'90s albums: Here we are now. Entertain us. In the time that’s passed two simplistic narratives have taken hold, one from each side of the Atlantic: in America the story goes that the ’90s were launched by the phlegm-speckled explosion of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and closed out by the pristine pop of “Hit Me Baby One More Time”. On the other side of the pond, in the UK, the tale is one of the highs and the comedowns of cultural and political upheaval: the rise and decline of both Britpop and new Labour.
But such broad brushstrokes painted can distort and warp the whole era into a tabloid-fuelled, laddish, Cool Britannia, Union Jack wearing caricature. For one thing, the idea that “things can only get better” had quickly given way to postmodern anxiety before the decade had even ended. For another, on closer inspection the '90s were so much more eclectic, eccentric, exciting and chaotic than all that gives it credit for.
Yes, Britpop created some brilliant music and its battles might have stolen all the headlines and made the 6 O’clock News, but there was a lot more going on. There was trip-hop, big beat and the explosion of rave culture and the rise of the superclub. It was the decade that hip-hop took over the world and superstars were made (and the time we lost Tupac and Biggie). And, of course, there were the huge sugar-rush pop singles of the Spice Girls, Britney, S Club 7 and others.
Of course, with the dizzying speed of the nostalgia cycle you can feel the influence of the '90s everywhere now. But one thing has certainly changed: the end of the century also seemed to signify the end of something else as well: looking back, the twilight years of the twentieth century now seem decidedly analogue. This was the last era before tech took over and artists didn’t have to also be content creators (can you imagine Kurt Cobain being forced to use TikTok?). This would be the end of CD shopping, jamming up phone lines for tickets and competitions, and queuing up for record signings. How quaint all that seems. But it also meant there were albums and artists you would obsess over in a different way to now.
And there were a lot of '90s albums to become obsessed over (and, yeah, some that must never be heard or mentioned again). Big important albums. Masterpieces. Some dazzling documents of the time others prescient of what was to come. So here are the 15 best '90s albums of the decade. Is this list definitive? Can anything be?
“When I wrote Rid Of Me, I shocked myself,” Polly Jean Harvey has said. Harvey is an artist who has rewired her sound with each album, but Rid of Me remains her rawest and most viscerally unapologetic. Loud, aggressive and uncompromising, it is Harvey's finest moment in a career of very high points.
Harvey hand-picked Steve Albini to produce the record (he likes to claim that Harvey ate nothing but potatoes while recording it) and the result is, as Harvey has put it, a "psychotic" sound. Listening to it is like walking along razor wire: it shocks and disturbs with its gory tales of love, sex, death and fury. On “Rid Of Me” she talks of tying you down, “Legs” is about cutting off those limbs and “Rub ‘Til It Bleeds” is… well, you can imagine…
There is no album like Loveless. Kevin Shield’s magnum opus: an avant-garde exploration of the possibilities of rock music. It was pieced together almost entirely by Shields, he plays all instruments on the album and it took him over three years to record it (Alan McGee accused Shields of spending over £260,000, almost bankrupting Creation, and causing him to turn prematurely grey). But listening to it again now, it all seems worth it.
Shields’ sampling of guitar feedback and drum parts helped him achieve the perfect mix “that sounds the same no matter where you hear it.” He created something loud, beautiful and singular. It’s noisy, sure, but the way Shields and Bilinda Butcher's vocals weave together over the distorted melodies produce a warped beauty all of its own: just listen to “Only Shallow” and “Come in Alone”. The fact that Shields took 20 years to create the follow up only seems to underscore what an achievement it was.
It seems impossible that you could make Odelay today: all the sampling means there are just too many copyright hoops to jump through (and people to pay). But, conversely, Beck’s magpie-like tendencies, the surreal, non-sequitur lyrics and his effortless jukebox genre-blending also seem to speak directly to the culture of today. It’s a brilliantly eclectic record: taking inspiration from everything from hip-hop to elevator music, country to punk. And it all just works.
“Devil’s Haircut”, “New Pollution”, “Where It’s At” - this was the sound of an artist revelling in ripping up the rulebook, weaving so many different sounds and ideas together that he created his own alternate universe.
With Bikini Kill, Kathleen Hanna had led a band that challenged and changed the gender dynamics of punk rock. Then came Le Tigre. Hanna says that their MO was to “write political pop songs and be the dance party after the protest.” And their debut in 1999 delivered: it’s a record that’s clever and political but not too clever and political to get in the way of having fun: these are shouty, exhilarating songs, charged with a DIY spirit using drum machines, samplers, turntables and also a sense of discovery, celebration and solidarity. “Deceptacon” remains an indie dance-floor filler and “My My Metrocard” has the lines ““Oh, fuck Giuliani! He’s such a fucking jerk!”. What’s not to love?
Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain is the record that saw Pavement standing on the verge of (alternative rock) stardom, before turning their plaid shirt backs on it. Listening to it again now it’s not hard to see why. After the jagged fuzz of Slanted and Enchanted, Crooked Rain is all hits: whether that’s the music industry baiting, shout along fun of “Cut Your Hair” or the lesser-spotted alt-country-folk diss track “Range Life” (in which Stephen Malkmus takes the piss out of the Smashing Pumpkins) these are smart, shambling, gorgeous songs, full of Malkmus' catchiest melodies. The jewel in the crown is undoubtedly the shimmering warmth of “Gold Soundz”: effortless in the way only Pavement could be, and joyous in a way that they were often too clever to achieve.
The Miseducation remains Lauryn Hill’s one and only solo record. But what a record. It was a force of nature, a declaration of independence after the fall out of the Fugees and highlighted her unique talent. The record took in hip-hop, Motown and reggae and it was shot through with emotion and soul - an artist determined to seize the spotlight and leave it all out there. It dealt with life, love, and motherhood and confronted the breakdown of her relationship with Wyclef Jean and also the misogyny of hip-hop at the time. "Doo Wop (That Thing)" is irresistible, “Lost Ones” fantastic and “Ex-Factor” heartbreaking. It won her five Grammy Awards including Album of the Year, was one of the biggest selling albums of all time, and arguably ushered in a wave of hip-hop artists willing to bare their souls.
Martial arts movies, comic book references, and, yeah, lots of weed, 36 Chambers was the record that introduced us to the Wu-Tang universe and their chaotic, game-changing genius. This was a landmark record: helmed and orchestrated by the genius of RZA and his sampling of old Soul records, it’s a brutal, funny, often surreal album, its refreshingly raw sound the backdrop to the story of outsiders.
The chemistry between the likes of GZA, Ghostface, Method Man, Ol’ Dirty Bastard and Raekwon is what makes it - and was clear right from the first play of “Protect Ya Neck”. By ‘95 the album had gone platinum and its influence extended far beyond the East Coast leading the way for others to follow, including Nas, Notorious B.I.G., and Jay-Z. Wu-Tang Clan Ain’t Nuthing Ta Fuck Wit, indeed.
When Homework was released in 1997 Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo had not yet become the robot-helmeted superstars we now know (that would arrive with 2001’s Discovery). They were just two French guys immersed in the DIY culture of the rave era - but their debut, released amid the rise of big-beat and electronica - remains unsurpassed.
It’s a record that was connected to the past (just listen to “Teachers” and its shout outs to originators like DJ Pierre and Jeff Mills), but also pointed to the future. It threw together lo-fi techno, old-skool disco basslines, and a dash of house music’s pounding appeal to create songs like “Around the World’s” robot rock, the squelching swagger of “Da Funk” and the propulsive brake screeching, fist pumping of “Rollin’ & Scratchin". In the process they created a record that changed dance music forever.
Though Massive Attack pioneered what would later be called trip-hop, when Dummy was released in 1994 it sounded different to nearly everything out there. That was due both to the sonic world Geoff Barrow had created with his unique sampling choices and also because of the smoky intensity and unsettling intimacy of Beth Gibbons’ vocals. It remains one of the cornerstones of trip-hop: creating a whole new realm within the subgenre.
"Sour Times" and its "nobody loves me, it's true" line became an unlikely hit and the way Barrow used old soul and film samples helped them create their own universe. The band even scraped on the records across the floor creating a record scratch and hiss sound so authentic that the story goes that, hilariously, on its release unhappy customers would return their records complaining about the quality of the pressing. It didn’t matter: despite this - and its bleak, uncompromising starkness - Dummy became a triple-platinum seller, a Mercury winner and still feels timeless today.
It’s no overstatement to say that Nasir Jones’ debut is a milestone record: an all-killer,-no-filler collection of 10 tracks that marked a turning point in hip-hop and inspired a generation of MCs. Its influence was so profound that there is now a Nasir Jones fellowship at Harvard University.
Nas drew on the struggles he faced in his life and channelled that pain, indignation and struggle into something visceral, swaggering and taut. Nothing was wasted here: its rhymes vividly painted life growing up in Queensbridge: songs like “N.Y. State of Mind”, "Life's a Bitch," and “One Love” capturing something real, and embodying the frustrations and aspirations of so many in America.
The liner notes of Different Class read: “Please understand. We don’t want no trouble. We just want the right to be different. That’s all.” The mis-shapes of Pulp had existed for seventeen years before this, their 1995 breakthrough. But Different Class saw them finally find their place. Jarvis’ lyrics tackled his favourite topics: sex and social class (or fucking and fucking up, as I once read) on a record that discussed the seedy underbelly of everyday life with an arched brow and biting wit.
From “Sorted for Es and Whizz” to the gorgeous “Something Changed”, this was a collection of the smartest, sauciest songs of the decade. And of course, there was the genius of “Common People” and its fist-punch chorus that, perhaps more than any other song, seemed to capture the mood of the decade.
Is there anything more that can be said about Nevermind? It’s hard to overstate its impact - but though it may have spawned a series of pale imitators, the intensity of the original was undeniable. From the opening four simple power chords of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” this was a record that defined a generation and thrust grunge into the mainstream. It was impossible to ignore: Kurt exuding a raw power and kicking back against the world with a vitriolic mix of anger and sincerity.
Because of its ubiquity (it sold over 30 million copies worldwide) it’s easy to forget the album’s ennui, angst, and incredible songwriting - songs like “Come As You Are”, “Lithium” and “In Bloom” were intense and peerless. Its power meant it suddenly, for a moment, seemed like the outsiders could rule the world.
Amidst a wave of intensely personal struggles, Bjork created her masterpiece. From the opening stuttering beats of “Hunter” this is an astonishing piece of work and, more than any other record, captured her pioneering, singular vision. Classical instruments merge with electronic ones, to create something both elemental and futuristic: the natural world and technology.
You can see the duality on the cover: part warrior queen and part cyborg. And you can hear it on the pounding, pulsing “Pluto”, the glistening beauty of “All Is Full of Love” and sweeping grandeur of “Bachelorette”. It still sounds breathtakingly modern now - and it influenced everyone from Radiohead to Kanye.
Like an audio Black Mirror, OK Computer was an unerring vision of our future. Over 25 years on from its release, the record’s anxiety about technological advancement, politics and rapid globalisation seem especially prescient; each song a vivid premonition. And it was as ambitious as it was foreboding, capturing the digital dread of modern life through dense, experimental and knotty songs.
But from the “rain down” section of “Paranoid Android”, to the spine-tingling harmonies at the climax of “No Surprises”, for an album so steeped in paranoia there’s also a cathartic beauty that pulses through it. This was the record that marked the band out as pioneers. Their statement of intent. And with the climate crisis, big data and surveillance, the messages feel just as relevant today.
If any record tells the story of the '90s then it’s Parklife. Blur’s third album captured the zeitgeist and saved their career in the process. It’s an era-defining masterpiece: eccentric, whip-smart, playful and adventurous but also, at times, strikingly poignant.
From the opening synths of “Girls and Boys” it’s a dazzling pop-art masterpiece that captured the mood of the nation. There are the louder, brash singles of course but there’s also the melancholic heart to it (the shipping forecast-referencing heart wrenching “This Is A Low” is the true centrepiece of the record) and in that sense it really captures the British experience. As it gets closer to 30 years old (yes, that’s a reference to “End of a Century”), it still feels as artfully subversive and fresh now: the defining record of the time.
