Blond Brit Billy Idol snarled his way out of the punk scene and into the pop-rock stratosphere. He knew punk was already dead and if he wanted the attention he felt was rightfully his, he’d need to trade in rage for radio hooks without grinding away too much of his edge. His pretty face alone could’ve made him a star in the age of MTV, but you can’t see cheekbones through a radio speaker.

So Idol teamed up with Keith Forsey, a disco-scene veteran turned hitmaker, and together they crafted a brand of bratty, electric pop perfectly suited to Idol’s emerging persona: the strung-out sex god every teenage girl wanted to screw, and every teenage boy wanted to be. (I was a member of the first group.)

“White Wedding” was the ideal showcase for Idol’s moody, crotch-grabbing vocals. It had just enough guitar snarl and breakneck energy to nod toward his punk roots, but the real magic was in the candy: that “Hey, little sister” hook, the pulsing bass, and those synth stabs—pure pop brilliance. Idol wasn’t a powerhouse vocalist, but with a track this tight, that didn’t matter.

And then came the video: a crash course in sexual rebellion. The camera lingered on Idol’s brooding scowls, exaggerated lip pouts, and icy blue eyes like it had a crush of its own. No shirts were harmed in the making of this video—just plenty of teenage libidos. Sure, “White Wedding” would’ve been a hit no matter who sang it, but let’s not kid ourselves: Billy Idol’s sex appeal pushed it over the top.

And listen—when the time came to quietly choose between the smooth path of straightness or the tangled, technicolor journey of being a fag, it was Idol’s videos that helped me tick the box marked Poof for Life. God bless eyeliner, leather pants, and whatever casting director told Idol to look directly into the camera and pout those lips just a bit harder for the girls...

...and the guys.

Man, what a hackneyed song—but a good hook is a good hook, for Christ's sake. And “1, 2, 3” has hooks coming out of its booty hole. That spooky little ascending piano line that creeps in during the chorus? Easily my favorite touch. Like most of Gloria Estefan’s catalog, I’ve never once been tempted to buy the cassette single, pull it up on YouTube, or request it from a radio DJ. But when “1, 2, 3” comes on, I don’t reach for the dial, either. In fact, if I’m not paying attention, there’s a decent chance I’ll start toe-tapping right along with it.

Estefan and the boys specialized in this kind of non-invasive, risk-free pop—music so safe it would sooner slit its own wrists than offend anyone. And that formula worked wonders. Throughout the late ’80s, it helped turn Gloria Estefan into a pioneer of the Latin pop crossover wave that would later take over pop markets worldwide. Before Bad Bunny, Ricky Martin, Karol G, or those dudes who sang “Despacito,” there was Gloria and the Miami Sound Machine, doing the heavy lifting—using their maracas not to shake the system, but to gently knock on the doors that future Latin artists would salsa right through without being stopped by security.

Correction: Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine weren’t a decades-long duo on the pop charts. In fact, “Let It Loose”—the album that gave us “1, 2, 3”—was the last time the band was billed alongside her. I imagine Gloria and husband/manager/Svengali Emilio eventually got tired of splitting the paycheck 19 ways when it was crystal clear who the real draw was. Spoiler: It wasn’t the trombone section.

Nellee Hooper is one of those bomb-ass producers with the Midas touch whose name somehow always gets left off the list when people talk about iconic music producers. To be honest, I knew almost nothing about him until recently—and only just found out he’s white. But I ain’t even gonna hold that against him, because this man was behind landmark recordings by Soul II Soul, Massive Attack, Madonna, and Sinéad O’Connor. And let’s not forget: he played a major role in shaping the early solo career of far-out Icelander Björk (don’t ask me to type her last name—my keyboard can’t produce those characters).

Even back when she was with the Sugarcubes—an alternative group that was Iceland’s answer to, well, everything. That country hasn’t really given us much else that isn’t Björk-related, has it? I vaguely remember the Sugarcubes in college, but they made zero impression on me. It wasn’t until “Human Behaviour” from Björk’s solo debut—cleverly titled “Debut”—that I got intrigued.

The fourth single from that record, “Big Time Sensuality,” is the one that stuck with me. That signature Nellee Hooper sound was everywhere in the downtown NYC lounges and clubs back then. Unlike most of Björk’s catalog, “Big Time Sensuality” didn’t need Junior Vasquez to come remix it into something playable—it was already club-ready straight out the box. Sure, the Sugarcubes were critical darlings, but they came and went largely unnoticed by the mainstream. So when Björk went solo, she clearly wanted to keep her edge, but also knew she needed a more palatable sound to get on the radio. Because—even in Iceland—folks got bills to pay.

“Big Time Sensuality” paid the bills. It became one of Björk’s most recognizable hits because, let’s be honest, there aren’t many Björk songs you’ll catch yourself humming while making photocopies at work. But with that sharp, ascending hook, the electro-bass groove, and a melodic bridge, this one you could absolutely cut a rug to at Happy Hour in your local gay bar. And really, isn’t that what all music artists strive for?

“Debut” remains Björk’s most successful and accessible album, but she’s released several records that are engaging, strange, and yes, way out there. If you’re not open-minded or your tolerance for unconventional sound is low, you may want to call it a day after her sophomore album "Post"—which, yes, was also produced by Hooper.

I like Björk. I helped make her a star by buying at least three of her albums. And according to Wikipedia: “Björk would later become an internationally successful solo musician and the best-selling Icelandic musician of all time.”

That’s nice and all.

But seriously… who’s number two?

What lies beyond the edge of the universe? How did they carve and move those big heads on Easter Island? Why were No Doubt so fuckin’ popular?

These are mysteries we may never fully comprehend. But one thing that’s crystal clear is this: when you bring together producer Nellee Hooper and the mighty Neptunes duo—Chad Hugo and Pharrell Williams—somethin' good finna happen. (Side note: I only just now found out Nellee produced this track.)

“Hella Good” is a sweaty, swaggering treasure trove of power chords and a drum beat that blatantly nods to the “Billie Jean” intro. It’s immediately recognizable and does little to hide the fact that its aim is to bring out the California cool in all of us and nothing more; this is music meant to amp up the party, not save the panda from extinction. Mission accomplished.

I’ve always thought of Gwen Stefani as a squeaky, bargain-bin version of Dale Bozzio (from Missing Persons)—someone who desperately needed the right song to hold my attention. Well, “Hella Good” is that song. And honestly? I don’t care that the production—a heady collision of clanking metal, synth zaps, and guitar sparks—swallows her whole.

In fact, the only thing about the song that doesn’t come across as all amped up is Stefani. And yet, there she is, breathlessly ordering us to “keep on dancin'” with all the enthusiasm of an Oh Henry! bar that’s been left to melt on the sidewalk. No matter. The song does its part in keeping us dancin'. “Hella Good” is that rare track so structurally tight and hook-packed, it could’ve been fronted by Stefani or Flo from Progressive, and you still would’ve rocked. Songs this infectious require neither presence nor charisma from the singer—and lucky for us, Gwen brought neither.

On the strength of this single, I went ahead and downloaded the parent album, “Rock Steady”, and to my surprise… I didn't hate on it like I thought I would. I’m a sucker for mindless fun, and that’s exactly what this record delivers. By this point, No Doubt had banked enough goodwill to call in the big names to lend a hand: Nellee Hooper, Ric Ocasek, Sly & Robbie, even Prince. But “Hella Good” is the undeniable standout.

The rest? Harmless. Breezy. Fun. But “Hella Good” is the one that earns its spot on the playlist. Even if Gwen’s just along for the ride.

Back then, little did we know that the most scandalous thing about “White Horse” wasn’t the part where the voice snarled, “You got to be a bitch!” I mean, yeah, that raised a few eyebrows—but what my 12-year-old brain couldn’t possibly have grasped was that this Danish duo was offering a full-blown PSA on drug hierarchy. Turns out “riding the white horse” was slang for heroin—something we were being warned against. Nancy Reagan would approve. But instead of riding the white horse, Laid Back suggests we ride the white pony, which I would later learn meant cocaine. Great! A message the whole family can get behind.

Meanwhile, in that same year, Melle Mel was over on the radio shouting about not doing “White Lines”. Again, I had no idea what he was talking about. Laundry detergent? Johnson & Johnson’s baby powder? All I knew is that when “White Horse” hit the breakdown, we pulled our dance partner close and Freaked. Her. Down. As low as human joints would allow. We weren’t thinking about addiction—we were just trying not to pull a muscle in our backs.

Nobody in the U.S. had heard of Laid Back’s European hit “Sunshine Reggae” (thankfully), and not enough Black folks had seen the unhinged video for “White Horse”, so no one realized the band looked like a pair of Nazi pharmacists stomping through Poland in 1941. And the record company refused to put the faces on the record sleeve. That anonymity worked in their favor. “White Horse” managed to top the U.S. Dance Charts and even top out at No. 6 on the R&B charts—yes, R&B.

Meanwhile, “Sunshine Reggae”—which had been the original A-side—became a #1 hit all over Europe, Africa, and South America, thanks in part to the accompanying video featuring said pharmacists frolicking on the beach like they’d just escaped the Nuremberg trials and defected to Argentina. But in the States, it was the B-side that made waves. “White Horse” was re-released as a lead single and quickly earned a spot on sweaty dance clubs playlist and teenage headphones everywhere.

Years later, the song would be sampled by R&B semi-star Monifah, whose slut-bucket anthem “Touch It” became her biggest hit and solidified “White Horse” as a song that had some serious staying power.

People my age remember when “White Horse” came on the radio, they had to bleep out “bitch”. If you wanted the uncensored version—and trust me, we did—you had to listen to it privately on your Walkman, lest you get grounded for the weekend. That feels almost quaint now, considering a song like “WAP” can debut at #1 and become a TikTok anthem for teens and grandmas alike.

Is that progress or what…?

Only big noises could come out of a mouth that huge. Luckily, Taylor Dayne figured out how to turn all that noise pollution into a joyful noise—because if you’ve ever been to Long Island, you already know they believe “the louder, the better.”

When the ’80s rolled in with their Uber-hairsprayed, bedazzled, neon-colored madness, Long Islanders parked their IROC-Zs right in the middle of it all and have refused to move them ever since. For the uninitiated, picture unfunny versions of the mom and grandma from "The Nanny"… now multiply the tackiness by ten. Twisted Sister didn’t have to search far for makeup inspiration, and Mariah Carey’s decades-long allergy to fashion restraint? Straight out of the Long Island DNA.

Still, the place has given us some cool exports—Pat Benatar, Eddie Murphy, Rakim, Method Man, and my first love, the incomparable Tony Danza. (Though let’s be honest: Long Island also seems more prone to produce pustules like Tucker Carlson than trailblazers like Harvey Milk.)

Taylor Dayne? She’s from that first group—the “good” side of the island—and she took her natural-born loudness and put it to work. “I’ll Always Love You” is a decent song on paper, but without Taylor’s full-throated, sassy, mic-eating delivery, it wouldn’t be worth a spit. The track calls for tenderness, and there are milliseconds of it here, but mostly it’s an excuse for her to sing like she’s trying to reach New Jersey without a PA system. Honestly, she almost sounds angry about always loving this guy. But that’s just the Long Island in her: every emotional expression, no matter how intimate, delivered at full stadium volume.

And lucky for us, the loudness that came out of Dayne’s big mouth was worth celebrating. We'll see more of Taylor and that glorious, hippopotamus-sized mouth on this countdown.

This song probably deserves a spot on the Black Singles chart, seeing as it’s basically a Del tha Funky Homosapien solo track with a slacker dude singing the hook. That slacker is Blur’s Damon Albarn, the co-creator of the animated band Gorillaz. His mopey, detached vocals contrast perfectly with Del’s spry, caffeinated delivery—as Del steps into character as Del Tha Ghost Rapper, a spirit possessing the band’s drummer Russel, or… something like that. (No, I don’t really get it either.)

What I do get is Gorillaz’s appeal: the genre-smashing audacity, the collage-like production, the refusal to be pinned down. “Clint Eastwood” hits that sweet spot between optimism and existential dread, cruising along at an unbothered tempo with a childlike little piano loop that makes the whole thing feel both simple and strange. Somehow, all the clashing ingredients fuse into something that feels right. In an era when the charts were suffocating under the weight of Britney clones and boy bands, “Clint Eastwood” sounded like it arrived from a much more interesting place. Alongside Radiohead and early Coldplay, Gorillaz were one of the few contemporary acts I actively listened to at the turn of the century.

The song never name-drops Clint Eastwood, but I’m guessing that “sunshine in a bag” is a nod to "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly", where Eastwood’s character stashes gold in—you guessed it—a bag. I always assumed the “sunshine” in this case was some particularly sticky ganja, but I can't be right all the time.

Now, props to Gorillaz for creating a multi-ethnic virtual band. That said… did the Asian member really have to be a martial arts expert AND be named Noodle? Stereotype much? Why stop there? Call the Black member Chicken Wing and the white dude Cracker while you’re at it. The racial optics were more than a little wonky, but OK.

Still, problematic caricatures aside, Gorillaz were onto something. They predicted that “the future is coming on,” and damn if they weren’t right. The future did come on. Just like 2-D said it would.

Unlike Robert Palmer, Steve Winwood did the smart thing: he left Chaka Khan’s powerhouse vocals in the final mix of his mega-hit “Higher Love.” That decision paid off. The track went on to win two Grammy Awards, featured the guitar wizardry of Nile Rodgers, and opened with a burst of Brazilian-inspired percussion that blessed the rhythm from start to finish.

“Higher Love” is one of those quintessential ’80s anthems that explodes out of the speakers and instantly electrifies the air. It marked a sharp turn from Winwood’s earlier solo fare like “Valerie,” a soft synth ditty that your dad probably snapped his fingers to while driving around in his station wagon—if your dear ol' dad’s white, that is. And though many might not have realized it, Winwood was once the lead singer of the Spencer Davis Group (of “Gimme Some Lovin’” fame)—a fact often lost on listeners who assumed the lead singer of the Spencer Davis Group was Spencer Davis.

By the time “Higher Love” dropped in 1986, it had been 20 years since Winwood had fronted a song that topped the Billboard Hot 100. But with this dazzling, intricate, high-energy jam, his comeback was sealed—and it was only the beginning. The "Back in the High Life" album would catapult him to full-fledged MTV-era stardom, making his one of the most impressive and unexpected comeback stories of the decade.

Around that time, a very tired Whitney Houston casually told producer Narada Michael Walden that “Higher Love” was one of her favorite songs. Inspired, he flew to L.A. and secretly cooked up a backing track and got her in the booth to record her own version. But in one of those truly baffling music industry decisions, the song wasn’t included on her next album and instead wound up as a Japan-only B-side.

Fast-forward to 2019, when Norwegian DJ and twink-on-a-stick Kygo got his hands on the unreleased Houston track. He remixed it into a sleek tropical house version that became a posthumous global hit—bringing the song full circle and giving Whitney her due on a track she never got to showcase in her lifetime.

Circling back to Robert Palmer...well, the story gets murkier. “Addicted to Love” was originally recorded as a duet with Chaka Khan, but when the final version was released, her vocals had mysteriously vanished. No one gave me a straight answer as to why when I demanded one. Khan herself has speculated that it was likely due to record label politics, specifically the kind that tend to surface when race and radio formats collide.

Let’s just say some folks at the top really could’ve looked to Winwood for a lesson in higher love.

(Has anyone else noticed how Billy misspelled his own last name? Is he dyslexic?)

Anway, I’m not a fan of hard rock music, but when a song comes along that’s this anthemic and ass-kicking from start to finish, you gotta add it to your playlist. Man, what a killer riff—accentuated by crashing, echo-y drums that sound like a filing cabinet full of loose papers being dumped on your head. Or something.

The track’s sparse, pulsating beat and sudden guitar blasts move at the pace of a very nice sexual experience. It practically begs you to do that dance where you gyrate your hips forward and backward in a slow, suggestive rhythm like the slut you are. And in the video, Billy’s jeans are so tight and jacked up so high you can clearly make out the outline of his pee-pee and ball sac. Meanwhile, the background singers are chanting “stroke me, stroke me”—so why exactly wouldn’t we think this song is about getting a hand job?

Well, Billy Squier insists that’s not what he meant. He got all huffy in interviews, claiming the “smut” in question wasn’t about getting off—it was about the music industry screwing over artists. Really, Billy? So you went and put your dick on full display to make that point?!

All those teenage boys who ran around singing that chorus felt deeply betrayed by this revelation. “The Stroke” had become the I-want-you-to-slob-my-knob anthem of the playground, and now you’re telling us it’s about… corporate exploitation? Da fuq.

But poetic justice came for Squier not long after, when he became the only major artist in history whose MTV video actually destroyed his career. In 1984, he released “Rock Me Tonite”, and its accompanying video—directed by none other than Kenny Ortega of “High School Musical” fame—featured Billy prancing around in a pink tank top, flailing his arms like a coked-out chicken trying to take flight unsuccessfully. Squier’s moves were so ridiculously hilarious and cringeworthy that the arenas he once filled instantly went empty. And worse, he became the target of speculation about his sexuality and was also gay-bashed. (I'm sure the LGBTQ community must've issued an official statement clarifying that, with those dance moves, Billy was clearly not one of us.)

Maybe this was his record label’s revenge for the mixed messages he sent with “The Stroke”. After all, one of the reasons that song became so massive was because we all thought it was about getting jacked off in the backseat of a car, not a critique of the very industry that made him a star in the first place.

How dare Squier mislead us that way.

(By the way, did you know that Squire, I mean Squier, provided us with that famous, bombastic beat that U.T.F.O’s Educated Rapper rapped over on “Roxanne, Roxanne”? Finally, he did SOMETHING right.)

Is bullying a normal part of humanity? Is everyone, at some point, either a bully or a bull-ee?

I had a Blasian friend growing up named Eric Errol, a sweet kid unfortunately saddled with the nickname E.E. And while the name alone might not seem cruel, it took a dark turn thanks to a perfect storm of adolescent cruelty and pop culture timing. E.E. had physical features—an oversized, flat face and a wide nose—that gave him a resemblance to a baby gorilla. And because “E.E.” sounded like “eee-eee,” the sound humans think monkeys make, it didn’t take long before his life turned into an ongoing punchline.

Enter Peter Gabriel’s 1982 track “Shock the Monkey.”

As soon as that song hit the airwaves, it became E.E.’s unwanted theme song. Every time he walked by the bullies wouldn't sing the song to him, but AT him, incessantly and cruelly. And yet, if you’re going to be taunted with a pop song, “Shock the Monkey” is as good a bully song you're gonna find on the charts. Strange and synth-heavy, it had a vibe none of us could quite explain—but we couldn’t ignore it either.

Truth is, none of us Black kids had ever heard of Peter Gabriel, but we liked what we were hurrin’. “Shock the Monkey” came from Gabriel’s fourth self-titled album—often referred to as “Peter Gabriel 4: Security”—and it marked his first real commercial breakthrough in the U.S., setting him on the road to global stardom.

You might wonder: Why were Black kids listening to “Shock the Monkey” in the first place? We didn’t understand the video at all—Peter, sitting in the Temple of Doom with his face painted in white with tribal designs, thrashing around in the rain while three little people (back then, we rudely called them midgets) climbed on his back and tugged at his body from all directions. It was bizarre, cryptic, and vaguely disturbing.

But the beat? That synth-heavy, pulsating electro-groove hit us somewhere deep. Funky and primal, it moved like something kinda cool, even if I couldn’t make heads or tails of what Gabriel was talking about. MTV was still relatively new, and “Shock the Monkey” stood out in the video rotation with an earthy, urban energy, even if the visuals gave me a nightmare or two.

And I wasn’t alone. The song may have been classified as “art rock,” but it found traction in Black spaces: peaking at #64 on the Hot Black Singles chart and #26 on the Dance/Disco chart. “Shock the Monkey” wasn’t just a weird rock song—it was a vibe. And for a minute, it made its way onto Black radio.

Good news for Peter Gabriel.

Bad news for E.E.

The Carpenters did it first—and did a fine job. Luther made it longer, better, and a whole lot more melodramatic. But Sonic Youth? They did it best.

Any song that has me dialing the Suicide Hotline once it’s over can’t be all bad—and Sonic Youth’s disturbing take on this Carpenters classic has that effect over me.

I didn’t know much about Sonic Youth going in, so I decided to dive into their top five tracks on Spotify to get a sense of what they do—or did. First up was “Kool Thing,” which struck me as a fairly standard grunge-era number. Honestly, if you told me it was a Hole track, I’d believe you. At #2 was the seven-minute sprawl that is “Teen Age Riot (Album Version),” which opens with a dreamy intro that gave me early-’80s Echo & the Bunnymen vibes before kicking into a groove soaked in post-punk energy. I was getting heavy retro feels… until I learned via Wikipedia that Sonic Youth was, in fact, an ’80s band. Go figure. Then came “Incinerate,” with a churning, Joy Division-esque guitar riff that I found oddly hypnotic.

But it was the fourth most-streamed track—“Superstar,” from the “If I Were a Carpenter” tribute album—that completely knocks the wind out of me.

This song doesn’t sound remotely like the others on the list. Whoever is singing lead (Thurston Moore?) sounds less like he’s performing and more like he’s delivering a message from beyond the grave. And no, it’s not just some studio filter slathering on eerie effects. When he croaks out “it sounds so sweet and clear / but you’re not really there,” it genuinely feels like its an apparition of him singing the lyrics from the end of a dark corridor in the most haunted house in town. The subtle distortion and the low, funereal keyboard hum only heighten the sense of doom and death. And I can’t get enough of it.

Apparently, Richard Carpenter—ever the grump—has publicly said he neither understands nor cares for what Sonic Youth did with the song. Fair enough. But you have to hand it to them: they took a slick, soft-focus ’70s ballad and dragged it into a whole new, shadowy dimension.

And if you ask me, that’s a Kool Thing.

“The Metro” is one of those songs that makes you feel like you’re being chased through a maze by an FBI agent who just wants to ask you a few questions—or a renegade robot whose algorithms were reprogrammed to “kill, kill, kill!” by a mad genius. Either way, it's all good. Just as long as the persecution is being soundtracked by this New Wave jam.

It’s those propulsive synthesizers that keep the momentum racing forward, and Terri Nunn delivers the vocals with a cool, calculated edge, weaving steely detachment with flickers of angst. “The Metro” is pure New Wave gold, perfectly fusing the icy sheen of German electronic music with irresistible pop hooks.

And speaking of Germany—Berlin were not from Berlin, but rather Los Angeles. They took the name as a nod to the popularity of electronic music in Europe in the ’70s and ’80s, a genre that had a huge influence on the group until they went completely pop with “Take My Breath Away,” the band’s sole number one hit and a headache that created a rift between Nunn and the other members. She wanted to take the band in a pop direction, while they mostly disagreed. So they got on the metro and rode in opposite directions—and out of each other’s lives—not long after “Take My Breath Away” topped the charts.

That crappy, overproduced ballad will not come near this countdown, but another Berlin song that could have been included here was 1982’s “Sex (I’m A…)”, which was quite controversial back in the day with its “I Feel Love”-inspired synthesizers and its ample use of misogynist pseudonyms for women, including “whore,” “bitch,” and “slut,” which had DJs tossing the record out the window lest they lose their jobs. MTV barely touched it, though it ironically became a #4 hit in Canada—a country most of us believe sex never even takes place in. (“No More Words” was a pretty good song too.)

I know that Nunn continued making music under the Berlin name, and the original members have reunited in the past—and good for them. I’m sure they still sell out arenas in Canada.

I shade Canada a lot on this site, don’t I? I don’t know what my deal is with Mooseland. I’ve only been there once in my life and I found it quite agreeable. And when it comes to music, very few Canadians have made music that truly merits their inclusion here, but that's not a good reason to poo-poo the whole country. Stand-up comedians and sitcoms have long used Canada as a punchline or a punching bag, and maybe I’m guilty of piling on.

Truth be told, Canada hasn’t really done anything to anyone.

But still, I’ve always felt a strange kind of resentment toward Canada for ringing the doorbell, leaving a box with Anne Murray, Celine Dion, Justin Bieber, Avril Lavigne, Tamia, and Nelly Furtado on our doorstep… and running away. Still, credit where it’s due—they also gave us Feist (so good I thought she was British), Rush, Joni Mitchell (a goddess), Corey Hart (only three good songs, but he gave me plenty of boners back in my White Boy Daze), Bryan Adams (who’s better than you think), and Kaytranada. And while I remain perplexed by the massive popularity of Canadian muktuk Drake, I completely understand the appeal of country-pop juggernaut Shania Twain, whose success stands as one of the most calculated careers in modern recording history.

Calculated not in the sense of fabricated, but in the sense that the songs weren’t traditionally country—they were pop, dressed up in cowboy boots and rhinestones. Nearly every one of Twain's singles feels like it was designed to have a line dance choreographed around it. When she teamed up with super-producer (and future ex-husband) Robert John “Mutt” Lange, he knew exactly what he had on his hands: a gorgeous, charismatic singer-songwriter with commercial potential oozing out of every pore. The calculations started turning in his head and he liked those numbers. Cha-ching!

Yes, calculated. But not fake. Shania got her start singing Top 40 covers so pop is in her DNA. She also writes her own songs, and when she paired with Lange—who had already taken acts like Def Leppard and Billy Ocean deep into the pop charts—the magic was inevitable. “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” was never meant to be put on the same pedestal as Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” or Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.” It was built to live comfortably next to Britney Spears and Janet Jackson—producer-driven, good-time music for the masses.

“Man!” is almost too catchy, if that’s even possible. From the campy opening horn toots (which sound like they came from a gay choo-choo train) to the punchy verses and that chorus—complete with “oh-uh-ohs” that are stickier than Gorilla Glue—the song practically dares you not to sing along. It’s liquid gold, expertly straddling the line between country and camp with almost no effort at all.

I get why it annoyed the country music purists. Just like “U Can’t Touch This” gave real hip-hop heads indigestion, “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” was made for people like me: extremely casual country fans who won't go near Waylon Jennings or Travis Tritt. To be honest, Shania is one of only three country artists I listen to with anything approaching regularity. If she’d wanted to be a down-home, backwoods, traditional country artist, she would’ve said no to “Mutt” Lange’s proposal to produce her. But she didn’t—and thank God for that.

Like many other artists of the late ’90s and early 2000s, I didn’t get on the Twain Train during her initial rise. It wasn’t until her 15-year hiatus between albums that I downloaded her “Greatest Hits”… and despite the fact that CD has what feels like 89 tracks on it, I’ll be damned if I didn’t like almost all of them.

Meanwhile, in classic country soap-opera fashion, her marriage to Lange fell apart when he got caught cheating—with her best friend, no less. A woman named Marie-Anne. (His nickname is “Mutt” fuhcryinoutloud, so no one should’ve been too surprised when he dogged her out.). Shania got her revenge in the most poetic way possible when she hauled off and married Marie-Anne’s ex-husband in 2011. Man!

And every time I think about all that drama—all the heartbreak, the betrayal, and the arena-ready choruses—I just shake my head and murmur:

“Oh, Canada.”

Everyone knows I love a good hoe, even the female ones. I admire women who know how to leverage what they’ve got to get what they want—whether that’s convincing some sugar daddy to cover the rent on a Santa Monica studio or chasing after some low-hanging fruit just to fill a void. Vixens like Marilyn Monroe, Monica Lewinsky, and “Becky with the Good Hair” flipped the world on its axis using nothing more than their good poonanny, and, in Lewinsky’s case, her mouth. It’s proof that more than fame or fortune, pussy remains one of the most potent forces on Earth.

As messy as it can be, I’ve got a soft spot for women like Samantha Fox who put their power on the table, especially when the table is already stacked against them. My friend Lena actually went to school with Fox and confirmed that she had quite a reputation even back then. (I think "skank" was the descriptor she used.). Before she was of legal age, she’d already posed nude for some sleazy rag and was rumored to have cozied up to older men to break into the industry. Shameless? Yes. But effective? Also yes. Her topless fame eventually landed her a deal with Jive Records. Her debut album made a splash overseas and went gold in the U.S., thanks in large part to the slut-bucket hit “Touch Me (I Wanna Feel Your Body).”

For her second album, Fox called in the production powerhouse Full Force, who delivered the excellent dance-pop banger “Naughty Girls (Need Love Too).” The track climbed into the Top 5 on the Hot 100 but was noticeably absent from the R&B charts—despite having a funky beat. Was it reverse racism? Is reverse racism even a thing?

Anyway, the track was undeniably urban for 1987 and catchy enough to distract from the fact that Samantha Fox couldn’t really sing. And Full Force took advantage of the potential pop success of “Naughty Girls” to make direct references to their own titles (e.g., “temporary love’s so bad”, “Let’s get busy my way”). But none of those things mattered. Faux Cockney accents were all the rage back then, and at least hers was authentic. She stuck with the overt lyrics (“Used to be so good, so bad / Sex was something I just had”), but smartly ceded the heavy vocal lifting to Full Force. I remember this song being in heavy rotation at the Black teen club back in the day, so its absence from the R&B chart remains a mystery. Oh right, I said reverse racism already.

Interestingly, the sex Fox spent so much time singing about turned out to be more theoretical than autobiographical. She later came out as a lesbian, saying she’d known since her twenties but didn’t feel safe enough to live openly. I’m glad she’s able to be herself now and wish her well in whatever flirtatious, fabulous adventures await.

And now that I watch the video again, the boys of Full Force looked much more interested in grinding on the crop of cute, tits-out male dancers than on Fox herself. Was her sexual orientation the reason for that? Or did Full Force also believe that Naughty Boys (Needed Love Too)?

Partially cloaked in the darkness of early New Order, When in Rome tapped into the synth-drenched dance roots that the U.K. had mastered, but added a heavy dose of melody and harmonized vocals that gave the song its heart. There’s a real sense of yearning in the lead singer’s voice on the chorus—a feeling reportedly sparked by a recent breakup. But to be fair, Brits rarely need an external reason to sound gloomy and melancholy. It runs through their veins.

The song opens with a lovely piano line before the lead vocalist comes in with a faux baritone—almost Ian Curtis-inspired, especially on the earlier versions of the track. The harmonies are hollow and echoey, as if sung in a cavernous Catholic church after the worshippers have all gone home for the day. The lead singer sounds especially desperate when he tosses his 5 pounds of hair back and croons that “I gotta tell ya, I need to tell ya, I gotta tell yaaaaah!” line during the breakdown. Once the final chorus fades, that similar piano line returns to close the song on a melodic note. When it comes to 80s one-hit wonders, “The Promise” is right up there among the best.

When in Rome had a second single called “Heaven Knows,” where they leaned into their best Everly Brothers imitation with harmonies throughout. But at the end of the day, it’s just a far less compelling facsimile of “The Promise.” Listening to it will neither enhance nor diminish your quality of life. I promise you.

“One Thing Leads to Another” was produced by the late Rupert Hine, who also delivered hits for Tina Turner, Howard Jones, and the Thompson Twins during the 1980s. He produced the biggest albums by The Fixx, a group that had no trouble mixing rock with danceable New Wave beats—sounds that were a mainstay on MTV and radio for a minute there. Though based in London, and often carrying that signature British melancholy, The Fixx broke from the gloom with this bold, aggressive stomper, which climbed all the way to #4 on the U.S. Hot 100.

The song kicks off with what sounds like someone blowing through a metal pipe, then jumps right into a Nile Rodgers-inspired guitar stroke that gives the track its irresistible dance feel. Wimbledon’s own Cy Curnin—who interestingly cites Grover Washington, Jr. as an influence—delivers the vocals with swagger and just the right amount of bite, befitting a song that takes a sharp jab at political corruption. (I'm not sure why musical artists insist on singing about the evils of politicians knowing that the ice caps will grow back on their own before a politician walks away from his corrupt ways.)

Although “One Thing Leads to Another” was The Fixx’s only Top 10 hit in the U.S., it should’ve been the beginning of a household-name career here. (You might remember Cy running barefoot in Tina Turner’s “You Better Be Good to Me” video.) But once this track slipped off the charts, we didn’t hear much from Cy and the boys.

I’m not sure if this song hit the Black charts (it did reach #14 on the Club Dance chart), but I distinctly remember my older brother loving it. Unlike me, his interest in the white artists on MTV was usually surface-level, so only a track as groove-heavy and funk-based as “One Thing Leads to Another” could catch his ear.

As for me, this was just one of several Fixx songs I liked—so yes, we’ll be seeing them again in this countdown.

Songs this catchy tend to shoot up the mainstream charts in countries that aren’t the United States of America. That perky, Brazilian Day Parade–feeling trumpet riff (or whatever instrument that is), the Afro-Latin drums right under the surface, the nasally crooning of Sam Obernik, and those jolly little “la-la-las” are pure pop legal tender. But the U.S. is so obsessed with keeping everything in its lane—segregated by genre, race, and vibe—that a song like this had very little chance of crossing over and getting wider exposure. Maybe it just sounds too gay. But don’t people who aren’t gay also like to jump around to music that sounds really cool? Music programmers would have you believe otherwise.

I was already living in Colombia when “It Just Won’t Do” came out, and the song was everywhere—clubs, radio, car stereos. South Americans don’t get nearly as anxious about “seeming gay”—probably because most of them are, thank God—and they don’t mind mixing salsa, house, vallenato, reggaetón, and pop all in the same playlist. They call this freewheeling blend of genres crossover, which is exactly the kind of thing a track like “It Just Won’t Do” can’t seem to pull off in the U.S. Too bad, because the straight folks up there—who could definitely use more upbeat and sunny music in their lives—really missed out on a good thang.

Is Madonna wrongly accused of being a total bitch? Probably not. Based on the interviews I’ve been watching with people who came up around her, she seems like a completely unpleasant sommamabitch. Even back when she was living in squalor on the Lower East Side, she came off as self-important before she was important. She bet everything on her dogged determination, her charisma—and possibly her pussy power—absolutely convinced that she could turn the $37 in her pocket into world domination.

To make that happen, she was going to have to stand out from every other Midwestern runaway who landed on New York's doorstep looking for fame. With songs like “Everybody” and “Burnin’ Up,” she and her two gay dancers (including her late brother Christopher) hit the clubs, where she was loved by some (the gays) and hated by others (Long Islanders). When “Holiday” came along, Madonna was still piecing together her debut album. The song had been rejected by several artists before renowned DJ Jellybean Benitez—one of the many men pulled into Madonna’s sexual orbit—brought it to her. It was recorded quickly and originally intended as a B-side to “Lucky Star,” until it started blowing up in the clubs.

This might seem insane in today’s world of constant media exposure, but back then, “Holiday” had us thinking Madonna was Black, folks. We had heard “Everybody” and then “Holiday” on Black radio stations, and with no music video for either song, we had no reason to believe she wasn’t a sistah. Teena Marie had just finished fooling us—no way it could happen twice in a row, right? But then Madonna performed “Holiday” on American Bandstand, and there she was in all her white glory. These Rachel Dolezal moments had some of us giving folks like Lena Horne and Stacy Lattisaw another, more scrutinizing look.

But unlike Teena, Lena or Stacy, Madonna wasn’t a vocalist with any discernible vocal skills. But she had magnetism up the wazoo and the camera loved her almost as much as she loved herself. So the second her first video was finished, it got rushed straight to MTV. Compare that to Teena Marie, who had to wait a whole year before her “Lovergirl” smash finally got picked up by the channel. (Lattisaw never stepped foot on the grounds of MTV Studios.). Even if Sire Records had wanted to keep Black audiences fooled, there was no way to keep a song as infectious as “Holiday” from crossing over. That deliberate bass line, the catchy “It would be so nice” hook, and Madonna’s peppy vocals made sure of it. She has about a ka-jillion excellent songs in her catalog, but none match the pure joy and sunshine of “Holiday,” which still ranks as one of her all-time best singles.

And no, we’re not going to hold it against her that she’s not Black—no matter how badly she wanted us to believe she was. (Not only did she date Jean-Michel Basquiat, but she even had her hair done partially in Jamaican braids for her Solid Gold performance of "Holiday". You go, girl!). At the end of the day, what Madonna did was show us that being a total bitch--Black, white or otherwise--can really pay off… if you do it right.

Rumor has it that British R&B outfit Loose Ends were dying to work with Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis. There were even some preliminary talks in the works—but the group got on Jam & Lewis’ bad side when they went ahead and lifted the duo’s signature sound for their 1985 hit “Hangin’ on a String (Contemplating).” That probably killed any collaboration prospects. Jam & Lewis, who had been looking to work with a British act, curiously turned their attention instead to The Human League, producing three tracks for them—including the #1 pop/#3 R&B smash “Human.” Loose Ends couldn’t have been feeling jolly about that.

There’s a lot happening in that song: things banging together, snapping in two, crashing to the floor, all tied together with shimmering background vocals and some unexpectedly emotional singing from Philip Oakey. His deep voice always stood in delicious contrast to the group’s glammy, androgynous image—three members who, on the right day, looked more like Bananarama than a synth-pop trio. “Human” is a gorgeous, glossy ballad, so immaculate that it marked the first time I ever spent my own money on music by a white artist. (I bought the 45. A well-spent $1.97.)

I never copped the full album “Crash”—the one that housed “Human”—because it didn’t have enough Jam & Lewis content to justify the purchase. But when you actually listen to the record, you can tell they helped with synthesizer programming on tracks like “Swang” and “Jam,” which they later confirmed in interviews. Still, the other two Jam & Lewis productions aren’t much to write home about—especially “I Need Your Loving,” which sounds like it was meant for Cherrelle but was accidentally recorded by The Human League. (Do I actually hear Cherrelle singing in the background?) A tragically ill-fitting song, it got dragged by critics and easily ranks among Jam & Lewis’ weakest efforts. Even if “I Need Your Loving” had been offered to the thirsty Loose Ends crew, they would’ve looked at each other and gone, “That’s bleedin’ ’orrible, innit?” before passing on the song.

But “Human”? Not bleedin’ ’orrible at all, fam. It’s still a beauty. It also, sadly, marked the end of The Human League’s hitmaking days—one more thing that probably brought a smug little smile to Loose Ends’ collective face.

The very heart and soul of “Give It Away” lies in its bass line—simple, unpretentious, and pushed front and center in the mix. Maybe that’s reggae’s influence at work—or more precisely, Bob Marley’s, who gets name-dropped in the song. When whiny rock group No Doubt dabbled in ska and reggae on their “Rock Steady” album, their bass player actually complained about the simplistic and unchallenging nature of the bass parts. He clearly missed the point: in Black music, the bass isn’t there to impress with metal-style loop-de-loops—it’s there to anchor the song, to create a groove on which to lay everything else.

And it’s that groove—deep, heavy, undeniable—that makes “Give It Away” hit so hard for funk and reggae lovers like me. Flea gets it. A jazz head and a disciple of George Clinton (who produced RHCP’s “Freaky Styley” back in ’85), Flea brought the funk not just to the Peppers, but to other joints like Young MC’s “Bust A Move,” where he laid down that iconic bassline. He’s the motor that makes “Give It Away” go, and that song remains one of my all-time favorites in the Chili Peppers’ catalog.

As for Anthony Kiedis—he’s neither a rapper nor a singer, and that’s exactly why it works. His spitfire, staccato delivery is tailor-made for the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ fusion of punk, funk, rock, and pop. I wore “Mother’s Milk” out back in the day, and somewhere in my music collection, I still have “Blood Sugar Sex Magik”, “Californication”, “By the Way”, and “Stadium Arcadium”—all touched by Rick Rubin’s magic hand. Rubin, early on, had a gift for stripping a song down to its bones and then cranking the remaining elements up to ten, as he did on LL Cool J’s “Radio” and The Cult’s “Electric”.

That said, I can only take the Peppers in doses. Kiedis’ ADHD performance style, while thrilling in bursts, gets exhausting if you don't manage your intake carefully. Too many RHCP tracks back-to-back and I need to throw back a Ritalin and sit in a dark room for the rest of the afternoon.

Still, I love these dudes. I respect their journey—from drugged-out misfits performing naked onstage—great ass on that 1980s-era Kiedis, by the way—to the godfathers of White PunkFunkRockRap. And “Give It Away” is proof that, when they lock in, there’s nobody quite like them.