The 1990s. Some of you were born then. Some of you might even remember it. But the best ‘90s albums aren’t reserved for ’90s babies. Good thing too, because the decade had plenty of banging releases. Now the '90s are far enough away to be considered part of history, we’ve got some perspective on those heady years. Britpop was a big thing, obviously, as was grunge across the pond in America. Pretty much every muddy field in England hosted a rave at some point, and the charts were filled with girl groups and boy bands like the Spice Girls and Take That.
This was the decade when the present-day shape of pop, hip-hop, rock and dance began taking shape, but things were still only half formed. So here are the 20 best albums from that inimitable, formative era.
Despite best-known for their Bush-era rock opera, American Idiot, some of Green Day’s best music came on their third album, Dookie. It’s a tight, taunt bundle of pop-punk perfection, with a heavy dose of the listless ennui which characterised large parts of the '90s. Though much of the record is drenched in punky guitar power chords, it doesn’t hinder the immediacy of Billie Joe Armstrong’s songwriting – “When I Come Around”, for example, could easily be re-recorded by a girl group. “Longview”, with its sublime, swinging bass riff courtesy of Mike Dirnt, is the defining ode to mind-numbing boredom in a pre-social media age.
The reason this album is in this list, rather than that of the best ‘80s albums, is just a technicality: although Heaven or Las Vegas was released in 1990, its shining, weightless sound really belongs back in the 80s. That’s no reason to overlook it, because the Cocteau Twins’ masterpiece is a dream pop epic that can rival anything Beach House has come out with since. Press play on the first track, “Cherry-Coloured Funk”, and you’re immersed in a wash of chorus-drenched guitar and ecstatic vocals. It’s music that sounds like those haunting, unearthly songs that echo through your dreams.
Nick Cave’s career has been one of such sustained quality that his albums earn their places on best-of lists from the ‘80s to the 2020s. When it comes to the ’90s, though, there is only one choice: The Boatman’s Call. It features one of his greatest songs – one of the greatest songs ever, really – “Into My Arms”, but the rest of this sombre, stately and quietly heartbreaking record is brilliant too. “Lime Tree Arbour”, “People Ain’t No Good”, “Black Hair” – these are songs only Cave could write, soaked in both touching intimacy and a wide, almost cosmic view of life and death.
Out of the big three artists of ‘90s neo-soul, it’s mostly D’Angelo and Lauryn Hill who get the retrospective love. But Erykah Badu shouldn’t miss out: as her debut, Baduizm, shows, she was a singular talent with immaculate head wraps to match. The swaying rhythms have their share of hip-hop influence, but the album is also packed with lush live instrumentation – plus Badu’s voice, a smooth, supple thing that can match any beat. The distinctly witchy vibe, with titles like “Next Lifetime” and “4 Leaf Clover”, give it an unexpected modern relevance too.
Badu isn’t a million miles away from the world of Outkast, the endlessly creative Atlanta hip-hop duo – she features on Aquemini, their third album, and was in a relationship with André 3000 at the time. Aquemini, named as a combination of Big Boi and 3000’s zodiac signs, is a strange beast, marinated in hip-hop, electronic and funk like some audio equivalent of Southern barbeque. “Rose Parks”, the big hit on this album, is a civil rights-referencing party-starter with a harmonica hoedown in the middle of it – and things only get weirder from there. The rap verses themselves are top class, courtesy of 3000, Big Boi and guests like Raekwon, but we also get George Clinton crooning like a funky cyborg on “Synthesiser”, and a horn line for the ages on “SpottieOttieDopaliscious”.
“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 is an avant-garde exploration of the possibilities of rock music. Shields plays all instruments on the album and it took him over three years to record it. 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 – 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 emphasise 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. But Beck’s magpie-like tendencies – the surreal, non-sequitur lyrics and his effortless jukebox genre-blending – also 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 is the sound of an artist weaving enough different sounds and ideas together to he create his own alternate universe.
With Bikini Kill, Kathleen Hanna 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. “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-shirted 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.
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 of the Fugees, and it highlighted her unique talent. The record took in hip-hop, Motown and reggae and was shot through with emotion and soul. 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, is 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. Helmed and orchestrated by the genius of RZA and his library of old soul samples, it’s a brutal, funny, often surreal album. The chemistry between the likes of GZA, Ghostface, Method Man, Ol’ Dirty Bastard and Raekwon is what makes it, and this chemistry is 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. 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”, “Da Funk” and “Rollin’ & Scratchin”. It 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. The band even created a record scratch and hiss sound so authentic that the story goes that, on its release, unhappy customers would return their records complaining about the quality of the pressing. It didn’t matter: Dummy became a triple-platinum seller and 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: songs like “NY State of Mind”, “Life's a Bitch”. and “One Love” captured 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. Jarvis’ lyrics tackled his favourite topics, sex and social class, 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 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 exuded a raw power and kicked 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 on the likes of “Come As You Are”, “Lithium” and “In Bloom”. Suddenly, for a moment, it 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, one that captured her pioneering, singular vision. Classical instruments merge with electronic ones to create something both elemental and futuristic. 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 West.
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. And it was as ambitious as it was foreboding, capturing the digital dread of modern life through dense, experimental, knotty songs. But from the “rain down” section of “Paranoid Android”, to the spine-tingling harmonies at the climax of “No Surprises”, there’s also a cathartic beauty. This was the record that marked the band out as pioneers.
If any record tells the story of the '90s, it’s Parklife. Blur’s third album captured the Britpoppy 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. There are the loud, brash singles of course, but there’s also a melancholic heart to it in “This Is A Low”, the true centrepiece of the record. It still feels artfully subversive and fresh today, despite being the defining record of its time.
