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20.Kylie Minogue
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Like so many great pop records before it, “Can’t Get You Out Of My Head” represents a graceful collision of contrasts. It is both participative and private, matching perky singalong sections with intimate confessions, worried pleas, and moments of blissful surrender. Beneath the archetypal gay-disco bounce, an electric piano sketches a melancholy counterpoint, adding blue notes to the primary coloured template. A soaring, swooning glide of strings is subverted by a series of blaring electronic miaows, which in turn remind us of those strange purring noises which greeted us at the start of the track. Do they subliminally reinforce our image of Kylie-as-sex-kitten, or are they there to satirise, and gently debunk? We could chuckle at the arch wryness of it all… or we could dismiss all these jolly trappings as misleading flim-flam, a smokescreen for the “dark secret” which lies at the heart of the composition… or we could simply de-tune from the detail, yield to the magic, and luxuriate in its utter perfection.
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19. Hercules & Love Affair
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THE classic dance—not electronica—single of the '00s. Proving that he's still got it some 35 years after starting his career as a deejay, Knuckles takes a solid indie-dance cut with Antony Hegarty on vox and turns it into the classiest, most sumptuous disco record you've heard in ages—and turns the usually-annoying Antony into Sylvester in the process. James Murphy wishes he could make records this stunning. A swooning, swaying, lovemaking dancefloor monster that deserves every plaudit you can toss its way. Perfection.
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18. Radiohead
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In those four chords grabbed from Paul Lansky’s “Mild Und Liese,” Radiohead imbued utter, incapacitating panic. And not just the unnamed terror of the new millennium’s sustained end of history, but a more fundamental fear: natural disaster, madness, the apocalypse. Thom Yorke’s billboard-size pronouncements straddled the all-too-comfortable conflation of the victim and the oppressor. Should we believe Yorke’s assurance that “We’re not scaremongering,” or trust his ice-age paranoia?
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17.Lindstrom
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It's easy to forget, now that synthesizers appear in every form of popular music from hip-hop to country, that electronic music was once largely an instrumental, eccentric pursuit dominated by bearded professors, black astronauts, and Asian dudes. "I Feel Space" hearkens back to the eras of academic synthesizer music and early techno without bowing to the conventions of either, just as it evokes "I Feel Love" without resorting to gratuitous homage or Diddy-style thievery.
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16. T.I.
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Here we go: Donny Hathaway penned the Impressions' rueful "Gone Away," which was covered two years later by Roberta Flack (featuring Hathaway on piano). Nearly 40 years after that, DJ Toomp interpolated the orchestral passage in Flack's cover for "What You Know." Three stone classics. You know, of course, that T.I. transmutes a text of lost love into dread creep, the sound of a 'Lac with tint like black holes. Toomp drives the melody into the earth, a doomy, boiling bass tailored to T.I.'s caveman snarl. The best part—a transcendant addition to the pop syntax—is the synthesized mens' choir coursing through the refrain, a Greek chorus for the damned. For his part, Tip breaks off laconic couplets like a dog snapping necks, all looming menace and aroused ire. When he wisecracks, it's like watching Dirty Harry slip a grin. By the end, it barely matters who drew his disdain. (For the record, it's Lil' Flip.) As usually occurs when hunger wanes, T.I. hasn't come close to this altitude, releasing a string of dense, didactic pop hits before his arrest on weapons charges. Will pop exile sufficiently gnaw at T.I.? It may be up to Toomp.
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15. M.O.P.
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Billy Danze and Lil' Fame's sui generis robber manifesto isn't about yanking jewels or kidnapping fools. Not if you've ever battle-rapped. Take it from an ex-cafeteria rhymer: tracks like “Ante Up” have little social value other than tuning your heartbeat into a kick drum. “Yap 'em/Dap 'em” might as well be “Yabba dabba.” Funkmaster Flex's spittle-flecked intro, Lil' Fame's exasperated first verse—essentially a list of items you will be removing from your person—are all but warm-up music for young, hoodied Eminems unloading bile and building adrenaline in a public toilet. Instead of plotting a career in auditing your “Cristal money” and “pis-tal money,” focus on the royal horns and a call-response mastery livelier and more sinful than Jurassic 5's: “Get 'em (get 'em) get 'em!” “Hit 'em (hit 'em) hit 'em!” See you in the restroom.
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14. Eminem
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It’s hard to understand all these years later, but there was something so instantly fascinating about “Stan” on first listen: how it could take such a cute, pedestrian verse to symbolize an obsessive fan’s descent into madness and self-destruction; how Eminem’s rap could sound so realistic, like he's a friend telling you this story. The dense, haunting bass line and subtle sound effects creating an aura of suspense in a rap song. It’s just so shocking, raw, beautiful—a tragedy without melodrama. Many people now overlook “Stan” because of its notable after-effects, among which are its controversial music video, addition into the cultural lexicon as a derisive term, and of course Dido’s career. Quite the shame, though, because, almost a decade after its release, there are few songs as blindly fascinating and striking as this.
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13. The Knife
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It’s no surprise that the most striking images accompanying “Heartbeats” are of the thrill of gravity—big hills, skateboards, and bouncing balls. Sure, Karin Dreijer Andersson might sing of “the hands of above,” but the song’s melody is what really soars, swoops, and eventually fleeces the cotton candy center of the electro-pop track. Spanning rock-solid remixes and remakes (Rex the Dog and José González), there’s a core of yearning and melody that’s never lost in translation. Years later, though, the original is still the most surprising. The song is a grab bag of chintzy electro-effects—tropical steel drums, faux-stadium electronic snares, wobbling synthesizer sweeps—that somehow make Karin’s uncanny English sound even more desperate, lost and oh so intoxicating. It’s a bit like the unsettling feeling in your gut when you’re moving too fast to stop.
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12. M.I.A.
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Rock ‘n roll, hip-hop, jazz, dancehall, it doesn’t matter. One of the prime objectives, if not the prime objective, has always been the creation and projection of cool, and quite possibly the coolest motherfucker currently living is Maya Arulpragasam. You’re free to read “Paper Planes” as politically, racially, or sexually subversive if you wish, but the real reason it so overwhelmingly succeeds is because every single element of it is almost unbelievably fucking bad-ass. Like any great rock or rap star, M.I.A. knows how to manipulate outlaw iconography and the dark shadows of history to her own advantage, whether it be audible gun blasts, a knowing Clash sample, slangy hustler talk, or a shout-out to the KGB. Even the invocation of murder is rendered into a playground taunt, putty in the hands of Maya’s untouchable insouciance.
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11. LCD Soundsystem
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I don’t like blurbs that try and pin cultural significance on songs when we reach fin de siècle moments, be it the little annual polls or these big damn decade jobs that everyone’s doing at the moment. But, you know what? If you spent the 00s wired up to Soulseek, surfing through Stylus and Pitchfork and Allmusic, if you started a blog to upload MP3s to, if you hung around on ILM chewing the pan-Atlantic fat about grime or microhouse or whatever, then this tune, this litany of musical-one-upmanship, this list of bands… it was the closest thing to a bible for the 00s music geek. Of course, even if you weren’t a particular kind of ravenously vampiric online music fascist, it was great to dance to, too.
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10. Missy Elliott
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In this song, there are no rules. It’s like a variety shop in space. And it’s copywritten, so don’t copy it.
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9.Kelly Clarkson
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For those who had followed Kelly Clarkson since her days on American Idol, “Since U Been Gone” was an unexpected turn. Far from the M.O.R. balladry that had defined her TV appearances, this was an emotionally charged rock anthem, with hard-hitting drums and a scuzzy guitar solo that wouldn’t sound out of place on a Yeah Yeah Yeahs album. It was also skillful pop songwriting par excellence (from industry heavies Dr. Luke and Max Martin), featuring taut verses that suddenly burst into a monster chorus, and the robust-voiced Clarkson sold every note of it. In the context of Breakaway, an album full of songs about feeling trapped (its cover even depicts Clarkson claustrophobically smushed into the corner), “Since U Been Gone” is a rare victory. Beyond that, it’s a thrilling act of pure catharsis that practically demands you shout along with it, fist pumped high in the air.
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8. Three 6 Mafia
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“For the first time in history, baby…”—it begins with an exhortation almost apocalyptic in its melodrama and does not let up. This is the view from the summit, this is what it feels like when you get to the top and won’t—or maybe can’t—get back down. Slick and syrup-dense, this is what it feels like when you’re far too fucked up to even contemplate a comedown. The Tennessee posse take Willie Hutch’s 1973 album cut “Tell Me Why Did Our Love Turn Cold” and warp it to the point where its slick soulfulness becomes exhilaratingly inhuman. Each verse competes with the last to pledge allegiance to their substances of choice in ever more bombastic terms, sometimes paranoid, sometimes funny, never less than completely committed to keeping the party going. When hedonism sounds this good, staying high really is the only option.
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7.Amerie
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“1 Thing” is a song about a crush. There’s nothing inherently novel about that idea—hell, you could easily fill the Library of Congress with a list of songs about sexless attraction. But what separates “1 Thing” from the rest of these pretenders can be distilled from that sample. From the instant that guitar chord meets Ziggy Modeliste’s syncopated drum fill, you’re led through the dizzying highs of instant infatuation. The immediate surrender, the giddy rush, the allure, the blinding irrationality, and ultimate giving in to lust and temptation, it’s all located within those few seconds. This argument would be suspect had Amerie not delivered the vocal of a lifetime, conveying both the assertiveness to get what she wants, and the resulting hysteria from trying to actually take it; she doesn’t so much sing the lyrics as command them. This is the real sound of being crazy in love, even if it’s just for a moment.
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6. Outkast
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No "One...Two...One two three four..." count-off foreboded more imminent destruction this decade. Really, it wasn't nearly enough—the oncoming onslaught of "B.O.B. (Bombs Over Baghdad)" was something most listeners needed years to prepare for, and even longer to properly wrap their heads around. To say no hit single this decade was weirder, cooler, more exciting or more eye-wideningly unexpected would be something of a misnomer, but only because "B.O.B." wasn't nearly as big a hit as you probably remember, barely even scraping the hip-hop charts. That's just how awesome the thing sounded—it didn't need more than a couple plays to make you feel like it had been in heavy rotation for years. Ultimately, ex-Styluser Anthony Miccio best summarized the song's interstellar bombast: "Dream for 2025: My kids tell me they get why ‘B.O.B.’ was ‘A big deal at the time, but it's sort of generic now.’"
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5. Daft Punk
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Its narrative plays out as a dream sequence: emerging from slumber at the start of the track, and retreating to it at the end. During the introductory vocal section, the dreamer recalls his dream, willing it into life. Behind him, the music sounds inside-out: a negative image of the dance track you’re itching for it to become. A curling Pepperland trumpet enters, escorting you to the threshold. The bass thump kicks in, there’s an explosion of colour—and then you’re off and away, spinning around in a world beyond language, jumping from bridge to bridge, dipping into the calm waters of a Supertramp piano figure, then spiralling skywards with a Frampton-esque talk-box cadenza. As the freak-out peaks, you’re turning somersaults in the clouds, freed from accepted notions of good taste—or at least, the notions of good taste which prevailed in 2001, before the widespread aesthetic rehabilitation of soft-rock and symphonic pop. Daft Punk might have had a quiet decade thereafter—but for helping to remove guilt’s hold over pleasure, we should salute them.
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4. LCD Soundsystem
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For a graying dude who looks a bit like Brett Favre’s ne’er-do-well brother, James Murphy has aged with grace. His DFA label has become lingua franca in the decade’s conversation about cool, but Murphy increasingly expresses the desire to quit the discourse. “All My Friends” finds Murphy creeping towards 40, his lyrical subject realizing that growing old can’t be all about the missed opportunities. Murphy even claims that he wouldn’t return his regrets for another decade of life. He’s taking ownership of his past, warts and all, with the knowledge that if he gave back the pain, then the result just wouldn’t be him.
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3. The Rapture
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Sadly ranking a distant second in the “best use of a cowbell” stakes behind Christopher Walken and Will Farrell’s immortal BOC homage, The Rapture’s “House of Jealous Lovers” managed to be the one indelible memory of the short-lived “punk funk” movement. While the DFA have gone on to greener pastures and the Rapture have gone on to, um, browner ones, “House” cemented their immortality alongside the champions of the Grime, Grunge, Romo, and Mash-up divisions, among others. Cowbell jokes aside, this is a perfect encapsulation of a certain period, the kind of song that will take listeners back to a time and place as if it were yesterday when they hear it years from now. Not a bad little legacy at all.
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2. Outkast
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Mark was a trance DJ. He didn't talk to me about music because he knew I wasn't into trance. Annie was a huge Westlife fan. She didn't talk to me about music because she knew I wasn't into Westlife. Jack didn't talk to me about music because he was eight years old. In the space of a week each one of them started excited conversations with me about one song. "It's wicked," Mark told me; "It's amazing!" Annie told me; "I love it!" Jack told me; "I know!" I said. Then the video came out. Next time I saw them, we talked about it again. You can guess how it went because you had the same conversations. "Hey Ya!" acted like a decade-best song from day one: it opened eyes, it energised people, and there was almost no dissension. "It's not hip-hop," a few whined; "but listen to what it is," everyone replied. So, we could talk about its exuberance, its charisma, its bravery, its dichotomous structure, its odd time signature, its veiled ambiguity; but I know y'all don't want to hear me, you just want to dance.
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1. R. Kelly
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Since I consider Rick James’ music neither funny nor sexy—the thinness of the voice and the metallic glaze on the synths abet his sweat-covered smarm—Robert Sylvester Kelly’s stuff, pitched at a similar level, has mostly coasted past me. So what does “Ignition” do better than not just every R.Kelly single of the last ten years, but every other single? This low, dishonest decade inspired anger and fear, as well as the best R&B records since the early 1980s. The genre didn't turn inward so much as concentrate on its essentials: finding musical correlatives for politics-as-sex, for conversation-as-sex, for, oh yeah, driving-as-sex. "Ignition" is all bounce-bounce-bounce, as sleek as the Lexus Coupe that Kelly's so proud of, a freakin' weekend spent with click tracks and Kelly's burr, which is as well-deployed as his falsetto. Never mind how his biography creeps into the studio; on "Ignition" he sounds so grateful that he's got something expensive in which he can fuck his girl that I don't see how she can resist, as long as her lawyers draft a pre-nup agreement. By the way, his metaphor makes sense: he loves that car more than his girl. And why not? He's a machine himself, only don't tell him that "sex" doesn't modify that noun.
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