Over the final months of our fine decade, Intensities in Ten Suburbs will be sending the Naughty Oughties out in style with a series of essays devoted to the top 100 songs of the decade–the ones we will most remember as we look back fondly on this period of pop music years down the road. The archives can be found here. If you want to argue about the order, you can’t, because we’re not totally sure what the qualifications are either. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy.
Perhaps the greatest testament to Radiohead’s excellence and stature in the rock cannon has been how little fun they’ve become to talk about. Like no other band since maybe The Beatles, serious music listeners (and by serious I guess I mean “willing to discuss it ad nauseum over the internet”) have debated the finer points of the Radiohead discography, mythos and just about everything else to do with them to the point where someone bringing them up in conversation now elicits something of a shudder. (Of course, that didn’t stop me from devoting an entire week to talking about them before the release of In Rainbows two years ago–that’s just the kind of selflessness you get here at Intensities in Ten Suburbs). Radiohead’s greatness has become ridiculously close to just being assumed at this point, and much of that has to do with Kid A–their 2000 artistic left-turn that solidified their status as the most critically beloved band of the last 20 years.
Over the final months of our fine decade, Intensities in Ten Suburbs will be sending the Naughty Oughties out in style with a series of essays devoted to the top 100 songs of the decade–the ones we will most remember as we look back fondly on this period of pop music years down the road. The archives can be found here. If you want to argue about the order, you can’t, because we’re not totally sure what the qualifications are either. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy.
And the award for “Most Unexpectedly Beloved Song of the Naughty Oughties” goes to… Nobody could’ve expected this happening at the time. After winning the inaugural season of American Idol, it seemed like singing treacly ballads like the medicore ”A Moment Like This” and lukewarm teen-pop blasts like the abhorrent “Miss Independent” would be the definition of Clarkson’s post-Idol career–a career of pre-teen heroism and Adult Contemporary ownage, without ever really crossing over to any other audience of significance. Even her first single off 2004’s Breakaway was the plodding, feel-good title track, which I actually kind of liked, but hardly probed any sort of new ground for Ms. Clarkson. We never saw “Since U Been Gone” coming–a song which even in its use of the slangy “U” instead of “You” showed more rebellion and attitude than Clarkson had in her entire career up to that point. (Unless you considered From Justin to Kelly an act of revolution, which I guess would be fairly arguable).
Over the final months of our fine decade, Intensities in Ten Suburbs will be sending the Naughty Oughties out in style with a series of essays devoted to the top 100 songs of the decade–the ones we will most remember as we look back fondly on this period of pop music years down the road. The archives can be found here. If you want to argue about the order, you can’t, because we’re not totally sure what the qualifications are either. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy.
In October 2001, I was old enough that I had started to read Pitchfork, but not quite old enough to have a good understanding of the concept of pre-release hype. So when the site gave The Strokes’ Is This It? a 9.1 rating with a review that basically came to the conclusion of “this album isn’t going to change the world like everybody thinks, but it’s a damn fine rock record,” my reaction was actually “Wow, this album was suppposed to change the world?” This was the first I’d heard not only of The Strokes, but the entire New York neo-garage scene, and the supposedly burgeoning New Rock Revolution, a term that I don’t think actually came into vogue until a few months and mediocre Hives singles later. My mind had been blown for the first time that decade by Radiohead’s Kid A, but that album didn’t feel like it was part of anything bigger than itself. If there really was some sort of revolution on the horizon, I was pretty damn excited to get in–for the first time in my conscious music-listening career–on the ground floor of it.
I apologize for the dearth of posting lately–it’s been a crazy-demanding week pop culture-wise recently. What with the NBA season starting, the World Series going on, Halloween looming (I ended up going as a member of NWA–worked OK, though my friends gave me deserved amounts of shit for being suckered into buying a $50 fake chain at a costume store) and new books by Chuck Klosterman and Bill Simmons being released (the only two writers I really care enough about to actively seek out new material, coming out with books within a week of each other–what are the odds), things like writing, sleeping, and pursuing social contact during daylight hours fall predictably by the wayside. Perhaps most time-consuming of all, though, is the new release of DJ Hero–Activision’s latest entry in the ever-expanding rhythmic synchronization video game market. This one, as you may have seen in the (not terribly illuminating) commercials, uses a turntable instead of a guitar or drum set, and asks you to fake-mix pairs of songs, using a crossfader, effects dial, and a prop record for scratching.
In the 00s, there were two #1 hits sung by men primarly on the subject of cheating on their girlfriends. One was Usher’s “Confessions, Pt. 2,” a guilt-wracked but surprisingly self-righteous confession from Mr. Raymond to his special lady about knocking up the girl he was stepping out with. It was dramatic, it had an unbearably tense guitar hook, and it featured a video with at least one scene of a mirror shattering into thousands of pieces. The other was Shaggy and Ricardo ‘RikRok’ Ducent’s “It Wasn’t Me,” a shamed recounting from the latter of his woman walking in on him and mistress mid-coitus, to the former, who advises him to deny, deny, deny. It was catchy, it had a nice breezy guitar hook, and it featured a video where both men plotted Ducent’s high-tech escape from what appears to be a cadre of vengeful ninja ex-girlfriends. The lesson here, as always in pop music: When acting like an asshole, revel in it unapologetically, rather than fake contrition for your misdeeds.
Over the final months of our fine decade, Intensities in Ten Suburbs will be sending the Naughty Oughties out in style with a series of essays devoted to the top 100 songs of the decade–the ones we will most remember as we look back fondly on this period of pop music years down the road. The archives can be found here. If you want to argue about the order, you can’t, because we’re not totally sure what the qualifications are either. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy.
I never felt entirely comfortable with Lil’ Wayne’s Best Rapper Alive status. There’s not really any question that he has it right now, and that he’s probably earned it with a decade’s worth of albums, mixtapes, freestyles and guest appearances. But to put him in that lineage is sort of difficult for me, because he doesn’t really do the things that I’m used to my Best Rappers Alive–2Pac, Biggie, Jay-Z, even Kanye or Andre 3000–doing. Mostly, he can’t write a coherent song, and appears little motivated to even try. Unless you’re Slick Rick, rap rarely follows a strictly linear lyrical format, but all those guys have proven themselves more than capable of at least writing a whole song on the same subject matter, or at least on the same general theme, or at least with the same general mood or tone. Weezy, on the other hand, could barely even go a couplet without going off on a tangent. He had no knack whatsoever for storytelling, and appeared about as concerned with song structure as Ornette Coleman. Even his cheesiest pop crossover, “Mrs. Officer,” which starts out as a basic narrative, quickly disassembles into a mess of bad puns, needlessly repeated phrases and free-associative ramblings.
Over the final months of our fine decade, Intensities in Ten Suburbs will be sending the Naughty Oughties out in style with a series of essays devoted to the top 100 songs of the decade–the ones we will most remember as we look back fondly on this period of pop music years down the road. The archives can be found here. If you want to argue about the order, you can’t, because we’re not totally sure what the qualifications are either. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy.
I remember the moment when it became obvious that I wasn’t going to be able to dismiss Coldplay forever. I was playing poker with some friends–most of whom had spent as much time disparaging the band as I had–and we were listening to a Labor Day countdown on our local modern rock station, when “Yellow” came on. Those warped first few chords, turning into that soaring riff and gently chugging beat. Yeah, a couple of their songs still kind of sucked, but this thing was just far too majestic for us to deny any longer. One of my friends reached that conclusion even before I did, throwing his hands in the hair and announcing, “I give up. Coldplay, I’m yours. Take me.” I don’t think I said it at the time, but I kinda had to begrudgingly concur.
Over the final months of our fine decade, Intensities in Ten Suburbs will be sending the Naughty Oughties out in style with a series of essays devoted to the top 100 songs of the decade–the ones we will most remember as we look back fondly on this period of pop music years down the road. The archives can be found here. If you want to argue about the order, you can’t, because we’re not totally sure what the qualifications are either. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy.
It’s practically impossible to remember a time when Beyonce wasn’t one of the biggest solo stars on the planet, but it’s really only been six years that she’s been out on her own. After spending the end of the 90s and beginning of the 00s as a member of Destiny’s Child–a group that she was unquestionably the leader and most talented member of, but a group nonetheless, and one whose success was monstrous enough (four #1 singles in a little over two years) that it was probably fairly unlikely that Beyonce would ever match it on her own. It probably says something that not only did Beyonce become titanically popular on her own, but she basically turned Destiny’s Child into the answer to a trivia question. Sure, Diana Ross was enormous on her own, but the Supremes were still the fucking Supremes, and are remembered just as fondly collectively as Diana was solo, if not moreso. but Destiny’s Child can’t even be seen as all that much more than a footnote to Naughty Oughties pop at this point. And the craziest thing was that Beyonce only really needed one song to accomplish this.
Over the final months of our fine decade, Intensities in Ten Suburbs will be sending the Naughty Oughties out in style with a series of essays devoted to the top 100 songs of the decade–the ones we will most remember as we look back fondly on this period of pop music years down the road. The archives can be found here. If you want to argue about the order, you can’t, because we’re not totally sure what the qualifications are either. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy.
When super-producers reach a certain commercial and/or artistic level of Do No Wrongness, they earn the rare luxury of being able to serve more as curator than artistic collaborator, waving their magic wand at certain artists and making them commercially viable with barely a modicum of extended effort. Such was certainly the case with Timabaland in late 2006, having unapologetically stormed the pop world with his work on two mega-hit albums (Nelly Furtado’s Loose and Justin Timberlake’s Future Sex/Love Sounds, both of which not only featured Timbo’s production, but also showcased him as a general vocal contributor and music video presence) and made himself the biggest star of the Naughty Oughties to never have his name on the front of the “f/” symbol on a hit. That too was about to change, however, as Mr. Mosley’s resurgent clout afforded him the opportunity to release an album on his lonesome (relatively speaking). Hence, Timbaland Presents: Shock Value, and “Apologize.”
Over the final months of our fine decade, Intensities in Ten Suburbs will be sending the Naughty Oughties out in style with a series of essays devoted to the top 100 songs of the decade–the ones we will most remember as we look back fondly on this period of pop music years down the road. The archives can be found here. If you want to argue about the order, you can’t, because we’re not totally sure what the qualifications are either. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy.
Sometimes I’m still not sure if Mathangi “M.I.A.” Arulpragasam actually existed, or if she was just the manifestation of the collective will of every pop-oriented music critic on the planet (or at the very least, the internet). There was nothing about this woman that was not scientifically bred to blogger specifications. She was exotic, she had political activist (and some would say terrorist) ties, she mixed and matched from various musics, languages and cultures, she at least co-wrote and co-produced all her stuff, she collaborated with hip musicians running the gamut from Timbaland to Justine Frischmann of Elastica, she quoted from both pop and indie musical history, and she was attractive without being overly or distractingly glamorous. 99% of music writers were salivating over her before they ever even heard a song of hers. Then they heard her first single, the block-slaughtering “Galang,” and it seemed to justify everything that critics wanted M.I.A. to be capable of. Clearly, great things were on the horizon. Probably.
