtly brilliant in their own way. Tionne Watkins has a voice that is very much reliant upon scraping, a technique that's not considered very healthy for the voice. That being said, the vocal texture adds an edge to the lyrics. The themes of "Waterfalls" are painful, discussing the plights of urban youth on the edge. In a way, the main melody sounds as if Watkins is crying. Rozanda Thomas's backup vocals add a gentle third, allowing each vocal to decrescendo into despair at the end of each phrase. And Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes's rap is effective; some might consider her voice annoying, but I find it perfectly serviceable. There's plenty of soul to go around, combined with a strong sense of musicality. There's even some slight overtones on the chorus; that takes some skill.
"Waterfalls" is also somewhat of a rarity in 90s pop music, as its lyrics are quite conservative. Throughout the track, TLC inveigh against gang violence and unsafe sex, relating multiple stories about the fates of those caught up in such "waterfall"-like activities. The very first line of the song is poetry in and of itself: "A lonely mother gazing out of her window/staring at a son that she just can't touch." The lyrics all capture the spirit of visual story-telling. Of course, the excellent music video for "Waterfalls" brings these images to life, but the song manages to do this all on its own. Through telling such stories, TLC insists upon the listeners following the path of the straight and narrow, always thinking before one gets caught up in a world of sin and death. Some might call the tone patronizing, but, in the hedonistic atmosphere of most 90s R&B, this song must have been quite refreshing.
Even if the only people bought the track were conservative parents hoping to lure their children onto the right path by tempting them with R&B, "Waterfalls" would still be a great track. It has everything a good pop song should have: great production, great musicality, great lyrics. Sure, it's not the most universally likable song should one be overly steadfast in one's political views, but it's a track that shows the other side of the story. In the 1990s, popular music needed figures like TLC to show the underbelly of the social change the 70s and 80s had wrought. And TLC delivered great songs time and time again, with "Waterfalls" being their greatest cultural legacy.
61. "Here" - Pavement
Ah, Pavement: every indie rock die hard's favorite band. And, in my opinion, one of the most overrated acts of the 90s. As lyrically brilliant as Stephen Malkmus and co. are, I cannot get around the fact that their music itelf is extremely stagnant. Their lo-fi sound is practically passionless, favoring emotionally empty guitars and needless distortion. Malkmus is a genuinely bad singer, with a horrendously flat voice and the inability to use a musical phrase to his advantage. Their melodies are generally unmemorable, with no arc or tessitura of which to speak. Pavement epitomizes everything about indie rock most pop music fans and trained musicians loathe.
But "Here" is a piece of soul-bearing so scathing that even I cannot deny it a place on this list.
"Here" seems to be Pavement's self-reflection on their identity as a band. Due to their lo-fi aesthetic and lack of pop production, they could never attain the level of success of other alternative groups. Furthermore, in spite of their authenticity, few listeners came a-calling. Indeed, the only visible fan Pavement had in their initial run was Robert Christgau, the so-called "Dean of American Rock Critics," whose criticism is so haphazard and grounded in non-musical elements as to be objectively worthless. Yet "Here" halfheartedly embraces Pavement's lack of popularity in a mock-drinking anthem. Pavement seems to see their star fading just as it is coming into view, anticipating their own artistic demise on their first major album. Counter-intuitive, perhaps, but it's an effective move.
The lyrics of "Here" also present the piece as a conversational one, between Stephen Malkmus and a girl he is dating. The relationship is a tender one, in which both partners realize each others' flaws. Malkmus clearly sees his partner's poor sense of humor, yet he quickly shifts the burden onto himself with a dose of self-deprecation. A single line seems to suggest much more, an unspoken tie so strong that Malkmus would let his partner witness the collapse of his hopes and dreams. There's a trust at work in "Here," that of true love or friendship. In a sense, the song is the final shot from the film, Fight Club; perhaps this would have been a more fitting song to end the film than the Pixies' excellent "Where Is My Mind?"
As with most Pavement songs, the music itself is somewhat lackluster. The drums are particularly limp as compared to some other Pavement tracks, let alone tracks by more musically accomplished bands. The bass is also extremely repetitive. That being said, Stephen Malkmus's guitar work almost makes up for the rest of the song's musical deficiencies. During the bridge of the song, the guitar provides a beautiful descant to Malkmus's shattered vocals. The beauty of the musical line seems to suggest the companion Malkmus invokes in the lyrics. It's at once the most beautiful and fragile part of the song.
Pavement is a difficult band to discuss without dipping into pretentious Pitchfork prose, but they do have a substantial legacy in 90s music. I may not be a big fan of their music, but I have many friends who stand by the band to the bitter end. Once one's a fan, one is a fan for life. While none of their main albums appeal to me, they at least wrote one song that I think is brilliant. "Here" is a rallying cry for indie rock fans everywhere, an ode to something beautiful enduring amidst a sea of troubles. It's the ultimate set-ender in indie rock.
"Here" seems to be Pavement's self-reflection on their identity as a band. Due to their lo-fi aesthetic and lack of pop production, they could never attain the level of success of other alternative groups. Furthermore, in spite of their authenticity, few listeners came a-calling. Indeed, the only visible fan Pavement had in their initial run was Robert Christgau, the so-called "Dean of American Rock Critics," whose criticism is so haphazard and grounded in non-musical elements as to be objectively worthless. Yet "Here" halfheartedly embraces Pavement's lack of popularity in a mock-drinking anthem. Pavement seems to see their star fading just as it is coming into view, anticipating their own artistic demise on their first major album. Counter-intuitive, perhaps, but it's an effective move.
The lyrics of "Here" also present the piece as a conversational one, between Stephen Malkmus and a girl he is dating. The relationship is a tender one, in which both partners realize each others' flaws. Malkmus clearly sees his partner's poor sense of humor, yet he quickly shifts the burden onto himself with a dose of self-deprecation. A single line seems to suggest much more, an unspoken tie so strong that Malkmus would let his partner witness the collapse of his hopes and dreams. There's a trust at work in "Here," that of true love or friendship. In a sense, the song is the final shot from the film, Fight Club; perhaps this would have been a more fitting song to end the film than the Pixies' excellent "Where Is My Mind?"
As with most Pavement songs, the music itself is somewhat lackluster. The drums are particularly limp as compared to some other Pavement tracks, let alone tracks by more musically accomplished bands. The bass is also extremely repetitive. That being said, Stephen Malkmus's guitar work almost makes up for the rest of the song's musical deficiencies. During the bridge of the song, the guitar provides a beautiful descant to Malkmus's shattered vocals. The beauty of the musical line seems to suggest the companion Malkmus invokes in the lyrics. It's at once the most beautiful and fragile part of the song.
Pavement is a difficult band to discuss without dipping into pretentious Pitchfork prose, but they do have a substantial legacy in 90s music. I may not be a big fan of their music, but I have many friends who stand by the band to the bitter end. Once one's a fan, one is a fan for life. While none of their main albums appeal to me, they at least wrote one song that I think is brilliant. "Here" is a rallying cry for indie rock fans everywhere, an ode to something beautiful enduring amidst a sea of troubles. It's the ultimate set-ender in indie rock.
