60 Songs That Explain the '90s

by Rob Harvilla ★★★★★

In October of 2020, Rob Harvilla -- current writer for The Ringer and decades-long music critic and writer for various other publications -- decided to start a podcast, focused on the "60 songs that explain the '90s". The premise was that he'd choose one song each episode, and over the course of anywhere from 30-90 minutes, he and a rotating guest would dive deep on that song (and occasionally other tangents). The popularity of the podcast extended it beyond its original 60-song target to what eventually ended in March of 2024 at 124 episodes. Quite a run.

I never listened to the podcast prior to discovering the book, and so my appreciation of 60 Songs That Explain the '90s isn't me fanboying out to something with which I already had a connection; it was me coming in blind (or deaf, perhaps), and taking it all in for the first time. The book is essentially a summary of much of what was covered during the three-and-a-half year run of the podcast. However, instead of tens of thousands of words per song, Harvilla condenses it down to his most essential thoughts for each. He also groups the songs into categories, like "WOMEN VS. 'WOMEN IN ROCK'", or "ROMANCE + SEX + IMMATURITY" (and no, I didn't hit caps lock by accident; the chapters are all capitalized). The connections between the groupings of songs are sometimes clear, and sometimes loose, but it all ultimately works.

The book is great on a number of levels. For starters, the Chuck Klosterman quote on the cover -- "An increasingly rare thing: a book about pop music that's legitimately funny" -- is spot-on. There are dozens of laugh-out-loud moments in this book, many at the author's expense. Music is one of the most nostalgia-inducing things we have, and so talking about songs from the '90s naturally transports the reader (and Harvilla) back in time to when they first heard, or were regularly listening to, that music. Like me, Harvilla was in middle school, high school, and college during the '90s -- ah, those awkward and formative years! -- and looking back now he can self-deprecatingly reflect on the child and young man he was, both with derision at the absurd way his still-forming mind worked as well as with an appreciation for the impact music had on his own growth into manhood and ultimately how it led to his professional career.

The tone of the book is conversational throughout, perhaps because so much of the material was originally written for and presented on the podcast, but regardless, it takes "music critique" and turns it into more of a "music dialogue" between Harvilla and the reader. He frequently uses rhetorical questions that he swiftly answers with a repeating cadence or pattern. A prime example of this technique comes when he's examining the mid-to-late-'90s swing revival, as part of his exploration of "Zoot Suit Riot" by the Cherry Poppin' Daddies:

"Did neo-swing make perfect sense at the time? It probably didn't. Did I enjoy the occasional tune from the Squirrel Nut Zippers or the Brian Setzer Orchestra? Hell yes I did. Does 'Zoot Suit Riot' hold up now as a double-nostalgic pop song? Hell yes it does. Just now, did I make it all the way through a second Cherry Poppin' Daddies track? Hell no I didn't, but only because I picked a song called 'Here Comes the Snake' before deciding I didn't want any part of the Snake. Was this music escapist, in the classic pop-music sense? I guess, but don't ask me to explain why sexy young people in 1997 sought to escape to the halcyon days of, like, 1927 or 1937. I can't decide if this stuff is timeless, in the classic pop-music sense, or if the whole appeal is that it's proudly, explicitly dated. Either works, but either way it's way more fun if you do the goddamn dance, even if the goddamn dance is like 20 times harder than the Macarena."

Perhaps some of what makes this work so well is the fun that Harvilla has with it. Most music critics can be, shall we say, a touch pretentious and overly serious about their opinions (always presented as fact) regarding the music they are or are not enjoying. If Harvilla has that self-importance and superior attitude, it's severely tamped down in the book, and at most comes out when talking about critical darlings like Radiohead or Nirvana. But it's always fun, and while there are no shortage of opinions, they are buoyed by even more hard facts and history about the songs and the artists who made them.

One more quick quote from the book to illustrate the humor and the fun sprinkled throughout, this time as part of Harvilla's examination of Salt-N-Pepa's "Shoop", which he says "betrays (him) as the corniest dude alive":

"Here is my truth: Every time I listen to this song, when Pepa raps, 'Girls what's my weakness,' I physically point to a corner of the room or the car or wherever, as if cueing the imaginary girls there to yell, 'Men!' I look ridiculous. It's humiliating. I don't care. A song that compels you to gladly humiliate yourself is the mark of true greatness."

Speaking of true greatness, 60 Songs That Explain the '90s was enjoyable from the first word to the last. Near the end of the book, as he's talking about "A Long December" by Counting Crows, Harvilla writes, "I used to have this idea that my life would culminate with me creating one perfect thing that would justify all of it, right? A song, a record, a novel, a screenplay, a viral short story, a Smashed McDouble-caliber tweet -- I don't know. The fantasy changes. The goalposts move. But 'A Long December' when the winter light hits it just right -- when the song hits me just right -- feels like the platonic ideal of that endpoint, that artistic and professional peak of my whole existence. Make something this pure and this beloved, and you'll be as happy as you can be." I don't know if 60 Songs That Explain the '90s -- the book or the podcast -- is as perfect in Harvilla's mind as "A Long December", but if it is, he's far too modest to draw that connection within the pages. All I can say is that it entertained the shit out of me for the entirety of the time I spent listening to the book, and if it's not checking that "artistic and professional peak" box for him, it should. The book is fun and funny, poignant and nostalgic, and I found myself finding excuses to drive long distances or go for long walks so that I could listen to another chapter or two. It's a delightful romp through a bunch of songs you know -- and a few you almost certainly don't -- that will have you regularly taking breaks from Harvilla rhapsodizing about a song so you can go listen to it, remember where you were when you first heard it, and appreciate it even more given the additional insights you now have. Highly recommended, both in print and audiobook form.