By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
Hey, you knew this was coming, right? Beloved by SMU frat-rats and their dates, Cary Pierce and Jack O'Neill get folked-up with the help of producer T-Bone Burnett. With Bringing on the Weather -- their major-label bow -- Jack and Cary finally get to foist their sensitive navel gazing on an unsuspecting nation, and Pierce gets enough extra scratch to grow his hair out nice and purty.
Under the Table and Dreaming
Dave Matthews Band
RCA Records, 1994
Take one South African bartender, add an idiosyncratic lineup (fiddle, alto sax, etc.), steal the Dead's mojo, and you have a band that world-beat the charts to death in the latter half of the '90s. The 1996 follow-up, Crash, may, in fact, be worse, but this is where it all began. The fact that this glorified bar band can sell out New Jersey's mammoth Meadowlands Stadium still wakes me up at night. If this disc is in a potential mate's CD collection, find the nearest possible means of escape. You don't want to get too much patchouli oil on your clothes.
Capitol Records, 1994
Bridges to Babylon
Virgin Records, 1997
The Stones' lack of relevance probably dates as far back as 1980's Emotional Rescue, but the band's pair of albums in the '90s is where it all went south in a hurry. And that doesn't even bring into play the three live discs they've issued in 10 years, only one of which, 1998's No Exit, was salvageable by any stretch of the imagination. Hanging it up now might rescue a sliver of the band's dwindling reputation, but it's so far gone that a time machine is required to fix what's wrong. Fact of the matter is, they've been heading in this direction since Brian Jones left the group. The only thing remaining worth mentioning is Keith Richards' increasingly indistinct interviews, which amount to a series of noises and cigarette smoke.
Again, if this didn't make the list, we'd be more shocked than anyone. Along with Jackopierce, Deep Blue Something's Home gave the country the impression that anyone in Dallas could handily have his ass kicked. Gone were the days of J.R. Ewing ruthlessly lording over an oil empire. Please welcome the new sensitivity, courtesy of the Pipes brothers. Now don't let the door hit your ass on the way out. Or do, actually. We don't care.
Imago/Warner Bros. Records, 1996
What hell hath Lilith Fair wrought? More than three years later, you still can't get away from Cole's shrill "I Don't Want to Wait," the unfortunate theme song to the WB's Dawson's Creek. And "Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?" As far away from this piece of shite as possible. Think Sarah McLachlan, only worse. If that's even remotely possible.
A bland band from Florida makes a mayonnaise-and-mashed-potato sandwich on white bread in the middle of the road, proving that what passes for alternative these days only means "alternative to good music." In an attempt to make up for their inescapable lack of personality, singer Rob Thomas takes to wearing eyeliner. Ooooh, scary! If you want to know why the radio sucks these days, begin the list here, but don't leave off Third Eye Blind or Korn.
Who exactly thought this was a good idea? Memory collides with reality and the USC marching band, and the result is uglier than one of Stevie Nicks' dresses or Mick Fleetwood's can't-keep-up-without-coke face as he overexerts himself behind the drum kit. If the Eagles didn't prove that reunions are bad, then this surely did.
Three Dollar Bill, Y'all Limp Bizkit
Interscope Records, 1997 With his band's metal-hop rendering of George Michaels' "Faith," singer Fred Durst began his short climb out of a 20-foot toilet (one of the group's stage props on the 1997 OZZFest tour) and straight into Interscope Records' boardroom. Christ, Michaels' original was annoying enough, and Durst and crew did little more than burn through the bridge, throw the chorus into the mosh pit, and add one line, "Get the fuck up!" No, Fred, get the fuck out. When We Were the New Boys
Warner Bros. Records, 1998 Did we really need to hear Rod Stewart covering Oasis? Or Primal Scream and Skunk Anansie, for that matter? When We Were the New Boys was bad in theory, even worse in actual practice. Stick to soccer, Rod. Or getting it on with inexplicably beautiful models. We'll let you decide. Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie
Maverick Records, 1998 Morissette's second album -- or fourth, if you count her post-You Can't Do That on Television Debbie Gibson impersonations -- is even worse than Jagged Little Pill, saved only by the fact that no one else gave a damn about her vacation to India either. She was tired of dealing with success or some shit, and so were we when this disc came out. And maybe, so was director Kevin Smith, who cast her as God in Dogma, blessed and cursed with a voice that makes mortals' heads explode. Amen, brutha. A Thousand Leaves
Geffen Records, 1998 Pretty much like all the other Sonic Youth records, except marginally worse. I still haven't figured out why anyone gives a shit about Sonic Youth. They experiment with their own experiments, making music that can only be called such because it comes on a compact disc. Save yourself a few bucks and hang out at a construction site for a day or so. Or just lop off your ears, because you won't need them if this is in the stereo. And you definitely won't want them. Wide Prairie
Capitol Records, 1998 You can't libel the dead, something a number of critics failed to realize when this posthumous collection came out. We're not saying she wasn't a great mother, a loving wife, and a dedicated vegetarian. And she did have quite the eye when it came to photography. But as a musician, she manages to prove only that, yes, even Paul McCartney songs can be unlistenable on occasion. In the Life of Chris Gaines
Capitol Records, 1999 The only thing Brooks should take away from this experiment gone awry is one of those nifty photos from the CD booklet. Thanks to a generous amount of airbrushing, Brooks appears with his original number of chins for the first time since he was tipping cows in Oklahoma. Only country musicians need to create a false identity for themselves to step outside of the box. Betcha this one magically disappears from Capitol's back catalog in a year or two. The Fragile
Nine Inch Nails
Interscope Records, 1999 Fuck Spin. They may think this is the album of the year, but if they calmly and carefully removed themselves from Trent Reznor's poop chute, they might see and hear things a little differently. Actually, The Fragile would probably sound about the same way. Nine Inch Nails fans waited five years for this?
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