791. "connection"
elastica
1994
think of the crunched-out, self-aware artiness of post-punk/divide it by busy, overwrought '90s production/something is missing?/nothing is missing!. enough. yeah, this unabashedly and shamelessly wrenches the riff from "three girl rhumba" and transplants it to a field of gaudy studio effects and sickeningly clean distortion. but it's a raucous and exhilarating ride; justine frischmann snidely sneers and snots more swagger than a cocky college coed on cocaine. you make the connections, sailor. can't you hear both karen o and romeo void? cheap imitation may be the most sincere form of flattery, but this re-contextualizes that wily wire riff and kicks it to the stratosphere. you might be post-modern if...
792. "perverted undertone"
prefuse 73
2003
whatever happened to guillermo! scott! heren!? he emerged early in the decade as indie hip-hop's equivalent to timbaland, inundating break beats with echo, reverb and flange; a funkier and less self-important DJ shadow. a track like "perverted undertone" thrives on its narcoleptic repetition and gnarled simplicity with a swelling, swirling, swallowing synth riff and muted, happy-go-lucky drums. this is music for late night designated driving; you silence your boozed, boisterous buddies with a "shut the fuck up" and a maxed-out sound system while the fading neon lights glisten to the beat.
793. "freak scene"
dinosaur jr.
1988
most of myths about '90s slackerdom arose from this ragtag crew of recalcitrant ruckus-bringin' RAWKers. j. mascis' nonchalant guitar hero pyrotechnics slam you to ground and knife you in the back - that solo is one for the ages and the masses and the records - while the half-mumbled rhymes about fuckin' up and not growin' up suffocate underneath the distortion and feedback. this is the undoubtedly the template for "grunge:" punk 'tude vs. classic rock chops. kurt cobain may still be alive strumming beat happening covers in a dank seattle coffeeshop if not for dinosaur jr.
794. "in the midnight hour"
wilson pickett
1965
oooo-wheeee wil-SON pic-KETT! pulse, pulse, thrust; pulse, pulse, thrust. woozy, bluesy, boozy horns that bluster and blare while the whiskey-breathed men glare at those ever so short skirts. ride it, ride it. this is quintessential (yep, used it aGAIN) stax/volt gritty throbbin' boppin' southern soul. it may not have the spit polish of motown or the smoothed-out silkiness of, say, sam cooke, but it reels and rolls and rollicks and repeats in on itself like a gesticulating elevator. who doesn't crave that giddy moment in the night between boring sobriety and puking, crying and/or awkward sexual politics?
795. "silence"
portishead
2008
ohmigod, stranded in public with swirling insanity and an unbecoming sense of dread. the scathing keith levene guitar lacerations and tumultuous rumble of a rhythm section push you closer to the abyss and then there she is. beth gibbons - with all the world's terror, misery, heartache and chaos wrapped up in her warble - tempts you to jump. this isn't a self-congratulatory comeback or a desperate, cheap cash-in; this is the unmitigated uncertainty of twenty first century existence filtered through a pair of musicians who presumably should have floundered in a sea of muted beats, hushed vocals and pseudo morricone samples circa 1998. this is the perfect opening to what will be remembered as one of the defining albums of the decade.
