Casual observers of this series have probably wondered, more than once, why I’m bothering to track those rock-era singles that, like a dolphin rejected from Sea World, couldn’t quite jump through the brass ring. After all, who really cares about chart placements? And isn’t Number Two practically as good as Number One, particularly when everybody’s making so much money? But if there’s one decade that proves why this stuff is vitally important … to somebody, at least … it’s the ’90s.
To put it simply, the Billboard Hot 100 charts of that decade were messed up. (I put it somewhat less than simply in a long-winded column last year.) The pop radio format split in two, resulting in charts that rarely reflected anybody’s actual listening experience. Major labels stopped manufacturing singles for many artists (mostly white ones) in an effort to sell more albums, which resulted in huge radio hits that never qualified for the Hot 100. The advent of precise technology for measuring retail sales and radio airplay resulted in singles topping the charts and staying … and staying … and staying. And as I discussed last week, superstars like Michael Jackson, Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston and Boyz II Men were so desperate to top the charts, and keep up with the competition, that they conspired with their labels to withhold the retail releases of their new singles until the songs peaked at radio, then flooded the marketplace with discounted product to ensure #1 chart debuts.
As a result of these and other, more random developments, the #2 singles of the ’90s were a fascinating bunch. There were huge hits that were simply blocked by huger ones, and great songs that stalled behind ones whose popularity now leaves us scratching our heads. There were oldies that re-emerged after decades, and the two longest-running chart hits of all time (for the moment). So away we go – and, as always, at the end of the column I’ll list some additional singles that were stranded at third base so we can argue which ones most deserved to score.
11. (tie) “Right Here, Right Now,”Jesus Jones; “P.A.S.S.I.O.N.,” Rhythm Syndicate; “Every Heartbeat,” Amy Grant; “It Ain’t Over Til It’s Over,” Lenny Kravitz; and “Fading Like a Flower (Every Time You Leave),”Roxette. What do these wildly disparate singles have in common? They all were blocked from the top spot during the summer of ’91 by the same song, Bryan Adams’ treacly Robin Hood anthem “(Everything I Do) I Do It for You.” (It was the first of three Adams soundtrack singles – all of them god-awful, in my opinion – to top the charts during the ’90s.) Adams spent seven weeks at #1 while holding off five different competitors – the highest number of second-place finishers thwarted by the same single since Percy Faith’s “Theme from A Summer Place” was #1 in 1960. The only one of the five to earn a second week at #2 was – surprise – “P.A.S.S.I.O.N.” In honor of that fact – and because its video is the only one of the five to feature fire (fire! fire!), scantily clad dancers and an atrocious white-boy rap — I’m happy to showcase it here. (more…)
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Ever been dumped? Stings, don’t it? We know. Believe me, we at Popdose know. Last year, as Valentine’s Day approached, many of the Popdose staffers gathered to trade stories of being dumped. After our “boys and girls” Iron John weekend, we wrote our stories of heartache and woe, and like idiots we posted our pain for all to shake their collective heads at – my sob story can be read here and was penned when I went by the moniker “Py Korry.”
Yes, I know Valentine’s Day will be here in a matter of days, but sometimes you gotta be a contrarian and do a little something for those who have loved, lost and are still bitter they got dumped.
But never fear, dear readers: we here at Popdose won’t be pissing in the punchbowl on Valentine’s Day. We have something special planned where “the softer side” of the staff will be laid bare, shorn of any cynical edges.
Peter Wolf and his ex-pals from the band must have sent Adam Sandler a big bag of blow in the shape of a heart after he used this song to great effect in The Wedding Singer. Indeed, there’s a kind of cultural divide between those who know this song from when it came out in 1980 (and during the early years of MTV) and those who know it from the movie. But it doesn’t matter when you heard it first, because 10 seconds into the song, you know you’re hearing a classic. And, to be frank, if I didn’t lead with a “top of the hour cooker” like “Love Stinks,” my claim to bluntness would have been hollow.
Like many suburban teenagers, I was first introduced to world of ska by the plaid-clad, Boston-based, masters of merchandising the Mighty Mighty Bosstones.It was the first time I ever became part of a subculture, and even then it was only in a limited sense.I went to just about every show that I found out about, but I never started dressing like a mod or riding a scooter (an image so brilliant realized by Phil Daniels in Quadrophenia), and while I dreamily entertained the idea of starting my own band called “Boss Tweed,” I was never part of the scene as anything more than just another kid in the crowd.
But I learned the history as well as anyone literate enough to read the FAQs hosted at the Usenet group alt.music.ska, and it dawned on me pretty quickly that the Bosstones weren’t a pure ska band – they were “ska-core” and happily described themselves as such on their EP album Ska-core, the Devil, and More (1993).I was surprised to learn that ska originally emerged from Jamaica in the sixties, and was actually a predecessor to reggae.The genre went through three distinct generations, and the music I was swinging my elbows to was actually part of the third wave.
Even though I was never fully immersed in the ska scene, it never failed to infuriate me to see the media get hopelessly confused over what ska actually was.Bands were often described as “ska” simply because they included a brass instrument or two, or followed ska’s distinctive musical structure of emphasizing the “up” phase of a beat.Bands like Goldfinger (pop/punk) and Sublime (reggae/dub) were haphazardly thrown into the category without recognizing that all true ska bands a) had horn players and b) consisted of at least five people, and usually more.I remember flaming the hell out of Christopher John Farley when he wrote up a brief article on ska for Time, and actually getting a direct response.But nothing upon nothing fueled my ninety-pound keyboard commando rages more than hearing the Southern California rock band No Doubt described as a “ska band.”
Casual observers of this series have probably wondered, more than once, why I’m bothering to track those rock-era singles that, like a dolphin rejected from Sea World, couldn’t quite jump through the brass ring. After all, who really cares about chart placements? And isn’t Number Two practically as good as Number One, particularly when everybody’s making so much money? But if there’s one decade that proves why this stuff is vitally important … to somebody, at least … it’s the ’90s.
Like many suburban teenagers, I was first introduced to world of ska by the plaid-clad, Boston-based, masters of merchandising the Mighty Mighty Bosstones.