This week In ’90s Throwback’ 05/52

The Cardigans, Genesis, Brandy, Tori Amos, Fugees, Shakira, Texas, Depeche Mode, David Bowie, Alice Cooper, Pearl Jam, Leftfield

They are the ’90s Throwback’ artists selected among the 355 Posts we publish this week.

Here, they are reunited in one glorious playlist. Enjoy!

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Tracklist

1 . The Cardigans . Lovefool

By the mid-’90s, pop music had found its penchant for bittersweet love stories, and “Lovefool” by The Cardigans serves as its sulking sweetheart. Written by Peter Svensson and Nina Persson for the band’s third album, *First Band on the Moon*, the track leans into breezy bossa nova-inspired pop, masking its lyrical desperation under an infectious, effervescent melody.

The paradox is evident: sugary production glazed over the pleading refrain, “Love me, love me,” transforming personal anguish into radio gold. Released in 1996, the song made its chart ambitions clear, topping New Zealand’s charts, flying up the UK Singles Chart, and even dominating U.S. airwaves despite restrictions that kept it off the Hot 100 proper. Rarely does a pop song pull off this level of existential masquerade, offering a danceable melody wrapped tight around the jitters of unrequited love.

Its addition to Baz Luhrmann’s “Romeo + Juliet” soundtrack was a calculated stroke, cementing its place in pop culture history. Contextually, it’s easy to imagine “Lovefool” jumping straight from Juliet’s teenage diary—frantic scribbles turned into swooning anthems. But curiously, this association isn’t limited to the gloom of Shakespearean tragedy. It’s pop at its most paradoxical: both lightweight and laden with heartbreak.

The Cardigans emphasized their global aspirations with three music videos, including one soaking in cinematic indulgence by integrating clips from Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes’ tragic romance. The visuals, while starkly different, propelled the song’s versatility, pushing it outside the confines of a one-hit-wonder narrative while letting Persson’s coy vulnerability take center stage.

Bridging twee aesthetics with chart-savvy instincts, “Lovefool” feels like the anthem of emotional masochism. It doesn’t just get stuck in your head—it sneaks into the crevices of your relational neuroses, dressed in bass grooves and fluttering synths. If anything, it’s proof that a sugar rush and a gut punch don’t always have to exist separately—sometimes, they fit perfectly, even hand in trembling hand.


Lifted from : On TV today, The Cardigans with Rosie O’Donnell (1997)

2 . Genesis . I Can’t Dance

“I Can’t Dance” by Genesis pokes fun at consumer culture through its swaggering rhythm and playful irony, standing as a curious contrast to the band’s typically more introspective catalog.

The track, nestled within their 1991 album *We Can’t Dance*, steps into the pop-rock arena with its tongue firmly planted in cheek.

Phil Collins’s dry vocal delivery pairs perfectly with the song’s shuffling groove, while Mike Rutherford’s bluesy guitar riffs add a layer of sardonic charm to the proceedings.

Lyrically, it lampoons the stiff posturing of fashion models and glossy advertisements, with Collins delivering lines like he’s rolling his eyes at the absurdity of it all.

Commercially, the song surged, charting within the top ten across multiple countries, giving the band a crossover success in both pop and rock spheres.

What makes it linger in the memory isn’t just the satirical edge but the unabashed simplicity of its composition, proving Genesis could trade grandeur for self-aware humor without entirely losing their identity.


Lifted from : Happy Birthday Phil Collins. ‘On The Air Today’

3 . Brandy . Baby

Brandy’s “Baby” arrives like a polished time capsule from 1994, a year when R&B carved its space with swagger and velvet precision.

A product of her eponymous debut album, the track is woven with Keith Crouch’s slick production and a vocal arrangement that pits Brandy’s smoky texture against the gliding instrumental framework.

The song skips along a bass-heavy groove, with a sprinkle of synth flourishes and percussive snaps that keep the tempo agile and light on its feet.

Co-written by Rahsaan Patterson and Kipper Jones, the lyrics don’t particularly tilt toward groundbreaking revelations—they simmer in the familiar playground of teenage infatuation, but Brandy’s delivery lifts them past their simplicity.

While it doesn’t carry the chart-topping bragging rights that some of her later hits boast, “Baby” rides comfortably on charm and a self-assuredness rare for a then-15-year-old artist.

There’s a laid-back yet earnest energy in the track, marking its place as a snapshot of ’90s pop-R&B realism without overreaching for tear-jerking profundity.

The accompanying music video underscores Brandy’s early star magnetism, featuring her genre’s penchant for era-specific dance moves, colorful style choices, and an understated playfulness.

More than an anthem, it serves as a reminder of her smooth emergence onto the scene, a moment when mainstream R&B was recalibrating its identity and Brandy was helping mold its course.


Lifted from : Mariah, Lionel, Brandy et al at ‘American Music Awards’ (1996)

4 . Tori Amos . Cornflake Girl

“Cornflake Girl,” from Tori Amos’s 1994 album “Under the Pink,” occupies that strange crossroad where alternative rock meets intellectual commentary.

The track, penned and produced by Amos herself, draws thematic inspiration from Alice Walker’s novel “Possessing the Secret of Joy,” unpacking female relationships and the brutal practice of female genital mutilation, all while weaving its meaning through metaphorical lenses.

The title phrase—a colloquial jab at people who betray their own circles—sits oddly juxtaposed with Amos’s characteristic piano-backed introspection, a match that feels intentional yet unsettlingly flippant.

Musically, Merry Clayton’s backing vocals give the song a gospel-like counterbalance to Amos’s breathy, enigmatic delivery.

George Porter Jr. keeps the basslines simple but engaging, while Paulinho Da Costa’s percussion creates a complex undertone that pulls the song away from predictability.

If “Cornflake Girl” is an anthem, it’s a reluctant one—its lyrical crypticism makes listeners lean in closer while its uneasy groove keeps them teetering on edge.

Even its music videos resist clarity; the UK’s version riffs off “The Wizard of Oz” but swaps hope for existential purgatory where Dorothy finds herself en route not to redemption but damnation.

By comparison, the American video retreats into surrealism, with Amos’s truck barreling through hot, barren landscapes full of women who could be comrades or dissenters—your guess is as good as hers.

The song remains a commercial triumph despite—or arguably because of—its unwillingness to be fully understood, charting high in Europe and cutting through alternative radio noise stateside like a jagged splinter in post-grunge complacency.

“Cornflake Girl” defies easy classification, as only a Tori Amos track can: deeply personal, unapologetically eccentric, and just unsettling enough to demand your attention without begging for it.


Lifted from : Atlantic publish Tori Amos’ second album . ‘Under the Pink’ featuring ‘Cornflake Girl’ (1994)

5 . Fugees . Boof Baf

“Boof Baf” by the Fugees lands us in the thick of their earliest musical explorations, straight out of their 1994 debut album, *Blunted on Reality*.

The track is unapologetically raw, recording its DNA during the years of 1992 and 1993 at the House of Music Studios in West Orange, New Jersey.

It opens with a hook built on gunshot onomatopoeia, an auditory jolt designed to mirror its themes of violence and societal disarray.

The video, with its somewhat disjointed aesthetic, places the trio on a beach—a setting that, while visually appealing, hardly connects to the bleakness woven into the track’s lyrics.

Lauryn Hill’s verse becomes the glue here, steering the narrative toward a commitment to individualism and non-violence—a sentiment that feels like the moral core of an otherwise aggressive piece.

Then there’s the outro, dipped in Jamaican Patois, offering a pointed critique of violence in dancehall—a thematic pivot few expected but many welcomed.

Yet, the song itself never hits critical mass commercially, bypassing Billboard while hinting at the greater ambitions Fugees would later fulfill.

In retrospect, “Boof Baf” forms an imperfect but revealing snapshot of the group’s early days—a collision of chaos, potential, and identity still under construction.


Lifted from : The Fugees release their debut album . ‘Blunted on Reality’ (1994)

6 . Shakira . Estoy Aquí

In “Estoy Aquí,” Shakira constructs a vivid lament for a failed relationship, folding layers of longing into an infectious Latin house track.

The song’s crisp production, helmed by Luis Fernando Ochoa, complements Shakira’s lyrical narrative, where imagery such as “ahogándome” (drowning) pulls listeners into a sea of regret and yearning.

With its rhythmic shifts, the track oscillates between quiet introspection and a pulsing urgency, presenting heartbreak as both tender and relentless.

Released in 1995 as part of her album “Pies Descalzos,” it became her passport beyond Colombian borders, resonating widely across Latin America, Spain, and the United States.

The music video, a dual effort by Simon Brand and Christophe Gstalder, mirrors the song’s duality, juxtaposing warmth and melancholy with striking visuals that helped elevate Shakira into the global spotlight.

Its success laid the groundwork for her future as a genre-defying artist, celebrating vulnerability without losing its vibrant energy.


Lifted from : Happy Birthday Shakira

7 . Texas . Black Eyed Boy

“Black Eyed Boy,” the third single from Texas’s album “White on Blonde,” lands with a Motown groove that seems engineered to evoke nostalgia while maintaining a sharp edge of its own.

The track’s rhythm section carries a punchy momentum, giving the song an infectious energy that feels both classic and slightly rebellious, complemented by Sharleen Spiteri’s smoky, commanding vocals.

It’s a tight production, with layers that never overwhelm but instead buoy the track’s emotional weight—a neat trick that balances accessibility with depth.

The accompanying music video opts for a stark black-and-white aesthetic, adding a layer of drama to the already intense themes, but it exists in the curious realm between stylish noir and faint surrealism—a man running through a tunnel of Spiteri’s flaming images is as unsettling as it is mesmerizing.

Released in multiple formats with varying mixes, including the playful yet somehow dissonant “Black Eyed Disco,” the single broadens its appeal without diluting its essence.

By the time it reaches “The Greatest Hits” compilation, “Black Eyed Boy” feels less like a standout moment and more like a dependable anchor, reaffirming Texas’s knack for crafting earworms with genuine emotional stakes.


Lifted from : Texas release their fourth album . ‘White on Blonde’ featuring ‘Say What You Want,’ ‘Halo,’ ‘Black Eyed Boy’ and ‘Insane’ (1997)

8 . Depeche Mode . Barrel of A Gun

“Barrel of a Gun” doesn’t politely knock on your door—it kicks it down, dragging you into a world of jagged edges and murky introspection.

Depeche Mode, bruised from internal chaos, leans heavily into their industrial leanings here, with distorted vocals that almost feel like a nod—or a sneer—in the direction of Nine Inch Nails.

Martin Gore’s composition is unrelenting, a dark, swaggering stomp that mirrors the band’s collective scars from years of personal and professional turmoil.

The production by Tim Simenon is dense and claustrophobic, enveloping the song in a fog of smog-stained synths and jagged beats, as if trying to shield it (and us) from some unseen predator.

Chart watchers will note its impressive milestones: a rare number four peak in the UK, with global accolades stacked up like trophies—yet none of this feels celebratory, just evidence of impact.

Anton Corbijn’s music video cranks the surrealism dial to eleven: Dave Gahan, eyelids painted with makeshift eyeballs, sings with an unnerving intensity amidst Moroccan landscapes, a fitting visual counterpart to the song’s searing mood.

If this track is about catharsis, it’s the kind that scorches everything in its wake—a sonic exorcism rather than a cleanse.


Lifted from : On TV today, Depeche Mode at ‘TOTP’ (1997)

9 . David Bowie . Little Wonder

“Little Wonder” from David Bowie’s 1997 album *Earthling* is a frenetic cocktail of drum and bass chaos stitched together with Bowie’s trademark eccentricity.

Co-written with Reeves Gabrels, the track thrives on sheer unpredictability, a lyrical kaleidoscope Bowie himself admitted was born from a “ridiculous” stream-of-consciousness approach.

Released as the album’s second single, it carved out a spot at number 14 on the UK charts while inexplicably soaring to number one in Japan, proving that Bowie’s allure often defied logic as much as geography.

Live performances add fuel to its riotous energy, with standout moments at his jubilant 50th birthday concert in New York City and, memorably, an appearance on *Saturday Night Live* mere weeks later.

Its dystopian video—shaped by Floria Sigismondi’s surreal vision and Tony Oursler’s eerie video sculptures—is less a music video and more a cryptic visual carnival that now permanently resides at MoMA.

The track’s indiscriminate remixes, from the “Danny Saber Mix” to Junior Vasquez’s booming club iteration, offer moments of brilliance, though the song arguably works best as the beautiful mess it was first conceived to be.

Like much of *Earthling*, “Little Wonder” polarizes as fiercely as it captivates, balancing on the tightrope between experiment and overindulgence.


Lifted from : Virgin publish David Bowie’s twentieth album . ‘Earthling’ (1997)

10 . Alice Cooper . Hey Stoopid

Alice Cooper’s “Hey Stoopid” opens with a swagger that’s more barroom showdown than introspective lament, its title serving as both a sardonic taunt and a cautionary plea.

Assembled like a rock ’n’ roll Avengers team, the track pulls Slash, Ozzy Osbourne, Steve Vai, and Joe Satriani onto a single battlefield, each bringing their own sonic weaponry without it descending into outright chaos.

The guitars, courtesy of Slash, Vai, and Satriani, carve out jagged riffs and fluid solos—precision meeting rawness with scalpel-like finesse.

Ozzy’s vocal contributions, though understated, feel like a spectral commentary echoing through Cooper’s snide growl, while the rhythm section, led by Mickey Curry’s tight drumming, keeps the track from spiraling into overindulgence.

Lyrically, it’s part pep talk, part mockery, Cooper urging better choices while leaning into the nihilist humor that fits his persona like a pair of worn leather gloves.

Despite its eclectic lineup, the song doesn’t veer into ostentatious theater, opting instead to keep its hooks accessible, even radio-friendly, without sacrificing grit.

Chart performance paints a varied story, with greater success in Scandinavia than Stateside, suggesting its brash confidence struck a louder chord outside its home turf.

The production, overseen by Peter Collins, feels polished but stops just short of airbrushed—shiny enough to gleam but retaining those jagged edges that make glam-metal engaging.

“Hey Stoopid” might not rewrite rock’s rulebook, but it captures the gaudy, self-aware pageantry of its time, standing out even as it shamelessly embraces the clichés of the genre.


Lifted from : Happy Birthday Alice Cooper

11 . Pearl Jam . Wishlist

“Wishlist” by Pearl Jam is less a song and more a collection of daydreams dressed as music.

Eddie Vedder’s voice, plaintive and unpretentious, delivers a list of desires with the same earnestness you’d expect from someone scrawling them in the margins of a notebook.

The track sits comfortably in the middle ground between wistful poetry and restrained instrumentation, with Vedder doubling as guitarist alongside Mike McCready and Stone Gossard.

Jeff Ament on bass and Jack Irons on drums provide a rhythm section so unassuming, it almost feels like they’re keeping the song’s heartbeat a secret.

Produced with Brenden O’Brien’s usual knack for understated clarity, it’s a piece that shuffles quietly rather than demands attention.

When played live, it often stretches past its modest bounds, with extended solos and impromptu tweaks to the lyrics that turn it into something rawer and more immediate.

The 1998 recording’s B-sides, “U” and a live take of “Brain Of J.,” feel like unexpected postcards tucked into the back of a diary, giving listeners a little extra context about where the band was at that moment.

Some will say the song meanders, others might call it refreshingly unpolished—but Vedder’s humility here feels authentic as ever, even when the lyrics skirt the edge of sentimentality.

“Wishlist” isn’t trying to impress anyone, and that might be its quietest triumph.


Lifted from : Pearl Jam release their fifth album . ‘Yield’ featuring ‘Given to Fly’ (1998)

12 . Leftfield . Open Up

“Open Up” by Leftfield featuring John Lydon emerges as a blistering collision of electronic grit and punk rebellion.

Released on 1 November 1993 under the Hard Hands label, this trailblazing track straddles the bold terrain of Leftfield’s “Leftism” album.

Lydon’s signature snarl punches through the track, with incendiary lyrics like “Burn, Hollywood, burn” layering an unmistakable edge onto Leftfield’s pulsating beats.

The song clinched number 13 on the UK Singles Chart and found itself atop the *Music Week* Dance Singles chart, cementing its place as a 90s club staple.

*NME* praised it as the record fans had “always wanted Lydon to do,” and its enduring appeal landed it at number 444 on their 2014 “500 Greatest Songs of All Time” list.

A darkly evocative black-and-white music video, directed by Lindy Heymann, captures the track’s tension, providing a visual backdrop as stark as the song itself.

With mixes like the full vocal version and the surging Dervish Overdrive, its versatility isn’t lost on listeners, nor is its appearance on the “Hackers” soundtrack, which beams it firmly into pop culture’s underbelly.

Through tightly wound production and Lydon’s unapologetic vocals, “Open Up” strikes as both a charged critique and an electrifying anthem, refusing to compromise its raw power.


Lifted from : Happy Birthday John Lydon. ‘Looking Back In Anger’

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