Does Sugar Ray Actually Suck? And considering that internet music platforms hadn't much gotten going, too often the crap on the radio was what we were stuck with.
As a method of catharsis, then, let's take a look back at what was so dispiriting about this pivotal time in our lives. Country titan Garth Brooks dipped his toes into pop as a fictional "rock star" in the late '90s, preceding a feature film that never came to fruition because he couldn't sell these "greatest hits. Imagine it literally remade with Cake-style talk-rap verses, and you have an idea of how lost Garth was. Few recall that Garth's locomotive '90s fame was enough to drag this number two to 2.
It will also lack any shred of cleverness, insight, and humor that all those other wack-rock bands have Alanis Morissette Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie Have you ever been cornered at a party by a girl who talks rapturously and somewhat incoherently about her recent discovery of Eastern spirituality, then goes into an hour-long monologue about all of her ex-boyfriends?
This is that girl in album form. The only moment of restraint on Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie is when Alanis tells one of those ex-boyfriends, "Let's name 30 good reasons why we shouldn't be together," and then doesn't proceed to sing all 30 of them.
That is, by far, the best part of the album -Andy Hermann Vapid lyrics - check. Keyboards and horns played with as much soul as a Pepsi jingle - check.
Kenny G cameo - check. Perfectly-groomed mullet - check. The family-friendly '50s pop icon performs big-band lounge-jazz covers of iconic rock and metal classics. Have you ever wondered what "Paradise City" would sound like without any balls? Now, same question, except with "Enter Sandman" and "Crazy Train. But his biggest crime was making one of the most treasured metal anthems of all-time, Dio's "Holy Diver," sound lame with a sort of swingin' vocal cadence.
Not even Dio himself on background vocals could save it. Billy Joel River Of Dreams No wonder the Piano Man stopped making albums after 's River of Dreams, a bombastic downer on which he bitched about everything from suburbia the faux-Springsteen "No Man's Land" his own depression the faux-Robert Palmer "A Minor Variation" and the very act of songwriting itself "Famous Last Words," on which he admits to his fans, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn anymore".
Joel was reportedly broke at the time, having been embezzled out of millions by his former manager -- but that still doesn't excuse him from ending an otherwise solid career on such a sour note. But in the ensuing two-and-a-half years following that work, gangsta rap had exploded, and Hammer responded by adopting a "hard" persona that didn't fool anyone.
He talked about being a pimp and a gangsta in "Pumps and a Bump," going to the Player's Ball in "One 'Mo Time," and upped the f-bomb and sex quotient generally. Music videos for the album saw Hammer and a posse looking awkward and uncomfortable in gangsta get-ups cribbed straight from Dr.
Sadly, the only thing that wasn't fake about the whole affair was, true story, Hammer's unintentional? But he doesn't deserve all the blame, considering that Eddie Van Halen's playing is uninspired and the material is abysmal. Van Halen III is so riddled with limp blues-rock, so devoid of fire or energy, that even Roth, much less Hagar, couldn't have saved it.
And with their, uh, limited perception of New York "You might even see a murder" they'd best stick to what they know: Sir Mick, if you will. Look, we'd like to order an album, please. No no, it doesn't have to sound like music. Frankly, it doesn't have to even be playable -- it really just has to be a disc of some kind in a plastic case with the Stones' logo on it.
Really it just has to be something tangible that over failures can tell other over failures that they own. Look, you can deal with the rest of the particulars, I've got a comfortable chair I'd quite like to sit in. Have a good afternoon. The rest of the album -- there be dragons, but I love y'all so much, I actually listened to it -- is sub-open-mic-night level tunes of confession and protest "Old Mr.
President" and ill-advised forays into funk metal "Superfly". Remember the sense of panic that ensued whenever they reached for their six string? Imagine a whole album of that. U2 Zooropa Even in their youthful exuberance, we consider U2 one of the most pretentious, uncomfortably earnest bands in the world, and never more so than on Zooropa, where they are bizarrely serious and self-important even while being playful and ironic.
Bono -- and really, any sentence that begins with his name is bound to be comedy gold -- stated that he thought U2 were working on their Sgt. At least they later wised up: Both he and The Edge later said that Zooropa is a decidedly mediocre U2 effort. He'll get his team of Paisley Park Records to assemble your whole shitty album, for starters.
And we're glad that funk is somewhere, we guess, because it's nowhere else here. Behind Electra's and Prince's we-wrote-this-in-the-studio-as-we-were-recording-it lyrics is a series of thin dance tracks that Prince can't possibly have been paying attention to.
The album appears to be just a launchpad for the primary single, "Go Go Dancer," whose main success is in dissuading aspiring dancers from the profession. This whole record marks Electra as a terrible Fergie before Fergie was a terrible Fergie. And that's, um, pretty remarkable. Once you get past the admittedly hard-to-resist "Ice Ice Baby," To the Extreme quickly descends into parachute-pantsed minstrelsy, as Ice delivers unintentionally laughable lines like "I go to work on the floor like a wet mop" in a flow stiffer than his high-top fade.
With this work, Ice undoubtedly set back the white rapper race a decade. Forget the braids, dreads, piercings, kilts, and the fact that Korn is from Bakersfield. Forget the pseudo-metal guitar riffs, banshee beat boxing, mind-numbing bass slapping, unwarranted record scratches, and horrible high-school locker room rhymes from Fred Durst and Jonathan Davis. Above all, don't attempt to decipher the meaning of the nebulous, angst-ridden "something" Davis keeps screaming about the word appears over 40 times, but is never explained.
And, if you can, forget Ice Cube rapping over "Children of the Korn. Matchbox 20 Yourself or Someone Like You What distinguishes Matchbox Twenty's bland alternative rock from every other post-grunge '90s band? Rob Thomas's nasally, faux-drawling voice. The lyrics of Yourself or Someone Like You are dullsville, save for the controversial "Push," which many mistook as an endorsement of domestic violence. Thomas rebutted the accusation by explaining that the chorus "I wanna push you around, well I will, well I will" referred to a woman who abused her boyfriend, not vice-versa.
We can vouch that this work does indeed make us want to hit people. So in effect Spice doesn't just embody everything wack about manufactured mainstream pop, it represents poser feminism. Attempts at rapping "Last Time Lover", "Wannabe" are pretty weak, and the thin harmonies "Say You'll Be There" can't even be redeemed by the glossy production.
The Spice Girls are not, in fact, spicy. While Crash Test Dummies singer Brad Roberts' deep baritone isn't totally uninteresting, his annoying humming of the song's hook is enough to make Canadians flee south of the border.
The worst part is that the track somehow vaulted this band into the mainstream consciousness, spawning three additional singles from the album, including the even more ridonkulous title track.
Considering how difficult these songs are to get out of your head, hearing one once is the aural equivalent of being waterboarded. Limp Bizkit Significant Other Rap rock hit bottom in a splash of bong water and a clatter of wallet chains with the arrival of Fred Durst and co's second album, Significant Other. If it had just been full of mindless mosh-pit fodder like "Nookie" and "Break Stuff," it might have been merely forgettable. But Durst also tried to get all Shakespeare-quoting deep on "Re-Arranged" "Heavy is the head that wears the crown" and loverboy-hurt on "Don't Go Off Wandering," which made the album cringeworthy even by the abysmal standards of late '90s rap metal.
Creed Human Clay Everything wrong with the s as a decade is encapsulated here, and it's fitting that it was released at the end of , like a careening avalanche of suck collecting the worst of so-called alternative rock. Borrowing from vague tautological Christian pop and adding a glassful of grunge "flavor" wrung out of a Hot Topic cashier's sweaty unwashed flannel boxer shorts, Human Clay is in fact a human cultural nadir. It's the soundtrack to every slatternly vague rocker-asethetic-guy whose first instinct when confronted with nature is to stand arms outstretched and marvel at their own perceived self-majesty, reflected in inanimate rocks, trees and water.
Scott Stapp Clears Up That Story About the Orgy on Kid Rock's Tour Bus From the my-first-guitar-lesson chord progressions to the super serious middle-school poetry to the singing that sounds like grunting through half-swallowed lumps of peanut butter, there's an impossible to scrub free air of entitlement to each note, each lyric.
Human Clay cements frontman Scott Stapp's position as the vanguard of a race of humorless greaseballs scraped from the frighteningly shallow gene pool that includes dudes like the guy from Staind and all of your sister's singer-songwriter ex boyfriends. Suffice to say, this is the only time this record ought to be in the top 20 of anything. If you like this story, consider signing up for our email newsletters.