The Top 200 Songs of the ’80s

Jello Biafra once said that the only thing that made the ’80s tolerable was the music. Cantankerous old punk rock coot he may be, Jello speaks the truth on this point. The ’80s, politically, culturally, economically, was fraught with moments that now make us look back and cringe. The decade responsible for Reaganomics, “Full House,” David Hasselhof’s rise to stardom and any number of campy flicks, from “Cocktail” to “Mannequin,” may not have always been an example of great strides in human progress, but the 1980s changed the course of music for decades to come.

As the 1970s came to an end, the popularity of disco waned, though it thrived in the underground, largely in part due to visionaries like Arthur Russell. Punk rock started to infiltrate the mainstream, resulting in bands like Devo and The Clash having hits on a then-fledgling MTV. That very same channel subsequently became the venue through which Michael Jackson, Madonna and Prince became the biggest superstars of the decade, while underground scenes in Manchester, England, and Minneapolis, Minn., launched entirely new, independent sounds. New genres were born, new stars were christened, and old traditions were put to bed. And some, like minimal wave or Italo-disco, are still the source of crate digger discovery to this day.

Where we’ve told one story about the decade’s music with our Best Albums of the ’80s list, we’ve realized that only tells part of the story. Over time, the music of the ’80s has come to represent both a source of nostalgia and a goldmine for undiscovered innovation and lost classics. And for Treble, the ’80s is a particularly personal era for everyone involved. Most of us were born or grew up in the ’80s, and as such, its music was an important gateway. But that doesn’t apply just to the writers here; a good many of today’s more prominent artists take root and influence from the 1980s, from Arcade Fire’s U2 aspirations to The Hold Steady’s E Street loitering and M.I.A.’s neon fashion and Chuck D-lite politics. And then, of course, there’s the massive influence of Prince, without whom we wouldn’t have the pleasure of The-Dream, Janelle Monáe, Big Boi, Of Montreal… well, just about half the stuff we loved in the past few years.

Given that the ’80s have left such an indelible mark on popular music, we saw fit to give it another retrospective in the form of our favorite songs from the decade. Many are songs that have stayed with us since childhood or adolescence, while some are new favorites, excavated from mixtapes and compilations or magically appearing on YouTube. We’ve included links to videos or streams with each track, so you can listen or watch as songs are posted. We didn’t put too many limitations on the shape of the list, but a few notable songs were excluded because of being released either right at the tail end of the ’70s (“Bela Lugosi’s Dead“) or right at the beginning of the ’90s (“Here’s Where the Story Ends“), and we placed a limit of five songs per artist, as to prevent single-artist monopolization. And while this feature is up, daily reviews will be put on hold. We are still posting news, and reviews will return on Monday, Feb. 28. Thank you for reading, and we welcome you back to the new wave decade with the Best Songs of the 80s.

Update: We’ve added a Spotify playlist, so you can listen along.

200. Vaselines – “Son of a Gun”

(1987; 53rd and 3rd)

I have the early ’90s to thank for one of the best songs of the ’80s. My first exposure to The Vaselines came through Nirvana’s Incesticide, which featured covers of “Son of a Gun” and “Molly’s Lips.” Both were standouts on that album, though I still wouldn’t hear the original versions of these songs until the early 2000s. What’s striking about “Son of a Gun” is its sunny, straightforward simplicity. This is a bounding superball of happiness and fun; the joys of being with someone you care about and the sadness when that person isn’t there. The lyrics have a certain quality about them that remind me of the vocabulary in The Cat in the Hat, and the melody is the sort of thing you’d hear Miss Piggy sing to Kermit on “Muppet Babies”; the taps of a single piano key introduced in the final chorus feel like it was played by an exuberant little cartoon. Perhaps the reason I use “childlike” to describe the song is that swinging and jumping referred to in the verse. Yeah, I know it’s probably referring to a roll in the hay, but please, think of the children. – Hubert Vigilla

199. Kid Creole and the Coconuts – “Stool Pigeon”

(1982; ZE)

“There’s a gentleman that’s going ’round turning the joint upside down.” I am that man! Not so much; “Stool Pigeon” is almost wholly self-referential. Kid Creole was the persona of a zoot-suited rake named August Darnell; the Coconuts were his glamour girls. Together they made polyglot party music that trotted the globe, loitering in the tropics aboard schooners, empty wine bottles rolling in the scuppers. “Stool Pigeon” is one of the great integrations of the disco era, dousing mixed-race generalizations and pan-cultural anxieties with a frisson of erotic taboo. The group itself may have been all affectation, but Kid Creole was a primo evangel for the open culture. If “Stool Pigeon” doesn’t turn your block party into a lush disco paradise, you’re in the wrong barrio. – Anthony Strain

198. Altered Images – “Happy Birthday”

(1981; Epic)

There are very few songs that elicit the amount of giddiness in me than Altered Images’ “Happy Birthday.” The circus-like keyboard intro, mimicking a xylophone, immediately sets the tone as one of childlike playfulness. When Clare Grogan’s voice enters the picture, that scenario is only reinforced, and there is no point at which this chemistry does not work. Johnny McElhone’s bassline underscores the frivolity, acting as precursor to his later work in Texas. I am a huge sucker for Scottish bands and Scottish accents, and Altered Images’ new wave revamp of their forebears such as Orange Juice and Josef K was right up my alley from the first note. – Terrance Terich

197. Alexander Robotnick – “Problemes d’Amour”

(1983; Fuzz Dance)

As maverick thrift-store dance music goes this track is kind of the gestalt: psuedonymic producer, dizzy French vocals, cheap proto-house drum machine, strip-bar cred. Robotnick, née Maurizio Dami, was variously involved in dance-cabaret, soundtrack work and other multi-media projects and was one of the first to fool around with the TB-303 out of context. He made “Problèmes d’amour” looking for a fast buck and ended up with the most circular kind of hit: lots of play within certain parameters but not much of a payout. Supposedly it was big in Detroit in the early days of that sound. Nowadays binnier DJs can throw it on between, say, “Wordy Rappinghood” and Yoko Ono’s “Kiss Kiss Kiss” and get laughs of relief. Why are the cheesier songs always the most timeless? – Anthony Strain

196. Frankie Knuckles – “Your Love”

(1987; Trax)

Turn on this record for any of your twenty-something buddies and the vast majority will probably think they’re listening to some lo-fi / chillwave cover of Animal Collective’s “My Girls.” But before that infectious centerpiece of synth arpeggios could be compromised and reengineered for one of 2009’s indie anthems, Frankie Knuckles crafted it as the hypnotic cornerstone to 1987’s “Your Love.” This monumental single of the burgeoning Chicago House scene—and one of the most influential compositions in the history of electronic music—is a slow rise into ecstasy, as each interlocking layer patiently pushes the song toward its towering conclusion. Jamie Principle’s breathy whispers and plaintive croons are given the same raw minimalist treatment, calculated measures of repetition and space emphasizing their emotional depth. “Your Love” is an unquestionable classic, too long underrated or unknown by those outside of the house music scene. – Derek Emery

196. Bad Brains – “Banned In D.C.”

(1982; ROIR)

I once read somewhere that when Bad Brains released the ROIR cassette they’d largely lost interest in their hardcore output, preferring their reggae material and only put the hardcore songs on the album as a concession to critics. If this is true the band had a weird way of showing it. Far from going through the motions, “Banned in DC” is simply one of the most utterly baffling songs ever put to tape. Played with the speed and intensity of lightning but with the precision and skill of any seasoned composer, it started and ended hardcore as an art form in a little over two minutes, much in the same way that Sunny Day Real Estate’s “In Circles” started and ended emo. It created the basic formula for the masses to imitate but set the standards so insanely high that only the courageous few could really transcend. – Chris Morgan

194. Black Flag – “Rise Above”

(1981; SST)

One of the decade’s scariest songs, in the eyes of parents, school officials and any other authority figure within earshot was the anti-establishment battle cry of Black Flag’s “Rise Above.” As the first track of Damaged, the first Black Flag album to feature then-20-year-old Henry Rollins on lead vocals, “Rise Above” proved to be a particularly incendiary way to launch a new era for the beloved Southern California hardcore band. From the first notes of its descending guitar intro, “Rise Above” draws the listener into the fray in a seemingly symbolic gesture of blowing up of the proverbial “fourth wall” between band and audience. The song’s aggressive call-and-response verses along with the anthemic, self-assured chant of its chorus that incite listeners to think for themselves and to stand up against a system that doesn’t work, have rendered it iconic in the scope of ’80s hardcore that even today remains a still-gripping piece of music with a timeless message. – Jamie Ludwig

193. Young Marble Giants – “N.I.T.A.”

(1980; Rough Trade)

“N.I.T.A.”, from the group’s cult debut Colossal Youth, is, like most of Young Marble Giants’ work, a fairly simple song, but one that quietly, slyly develops an ambiguous, alluring mood, sadness circling hope in a slowly unwinding spiral. The first verse with its direct lyrics expressing romantic loss recedes into the shadows when Alison Statton moves on to sing, “Nature intended the abstract for you and me,” a line that seems to be at the center of the song’s dreamlike charm as it blurs at its boundaries, flowing out of the simple framework that structures it and radiating and arresting with a subtle, everyday mysticism. – Tyler Parks

192. Psychic TV – “The Orchids”

(1983; CBS)

Genesis P-Orridge did not make a name for himself by creating music that could easily be described as touching, but the gentle, sublime “The Orchids”—the lone moment of gentle grace on Psychic TV’s Dreams Less Sweet—certainly can be. There is something very Steve Reich about the metronomic, percussive spine of the song, the repetition around which P-Orridge’s endearingly awkward vocals swoop and dart, bouncing from channel to channel and offering a series of oddly aligning images that throw strange bands of color across the earnest, epiphanic chorus and the naïve sing-along “na na na na na nas.” But the multiplicity of images seems less like a series of things taken in over time than a delirious mass of superimpositions flashed in a single instant of intensified, concentrated life. – Tyler Parks

191. Camper Van Beethoven – “Take the Skinheads Bowling”

(1986; Rough Trade)

The minor success of “Take the Skinheads Bowling” on college radio may have had the unfortunate side-effect of casting Camper Van Beethoven as a novelty, but that doesn’t make the song any less enjoyable. With brilliantly ridiculous lines like “some people say that bowling alleys have big lanes” and “had a dream I wanted to sleep next to plastic,” honestly, what’s not to love? Not to mention how catchy it is. The band eventually grew far beyond their humble, yet satisfying beginnings, stretching out into new, largely uncharted territories. Even still, “Take the Skinheads Bowling” shows off CVB’s distinctive sense of humor in a song that’s impossible to resist. – Chris Karman

190. The Specials – “Ghost Town”

(1981; 2 Tone)

Spooky keys, somber funereal horns, creepy vocals, and a wailing chorus all make this track, really about race riots rather than anything supernatural, one of the most memorable tracks of the early ’80s. The main vocals, by Jerry Dammers, are otherworldly, like the narration for The Outer Limits, The Twilight Zone, or perhaps Plan 9 From Outer Space. These are highlighted by a few melodic punctuations, undercutting the spookiness, by Terry Hall. The Specials somehow penetrate my prejudice against ska, a feat I didn’t think possible. The Specials had a handful of great tracks, including “A Message to You Rudy,” “Free Nelson Mandela,” “Too Much Too Young,” and “Friday Night, Saturday Morning,” but “Ghost Town” was arguably the only one to become iconic. Back in 1981, I was obsessed with Oingo Boingo, and somehow that became a gateway to “Ghost Town,” and I’ve loved the track ever since. – Terrance Terich

189. Elvis Costello & the Attractions – “Everyday I Write the Book”

(1983; F-Beat)

Slyly intersecting snotty Elvis and crooner Elvis, “Every Day I Write the Book” was a centerpiece of 1983’s Punch the Clock, resonating enough with American audiences that it earned Costello and his Attractions a Billboard Top 40 slot. The piano-based tune echoes both New Wave and Motown—it could fit in the Squeeze catalog, and Costello himself had the temerity to diss it as “a bad Smokey Robinson song”—as it rather smartly contrasts the structures of writing with the perils of love. – Adam Blyweiss

188. The Go-Go’s – “Our Lips Are Sealed”

(1981; I.R.S.)

The Go-Go’s cut their teeth as punks—vocalist Belinda Carlisle was briefly a member of The Germs—before playing arena rock for people who discovered lipstick earlier than their parents would have preferred. It helps though that they were good at using their sound to accentuate the childish hedonism of the American suburbs and make a shitload of money in the process. Their chipper hooks were the epitome of adolescent naivety whereas Belinda Carlisle’s vocals had a certain back-of-the-classroom charm in which she knew the language of teenage iniquity but was cleverly ambiguous as to whether or no she practiced it, which was about as much as Reagan’s America was willing to tolerate. – Chris Morgan

187. The B-52’s – “Private Idaho”

(1980; Warner Bros.)

In their early years, the B-52’s were a gaggle of art student proto-hipsters who shared the same mini-universe with the likes of R.E.M. Since hipsters as we now know them did not exist at that time, this is not entirely a bad thing, quite the opposite in fact. “Private Idaho” serves as an anthem for an obscured period in the band’s history; a period marked less by bizarre fashion sense, horn sections and Fred Schneider and more by strong pop songcraft and the most underrated guitarist of the decade. Ricky Wilson’s driving surf rock riff practically guides the other players along, almost controlling them, while Wilson himself was taking a reinvigorating a stale rock genre and giving it creative potential. He would do the same with disco and new wave on later efforts. – Chris Morgan

186. Slayer – “Raining Blood”

(1986; Def Jam)

As their 1996 punk covers album would most explicitly reveal, the foundation of Slayer’s hyper-speed thrash metal assault was in hardcore. Only a handful of the breakneck chuggers on third album and career masterpiece Reign In Blood actually surpassed the three-minute mark, and the album concludes in less than 30 merciless minutes. Yet their highest peak comes with the epic closer, “Raining Blood,” a terrifying blend of harrowing minor key riffs, double-time soloing and the chilling sound of a thunderstorm to cap the orgy of instrumental pyrotechnics. At various points within the song, Kerry King, Dave Lombardo and Jeff Hanneman barely seem to be keeping up with each other, but in the end, the anthem stands as a monolith of terror and kickass thrash metal riffs. Metallica may be the superstars of the big four, Megadeth the cult heroes and Anthrax the most likable of the bunch, but Slayer, as revealed on “Raining Blood,” is by far the most intense. – Jeff Terich

185. The Sugarcubes – “Birthday”

(1987; One Little Indian)

Many people’s first impression of the pixie with the powerhouse voice that belongs to Björk came from “Birthday,” the first single from the Subarcubes’ debut, Life’s Too Good. With a chorus made up purely of Björk’s sultry growls, the song drew fans from all over. I distinctly remember listening to it on 91X, the station that once played great music in the San Diego area. Other songs from the album, such as “Motorcrash,” would more heavily feature vocals by male frontman Einar, but “Birthday” was Björk’s alone, setting her up for a legendary future as a solo artist and wearer of swans. As seems to be a pattern in many of the songs on my ’80s list, and many of the songs I’m writing about, “Birthday” is one of the slower paced songs on the album, making it a standout among the more frenetic and artistic post-punk album tracks. I like to shamefully impress people with the revelation that I got to see the Sugarcubes perform with New Order and P.I.L., a fitting bill as the Sugarcubes seemed to be an amalgamation of those other two bands. – Terrance Terich

184. Duran Duran – “Planet Earth”

(1981; EMI)

On the receiving end of cynical derision, teen idol adoration and many a sexual favor during their heyday, Duran Duran left few without a strong opinion one way or another. Yet behind those model good looks, eyeliner and yacht excursions existed a band with more chops than most bands to crack the top 40 since. A frequently cited mixture of equal parts Chic and Roxy Music, Duran Duran both cheekily name-checked the New Romantic movement and became its most notable name with “Planet Earth.” And though Simon LeBon is the host and mouthpiece for the band, narrating interplanetary encounters, the real star is bassist John Taylor, whose funky rhythms turned a cool song legendary. – Jeff Terich

183. Public Enemy – “Fight the Power”

(1989; Motown)

One of the most powerful protest songs of all time may never have happened at all if it weren’t for film director Spike Lee, who approached New York hip hop act Public Enemy to compose a lead track for his 1989 film Do The Right Thing, a fictionalized exploration of the very real racial tensions and racially-based violence that were plaguing American cities. With a title inspired by a 1975 song of the same name by the Isley Brothers, Public Enemy’s Chuck D. penned lyrics that not only encompassed and spoke to the ideas behind the film, while raising public consciousness about issues of the day and providing an alternate perspective to common perceptions of American culture. “Most of my heroes don’t appear on no stamps,” say Chuck D., just after knocking down both the King and the Duke with a swift upper cut. “Elvis was a hero to most but he never meant shit to me / Straight up racist the sucker was simple and plain / Motherfuck him and John Wayne.”

The aggressive, up-front nature of the lyrics was matched sonically by arresting beats provided by The Bomb Squad. Samples from other outspoken artists such as Bob Marley, Sly and the Family Stone, and most prominently James Brown’s “Funky Drummer,” allude to a long tradition of speaking truth to power and immediately call to mind what songs like “Respect” and “A Change is Gonna Come,” had meant to the Civil Rights Movement 25 years earlier. Eventually, the song was named “One of the most controversial songs in American History,” by Ken Paulson, President of Washington D.C.-based First Amendment Center.

In the year of its release “Fight the Power,” helped to cement hip hop’s growing place in the mainstream culture in America, but its rallying cries still ring true today; “Our freedom of speech is freedom or death / We’ve got to fight the powers that be.” Whether you’re hearing the song for the first or 5 millionth time, a listen to “Fight the Power,” is still enough to motivate someone to spring to action, and do something positive for the world around them. – Jamie Ludwig

Listen: Public Enemy – “Fight the Power”

182. Billy Bragg – “A New England”

(1983; Polydor)

Sometimes all it takes to write a great rock song is a voice and a guitar. That’s just what you get with early Billy Bragg, and it has a particular power on “A New England.” It begins with that first pair of lines: “I was 21 years when I wrote this song / I’m 22 now, but I won’t be for long.” You get an image of a young rocker sitting on his amp playing in his apartment or to an empty pub. He’s cribbed words (Simon and Garfunkel’s “Leaves That Are Green”) and riffs (Bragg credits Thin Lizzy for the song’s chunky melody) from others. Then comes the moments that are all his own: lines like “I don’t feel bad about letting you go / I just feel sad about letting you know,” or the time he made a wish on two satellites that he mistook for shooting stars. That’s a real portrait of youth — a nod to the heroes from that period in his life, an aphorism picked up, a moment too silly and profound to be made up, the refusal to grow up even though he already has. While Bragg altered the content of “Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards” for the 21st century (because he’s still waiting for that jump), “A New England” is like a time capsule and its contents remain perfectly preserved. – Hubert Vigilla

Listen: Billy Bragg – “A New England”

181. The Police – “Synchronicity II”

(1983; A&M)

Sting, now a father, yoga guru, and lute-player extraordinaire, left behind the angry young man a long time ago. But even in 1983, at the peak of The Police’s powers, a young Gordon Sumner painted the suburbs and the working stiff’s routine as sheer horror. He sneers at commuters “packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes/ contestants in a suicidal race.” The breakfast table is a theater of the grotesque, and the bellow of “This is a family home now, looming in his headlights” isn’t an expression of safety or comfort, but of anger and despair. And with the flick of Andy Summer’s deft, climactic and eerie guitar cascade in the song’s final minute, you can practically see that shadow on door, on the cottage, on the shore of a dark Scottish lake… many miles away. – Jeff Terich

Listen: The Police – “Synchronicity II”

180. Orange Juice – “Blue Boy”

(1980; Postcard)

The first Orange Juice record may be the best Orange Juice record. The claim is definitely debatable and given credence by the fact that Edwyn Collins continues to feature it in his live shows to comprehending and immensely appreciative audiences. It is rock and roll filtered through punk, given some air to breathe, more than a touch of wit, and inflamed with a romantic disposition that spreads itself grudgingly across the song’s surface. As its title does not suggest, “Blue Boy” is shot through with a euphoria that verges on mania, a euphoria captured in Collins’ garbled but grittily poetic vocals, the scratched guitars and circling bass riffs—something is happening but we aren’t quite sure what it is. And that is exciting. – Tyler Parks

Listen: Orange Juice – “Blue Boy”

179. The Chameleons – “In Shreds”

(1982; Epic)

As a somewhat recent convert to The Chameleons, it’s gotten to a point where pretty much every major song by them is a favorite. “In Shreds,” their first single, shows The Chameleons at their most aggressive and desperate. This is not just a bout of angst—something you can discount as “just a phase”—”In Shreds” is an existential malaise. Rather than an angry teenager, the song has more to do with those “angry young men” works of the ’50s and ’60s. There’s a fundamental dissatisfaction with life that’s palpable in the song. That may explain why the lyrics and the guitars cut so sharply or why the drums explode rather than just pop. Any victories are small victories and fleeting; instead of a girlfriend, there’s a whore. The only fate is to become another schlub at the factory, or at least be on the dole until another factory job opens up. “In Shreds” at least provides some catharsis. It’s a scream for something more to life even if there isn’t much to living except for the ability to scream. – Hubert Vigilla

Listen: The Chameleons – “In Shreds”

178. The Psychedelic Furs – “Love My Way”

(1982; CBS)

It’s nothing new to note all the similarities the 1980s shared with the 1950s, but hearing “Love My Way” simply makes it more tangible. Along with the return to economic prosperity and yuppie conformity came a legion of feel-good rock songs and tender backseat “necking” songs that encapsulated the youth of America in a big way that not even grunge can boast. “Love My Way” is the latter type of song and it led the pack easily, its simple guitar riff meshing well with its moody synths and heated, desperate vocals. It’s very much lodged in its time and place, and probably stokes in those a little younger than Barack Obama fond memories of a time in which much good was possible and all the shitty things in the world could be alleviated simply by making out. The sentiment was, of course, lost on the Communist young who at the time weren’t allowed to listen to music made past 1929 and in any Western nation. – Chris Morgan

Listen: The Psychedelic Furs – “Love My Way”

177. Was (Not Was) – “Wheel Me Out”

(1980; Antilles)

There are one-hit wonders, classically oversimplified but built for trivia, and then there are the isolated songs that are so out in front of the rest of an artist’s catalogue it’s embarrassing. My favorite of these is “Standing Outside A Broken Phone Booth With Money In My Hand,” but that’s another decade. “Wheel Me Out” falls into that second, stranger category. Besides anticipating the unfortunate habit of making your band’s name hard to Google, Was (Not Was) basically fought and died in an impenetrable seriocomic avant-garde fog. How “Wheel Me Out” wound up on the right side of history, I’m not sure. But it controls a mad-jazz trumpet solo and a crazy non-sequitur conversation by immaculate four-on-the-floor means; the result is one of the most surreal small sample sizes of funk ever made. I put it in my top twenty for purposes of this list, `cause wow. Compared to the band’s other output, it is a rare moment of clarity. – Anthony Strain

Listen: Was (Not Was) – “Wheel Me Out”

176. Phuture – “Acid Tracks”

(1987; Trax)

It sounds silly but the best way to separate acid house from its progenitor is not to talk about psychedelic drugs and smiley faces but to imagine literal acid tossed in a literal face. Messing around with texture doesn’t really get more visual. Phuture, a collective already immersed in the nascent Chicago house scene, made “Acid Tracks” by availing themselves almost exclusively of the TB-303 synth, never before a primary instrument. The result was a messy, bloopy system of interlocking steps and squiggles that did not instantly kill – the signature DJ Ron Hardy once played it four times in one night at the Music Box in an effort to move the crowd. What came after, of course, was a whole unapologetic counterscene of intricate bass overload; contrast that with the brooding, simplified stomp of “Acid Tracks” and it’s hard to see why excess was ever a problem. In that respect the song is guilty but not responsible; incidentally it also has no more problems moving crowds. – Anthony Strain

Listen: Phuture – “Acid Tracks”

175. Phil Collins – “In the Air Tonight”

(1981; Atlantic)

If you ever find yourself directing a scene for film or television in which you need to create tension and an ominous atmosphere, just throw this song on the soundtrack and call it a day. After all, Miami Vice did it. “Cool” is not a word often associated with the works of Phil Collins these days, but “In the Air Tonight” is a cool song. Building from a creepy whisper to a near crescendo of bass and ’80s production values, and then pulling it all back to a simmer just when you think its going to blow—few songs can give you the impression that shit is about to go down like this one, and then hold your interest while said shit does, in fact, go down. Phil’s got a lot of cheesy stuff on his resume, but he got this one right. – Elizabeth Malloy

Listen: Phil Collins – “In the Air Tonight”

174. Siouxsie and the Banshees – “Happy House”

(1980; Polydor)

In the late ’70s, Siouxsie and the Banshees earned a reputation as being some of the most provocative, obnoxious punks in the UK. It didn’t hurt having Sid Vicious in the band at the time, nor did their now-infamous half-hour performance of “The Lord’s Prayer.” But by 1980, Sioux, Steven Severin, John McGeoch and Budgie had molded their dark and theatrical punk rock into a more twisted and psychedelic, yet oddly melodic form, which reached perfection with single “Happy House.” McGeoch’s guitar weeps and wobbles like moans from beyond, a warning emanating from this so-called house where the refrain “we’re all quite sane!” likely means just the opposite. The fantasy world that Siouxsie Sioux and her co-conspirators create is a creepy one, a nightmarish asylum of unspoken horrors, backed by one of the most kickass beats ever recorded. – Jeff Terich

Listen: Siouxsie and the Banshees – “Happy House”

173. Depeche Mode – “But Not Tonight”

(1986; Sire)

Dave Gahan’s pleasure at being so wet may not have done him any favors, at least among Gorewhores. Nevertheless the B-side to “Stripped,” a single the band had higher hopes for, represents a jocular rift in their darkly emotive chronology. Between “A Question Of Time” and “Strangelove,” “But Not Tonight” proved Depeche Mode could turn a silly little trick into an affirmation of life. In the right context “Oh God it’s raining” sounds like Martin Gore parodying his own dour sensibility. In any context, the ultratight 12-inch version, particularly, bursts out of big speakers like a bolt of black ice. The knobbed charm of that keyboard could never be mistaken for dead. – Anthony Strain

Listen: Depeche Mode – “But Not Tonight”

172. Danzig – “Mother”

(1988; American)

After Glenn Danzig left his punk rock roots behind, he was quickly adopted by the heavy metal world, a fairly comfortable fit for a man who kept his hair long and pasted merchandise with Satanic skull imagery. But Danzig isn’t so much metal as extra loud blues-rock, taking AC/DC’s template of filtering simple power chord grooves through massive Marshall stacks. Basic, but effective, particularly when paired with Danzig’s Jim Morrison-esque croon. Though “Mother,” Danzig’s flagship hit, didn’t reach massive fame until its re-release in 1994, its original incarnation on the band’s debut remains a hard rock classic, all three-chord hooks and angst. At five-foot-three, Danzig’s stature might not be so threatening, but when he belts, “If you wanna find hell with me, I can show you what it’s like!“, in that moment he definitely sounds like the kind of dude you don’t want to mess with. – Jeff Terich

Listen: Danzig – “Mother”

171. Scritti Politti – “Perfect Way”

(1985; Warner Bros.)

Possibly the most recognizable tune from this London-based group of sophisticates, “Perfect Way” exemplified the technical prowess and breathy exposition found throughout Cupid & Psyche 85. Between the statuesque figure cut by leading man Green Gartside and the literate pop constructed from synthesizers and thesauri, Scritti Politti did indeed “make the girls go crazy.” – Adam Blyweiss

Listen: Scritti Politti – “Perfect Way”

170. Loose Joints – “Is It All Over My Face?”

(1980; West End)

Arthur Russell was prolific in a variety of guises, collaborative and otherwise. As Loose Joints he only released three tracks, the most influential of which, “Is It All Over My Face?” itself found several permutations. The best-known version includes a wiped female vocal that mixing legend Larry Levan restored to make the track clubbier; this would be leaned on heavily by the beginning sounds of house. Modifications aside, “Is It All Over My Face” swings with the best of original disco, linking wild bass with a circular organ sound that somehow always reminds me of The Doors, of all things. What’s best about the track is its ambulatory structure; it’s almost a soliloquy and serves as a proper introduction to Russell’s playful side. – Anthony Strain

Listen: Loose Joints – “Is It All Over My Face?”

169. Madonna – “Like a Prayer”

(1989; Sire)

Madonna’s body of work can be more or less divided into two halves: Before and after “Like a Prayer.” Building up to this song, Madonna had released a lot of mildly controversial, but mostly very mainstream Top 40 pop, and some of it is quite enjoyable. Buoyed by a gospel choir and a Latin beat, “Like a Prayer” is the kind of song that should have sounded dated a week after its release, but somehow still holds up 22 years later. Then came the video for the song, into which Madge threw every hot button issue she could think of—burning crosses, attempted rape, sacred statues coming to life for the purpose of interracial romance—in a clear attempt to generate controversy. Of course the ploy worked, and Madonna’s career has largely been one publicity stunt after another since. Madonna was always about more than music, but “Like a Prayer” was the last time the music really felt like an integral part of her world domination scheme. It’s funny how something once so inflammatory can now feel like a relic from a simpler, more innocent time. – Elizabeth Malloy

Listen: Madonna – “Like a Prayer”

168. Yaz – “Situation”

(1982; Sire)

You can have better fun with the Heidi Montag sample of this if you imagine Alison Moyet’s laughter as being at her expense. That recorded laugh is almost as iconic as Vince Clarke’s synth line, essentially his prank call to Depeche Mode; the former is roughly as prominent in Francois K’s dub version of “Situation” as the latter. Think of it as the last laugh in reverse. In any case “Situation” makes significant linkage between the earliest glimpses of house and the last days of disco; in all its iterations over the years it’s remained a spinning heart of gold with a killer hook. Heidi, you were nowhere in that sentence. – Anthony Strain

Listen: Yaz – “Situation”

167. LL Cool J – “I Can’t Live Without My Radio”

(1985; Def Jam)

By today’s standards, LL Cool J’s debut album Radio sounds skeletal, minimalist, boasting 11 songs of little more than beats, scratching and a young James Todd Smith’s rhymes. And yet, that’s all it really needs. To wit: first track “I Can’t Live Without My Radio” sets an extremely spare stage upon which J drops his existential mantra. “My radio, believe me, I like it loud,” he proclaims, serving as a meta-example for the listener to turn his bass-blasting jam up till the knob breaks off. And in all of its five and a half minutes, LL Cool J never strays from his soliloquy on ghettoblaster dependency. Simple, but effective, and an affliction with which many of us sympathize 25 years later. At only 17 years old, LL Cool J created both party jam and mission statement, the likes of which left a mammoth-sized impact on hip-hop. Rick Rubin (whose credit reads “reduced by Rick Rubin”) was smart to leave well enough alone. – Jeff Terich

Listen: LL Cool J – “I Can’t Live Without My Radio”

166. N.W.A. – “Straight Outta Compton”

(1988; Ruthless)

After obsessively poring over the genre for the past decade or longer, it’s always hard for me to believe there was once a time when I didn’t like hip-hop. I was trapped in the closed-minded punk rock purism that dominated the musical tastes of most of my friends and precluded listening to much of anything that wasn’t centered on loud, distorted guitars. But the first time I heard N.W.A. in high school, I was convinced they sounded more punk than perhaps anything I’d ever heard before. “Straight Outta Compton,” the lead single from their seminal record of the same name, broke down any and all self-imposed barriers in my mind in one dramatic crash. This song is completely ruthless. As soon as the beat drops, Ice Cube opens his absurdly hard verse with some of the most widely known lines in hip-hop history: “Straight outta Compton, crazy muthafucka named Ice Cube / From the gang called Niggaz With Attitudes / When I’m called off, I’ve got a sawed off / Squeeze the trigger and bodies are hauled off.” He couldn’t have set the tone of their “world’s most dangerous group” gangster fantasies and devastatingly violent vision of inner-city Los Angeles in the late 1980s more perfectly. In fact, his is so well done, it almost—almost—overshadows the overachieving verses from MC Ren and Eazy-E that follow. And for all the lyrical brutality, the song would not have the same intensity if not for the dramatic and ahead-of-its-time production from Dr. Dre and DJ Yella, the final piece that solidified N.W.A.’s place in my personal musical education and near the top of the hierarchy of influential hip-hop, period. – Derek Emery

Listen: N.W.A. – “Straight Outta Compton”

165. The Who – “Eminence Front”

(1982; Warner Bros.)

This is the way The Who ended—not with a bang, but with a 1982 whimper entitled It’s Hard, which could very well have described maintaining their hard-rock momentum after 27 years. (And that’s before all of the reunions!) This Pete Townshend song, a pulsing electro-funk groove, not only stands in stark contrast to the flat artistry of the rest of the album but actually holds up with other keyboard-driven Who hits like “Who Are You.” So is it that good, or is It’s Hard just that bad? Let’s say both. – Adam Blyweiss

Listen: The Who – “Eminence Front”

164. The Silencers – “Painted Moon”

(1987; RCA)

Chances are, you probably haven’t heard the Silencers’ “Painted Moon,” much less the album from whence it came, A Letter from St. Paul. Even the movie in which the song features was not particularly popular, that being the Jon Cryer vehicle, Morgan Stewart’s Coming Home. So, it doesn’t surprise me that “Painted Moon” is one of my favorite songs in history. It’s not about trying to like things on the fringe. In fact, I fell in love with the song and the album upon my first listen. For those of you who haven’t read my review of the album, I spent years looking for a replacement copy of the original cassette I bought in 1987. I eventually found one, and it was honestly one of the most satisfying days of my life. I only found out recently it was written in response to the Falklands War, but it hasn’t at all changed my opinion of the song, one way or the other. – Terrance Terich

Listen: The Silencers – “Painted Moon”

163. The La’s – “There She Goes”

(1988; Go! Discs)

If there is an example of one song making a band a legend, it is “There She Goes” by the La’s. Written by Lee Mavers, an eventual recluse, the song captured a ’60s sensibility and harmony that hadn’t been heard in England, or America for that matter, for years. Perhaps only rivaled by the Lightning Seeds, the type of music by the La’s would only gain mass acceptance years later at the height of Britpop. Of course, that is when movies such as the classic So, I Married an Axe Murderer took advantage of the perfectly written song and repopularized it. Call it jangle pop, or honestly whatever else you may want to call it, but “There She Goes” is pure confection. It’s sweet, but deceptive, inspiring a (since debunked) rumor that it’s about drugs. While maybe not a big surprise, it at least works effectively in its deception, a sunny song that could lead you to believe it’s about a not so sunny subject. – Terrance Terich

Listen: The La’s – “There She Goes”

162. 39 Clocks – “Psycho Beat”

(1981; No Fun)

Of the songs I voted for in the Treble survey, “Psycho Beat” is the only one I’d never heard until it came up during the staff’s vetting process. To resort to tropes, it sounds like an amalgam of the Velvet Underground, acid and necrophilia. I got this from the De Stijl Records website: “Known for pranksterism and the destruction of the clubs in which they would perform, friction in every form would continually follow the band.” 39 Clocks were German and expressed a lot of Situationist thought, but they were ostensibly most moved by American punk and art music; that “Psycho Beat” was recorded at a studio called No-Wave is probably the most vital piece of information about the band. The song itself is a sinister, buzzy piece of paranoid minimalism that so far hasn’t soundtracked any tough kids shambling through a dark alley, or the gleam of a knife as it’s pulled. This is a shame that needs to be corrected. – Anthony Strain

Listen: 39 Clocks – “Psycho Beat”

161. The Go-Go’s – “We Got the Beat”

(1980; Stiff)

Following the 1982 release of The Go-Go’s debut album Beauty and the Beat, the Los Angeles-based pop quintet made history as the first band to crack the Billboard Top Ten with a lineup of all female members that also wrote their own songs and played their own instruments (as opposed to vocal groups like The Supremes). A song about good times and better parties, “We Got The Beat” was the second single to be released from the record, and had been introduced to listeners on the group’s first seven-inch in 1980. With its infectious drumbeat, sing-along choruses, and lead vocalist Belinda Carlisle’s girlish chirps, the song brought an accessible style of punk-influenced new wave rock (lead vocalist Belinda Carlisle had even been an early member of The Germs) to the airwaves, where it has remained ever since. – Jamie Ludwig

Listen: The Go-Go’s – “We Got the Beat”

160. Orange Juice – “Poor Old Soul“
(1981; Postcard)

There’s a wink in Orange Juice songs that you don’t hear in a lot of their contemporaries. Maybe it’s a Scottish thing, because it’s similar to the wink you hear in Stuart Murdoch’s songs, and Franz Ferdinand are obvious Orange Juice heirs. Maybe it’s just Edwyn Collins’ affected vocal style. But take a song like “Poor Old Soul.” On the page, the lyrics sound as put-upon as anything by Gang of Four or The Cure, but when Collins sings, “You better come clean, How could anybody be so mean / You better come clean, I will not be a party to your scheme,” I don’t hear a sad, angry young man. I hear a smiling cad teasing a girl or a wingman. The band has that rarest of things in post-punk: a good sense of humor. Sometimes it comes out through the lyrics themselves, but in “Poor Old Soul,” its all about the delivery. Cheers to Domino Records for recently releasing new box set Coals to Newcastle, so many new fans can hear it. – Elizabeth Malloy

159. Joan Jett – “Bad Reputation“
(1980; Boardwalk)

Even if Crass had already righteously declared that punk was dead in 1978, that didn’t stop Joan Jett from putting on a leather jacket and cranking out a snotty and infectious wall of power-chords in 1981. Sure, this single was most certainly “bubblegum rock” being promoted for cash and not revolution, but purism aside, “Bad Reputation” bangs. In Joan’s post-Runaways debut, all gives way to the impeccably distorted guitars and her raspy, scream-laden vocal performance. Distilling the punk spirit into a fun and simple creed – “I don’t give a damn about my reputation / You’re living in the past, it’s a new generation” – Joan Jett and her band openly thumbed their noses at the majors, after being rejected by a number of them, and forged their own success with the help of Boardwalk Records and their own label, Blackheart Records. They made things look a bit safe, but they also made rebellion look like a lot of fun. And really, at its core, what’s more punk than that? – Derek Emery

158. Herbie Hancock – “Rockit“
(1983; Columbia)

Seriously, what justice is there that Bobby McFerrin’s milquetoast “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” is a Billboard #1 and this song—this song—gets mired in jazz crossover cult-classic status? Hancock made what’s acknowledged to be that genre’s first foray into hip-hop, filled with dramatic turntable scratches and synthesized voices. It’s ubiquitous in electro circles, acknowledged as a curiosity by jazzbos and rap oldheads everywhere, and the proud owner of a pretty eerie video full of animatronic chorus lines and sitcom scenes. And maybe there’s the justice: being remembered for all the right reasons. – Adam Blyweiss

157. The Police – “Every Breath You Take“
(1983; A&M)

It’s not surprising that this song has been commonly used for proms and weddings, even though just a cursory listen to the lyrics will tell you it’s about obsession, not love. While the couples who picked “Every Breath You Take” to commemorate their relationships might be embarrassed if they ever sit down and really listen to it, you can see how they made the mistake. There is something seductive and romantic about the melody, the palm muted guitars and Sting’s signature croon. If you only listened to a few key lines, there’d be no reason to think this isn’t about loving and needing somebody. A lot of pop songs are about strange things, or nothing at all. The meaning of the lyrics isn’t as an important as the sum of their parts. If the Police accidentally disbursed some romance into the world when they intended to give us the willies, it’s probably better they were misunderstood. – Elizabeth Malloy

156. The Smiths – “What Difference Does It Make?”
(1984; Rough Trade)

Someone once asked me, when I was a teenager, who my favorite guitar player was, which I readily answered: Johnny Marr. Certainly, when it comes to The Smiths, most place their attention squarely on the bitingly cynical sad sack caricature of Stephen Patrick Morrissey. But lines like “I lied and stole and why? Because you asked me to” need a sufficiently sneering and sinewy melodic companion, and that’s where Marr comes in. A not so secret weapon in the band, Johnny Marr makes “What Difference Does It Make?” the juggernaut that it is. It’s got swagger and style, not to mention being the most badass Smiths song ever written. History has pegged The Smiths as melodramatic balladeers, perhaps, but listen to this one again; it’s nothing if not rock `n’ roll. – Jeff Terich

155. Depeche Mode – “Behind the Wheel“
(1987; Mute)

More than any other Depeche Mode single from the ’80s, “Behind the Wheel” sounds at home in the second decade of the 21st century. Layers of violet shadow, an atmosphere of erotic menace, and the strangely evolving conceit of the lyrics fill it with a harem of paranoias as it runs along a cold, metallic linearity that makes it lurch forward into the horizon, a night drive to nowhere, or a wired journey into the underground worlds of urban seduction and barely concealed violence. Call it a bouquet of dark delight, a film noir atmosphere set in an inscrutable, mechanical future that promises nothing yet magnetically draws you to its flame. – Tyler Parks

154. The Cure – “Fascination Street“
(1989; Fiction)

I have a confession to make: I’ve never really paid much attention to the lyrics of “Fascination Street.” They’re about getting into some hedonistic trouble while on tour in New Orleans, which feels appropriate enough given the dark, seamy sound of the song. But Robert Smith’s lyrics are really just a supporting act to Simon Gallup’s hypnotic, heavy bassline. While the rest of the song is in constant flux, from Smith and Porl Thompson’s psychedelic guitar leads to Roger O’Donnell’s ethereal keyboards, the bassline never changes, just throbbing and pulsing through the song’s kaleidoscopic five-minute journey. It’s at once one of the sexiest and most evil sounding songs in The Cure’s oeuvre, which is certainly saying a lot. And it’s all thanks to the bassline. – Jeff Terich

153. A Certain Ratio – “Flight“
(1980; Factory)

I’m convinced that if A Certain Ratio had applied themselves they’d have been the best band of the eighties. In “24 Hour Party People,” they were designated by Steve Coogan as having “all the energy of Joy Division but with better clothes.” That, as Dwight Schrute would say, is debatable. Fashion aside, I play ACR more than I play JD. “Flight,” their first Factory 12-inch, may contain all the post-punk litany — detuned bass, baritone lead vocal, excellent use of space — but it’s got all the elements of a surprise nightmare. It lives and dies in your head. Everything’s dislocated: sounds materialize from multiple angles and then fade out; the drum fills don’t stop lurking. When Martin Moscrop inexplicably hits falsetto at 3:19 it’s like a shiv to the abdomen. They may have been infamous sod-offs, but for the length of “Flight,” at least, A Certain Ratio absolutely did not fuck about. A YouTube commenter sized them up in the following way: “ACR will be funkin long after I’m dead. Give me a fork.” Okay then! – Anthony Strain

152. Split Enz – “I Got You“
(1980; A&M)

Before Tim Finn’s younger brother Neil joined the band, Split Enz had the dual curse of being one of the more inaccessible art rock bands and being from New Zealand. The latter could not be helped I’m afraid, but Neil’s only partial interest in the band’s artier interests took them in a vastly different direction, starting with their biggest single “I Got You,” a sort of New Wave rendition of the early Beatles formula, with a deceptively simple guitar riff and eerie, claustrophobic vocal delivery that booms into a soaring pop melody. That the lyrics make little sense only heightens the power of the song. Split Enz had effectively arrived even if that was never really their intention. Note also that it has a quiet/loud/quiet dynamic, it’s 1980, and it’s not the Pixies. – Chris Morgan

151. Peter Gabriel – “Games Without Frontiers“
(1980; Charisma)

A song about kids involved in whimsical games, or a chilling war allegory. An absurd pop single, or one of the most haunting tracks ever written. Peter Gabriel’s “Games Without Frontiers” is all of these things, a metaphor on armed combat wrapped in the odd goings-on of multi-ethnic children’s names, one of the rascals incidentally being Adolf (just sayin’). Inspired by a long-running European game show in which teams compete for cash and prizes by competing in bizarre contests, the song even takes its name from that show, “Jeux Sans Frontieres,” which was then turned into one of the most notoriously misheard hooks ever, sung beautifully and icily by one Kate Bush. The song’s video clip as well progresses like some kind of carnival of the absurd, which is appropriate given the unsettling nature of it all. The cold, throbbing synths, the Vietnam flashbacks, and Gabriel’s refrain, “If looks could kill they probably will” – it all amounts to a masterpiece of the disturbingly surreal. – Jeff Terich

150. The Cure – “Lullaby“
(1989; Fiction)

If memory serves, one of the best compliments I ever heard about a musician explained why Led Zeppelin’s John Bonham was such a fantastic drummer: he only hit his drums as often as he needed. Remember how the band’s greatest songs had powerful but deceptively spare percussion parts? That quality applies to all parts of this track from The Cure’s Disintegration album. Robert Smith’s rhymes about a creepy cannibal are ghostly and ethereal—frankly, the song’s almost an instrumental. The minor-key plucked guitar and cooing keyboards are also loose, distant, and dangerous like spiderweb strands. “Lullaby” is wholly eerie and menacing in its spaciousness, and a secret highlight of the Cure catalog. – Adam Blyweiss

149. Liquid Liquid – “Optimo“
(1983; 99)

Even though certain indiscriminate lunks hear “Cavern,” say, and mention Primus, Liquid Liquid are one of those elusive DIY bands that make the whole post-disco downtown scene so fascinating three decades later. They just did a beatless mix for FACT magazine that did more shellacking than it had any right to. Credit their expansive gift for melody and more cowbell, both of which drive “Optimo” to the high registers of eighties funk. Salvatore Principato throws his voice like a villain in a Shadow radioplay, opening giant lanes of space for that groove to loiter down. Just no bass-as-rock-instrument polemics, please. – Anthony Strain

148. Psychedelic Furs – “Pretty In Pink“
(1981; CBS)

Pretty in Pink is probably best known to most as the song that launched a John Hughes screenplay of the same name. There’s an assumption that there’s a link between the content of the movie and the song, but that’s not the case — all they share is a title. Whether you look at the original version on Talk Talk Talk with the guitar crunch intact or the declawed version on the movie soundtrack, “Pretty in Pink” is a fine example of upbeat music and not-so-happy subject matter. Here’s Caroline, a girl with plenty of lovers but no one that loves her back, summed up in the line “The one who insists he was first in the line is the last to remember her name.” Jon Cryer doesn’t dance through a record store in her life, Andrew McCarthy isn’t some attainable dreamboat. It’s just guys using a lonely girl because she’s willing to be used. Somehow this is still a pretty song, and just the music itself is enough to pick you up. Maybe it’s a case of the Furs, like Caroline, laughing at the rain. Unlike her lovers, though, the Furs are there laughing with her. – Hubert Vigilla

147. The Beat – “Save It for Later“
(1982; Go-Feet)

The last single the Beat (or English Beat here in the states) released before calling it quits (the first time), “Save It For Later” closed the ska band’s brief but inspired career by incorporating hardly a trace of the reggae elements that characterized their work, but rather a bright and infectious hook of guitar jangle. In retrospect, the song is much closer to later Britpop acts like Blur or Supergrass than their two-tone contemporaries, particularly given its gorgeously understated strings. Perhaps it’s fitting that the band took a bow by dropping a single rife with fellatio-referencing double entendres (“just hold my hand while I come… to a decision on it“), but after releasing a single this perfect, there’s nowhere left to go but down (that’s what she said?). – Jeff Terich

146. Mekons – “Hard to be Human Again“
(1985; Sin)

I don’t think anyone would argue that being human doesn’t come with its set of challenges. For the Mekons, those challenges range from being punched and beaten to “searching for existence in red, red wine.” It’s exactly the kind of reality you would expect this ramshackle, yet exceptionally talented band would be living in. Although perpetually down and out, the Mekons were one of the first bands—if not the first band—to mix country, dub, Irish folk and punk. The genre mingling on “Hard to be Human Again” is so casual, it could easily be overlooked, but the song’s power still wouldn’t be diminished. “Hard to be Human Again” is a barn-burning anthem for the defeated. – Chris Karman

145. The Fixx – “One Thing Leads To Another“
(1983; MCA)

What does it say when you start out “big in Europe,” and then break so big in America that Europe won’t have you back? Ask Cy Curnin and The Fixx, whose second album Reach the Beach helped them reach across an ocean and find latter-day New Wave success. A snappy ode to honesty—”do what you say, say what you mean“—it put a spit-shine on Depeche Mode’s squishy keyboards and jagged chords from the likes of Gang of Four and Pere Ubu. – Adam Blyweiss

144. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds – “From Her to Eternity“
(1984; Mute)

The title track on the first Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds album is a masterpiece of isolation, mania and obsession. It’s one of the best things Nick Cave has ever done, and it starts with something innocent enough: an interest in a neighbor who lives upstairs. But there’s something sinister about all this. The little chops of drum and bass may seem at first like footsteps through the ceiling, but they soon sound more like a kitchen knife that’s getting too close to the fingertips. Those industrial scuffs from Blixa Bargeld’s guitar, those little stabs of piano, and Cave’s growl mark the moments when the blade bites the flesh. Yet the knife keeps chopping regardless. The narrator in the song eventually intellectualizes his insanity like the finest madmen do: “This desire to possess her is a wound / And it’s nagging at me like a shrew / But, I know that to possess her is therefore not to desire her / Then that little girl would just have to go.” In the final seconds, there’s a thump, like something heavy just fell to the floor and isn’t going to get up. I’m afraid to learn what happened upstairs. – Hubert Vigilla

143. Hüsker Dü – “Pink Turns to Blue”

(1984; SST)

“Pink Turns to Blue” is the perfect encapsulation of what made Hüsker Dü stand out from their peers. One of first bands to truly mix hardcore’s serrated riffs with pop song smarts, Hüsker Dü essentially provided a blueprint for pop-punk’s evolution. “Pink Turns to Blue” is an elegiac portrayal of the loss of one’s girlfriend after she succumbs to a drug addiction. The sound of the recording may be a little thin, but everything else about it— right down to its melancholic tone— is practically a perfect prediction of the approach that would be adopted by many early’ 90s alternative bands. – Chris Karman

Listen: Hüsker Dü – “Pink Turns to Blue”

142. Nine Inch Nails – “Terrible Lie“
(1989; TVT)

One could argue that Trent Reznor’s early efforts were more or less aping Ministry, and this is true but only to a certain extent. Nine Inch Nails would have been nothing without the earlier efforts of Al Jourgensen, et. al., but what people sometimes overlook is that Nine Inch Nails not only embraced dance and electro-pop more openly, but played it far better. Despite its simplistic lyrical themes, “Terrible Lie” gave electro-pop far greater substance and emotional breadth than it had ever really deserved. Reznor’s love for pop hooks and need for catharsis, though ripe for easy parody among cynics (and rightly so in some cases), made the alternative boom all the more plausible as time would reveal. – Chris Morgan

141. They Might Be Giants – “Ana Ng“
(1988; Bar/None)

It opens with a gunshot, which punctures a desktop globe, and the “exit wound in a foreign nation” marks the spot where the possibly fictional woman for whom this song was written lies. And much like that opening gunshot, They Might Be Giants, open the song with an atypically aggressive guitar strum that quickly piles on layers to become not just one of their hardest rocking compositions, but oddly one of their prettiest. In comes a zither, and then John Linnell’s accordion, backing an odd, seemingly disconnected sequence of obscure references to the DuPont Pavilion at the 1964 World’s Fair, and “80 dolls singing small girl after all.” And in a move only the clever, bookish Johns could pull off, the bridge comprises a short anecdote about, wait for it, a bridge. Meta. – Jeff Terich

140. The Fall – “I Am Damo Suzuki”

(1985; Beggars Banquet)

YouTube comment wars are the unholiest kind of internet; one for “I Am Damo Suzuki” addresses the debt New Wave owes Krautrock, whether or not post-punk is a misnomer for post-Kraut, and other barely-relevant sundries, although what’s indisputable is how fine everyone is with a Jehovah’s Witness getting his own rock song. I personally am wild about it. I love how literal The Fall made their tribute (“generous/ valeric/ Jehovah’s Witness“) when they weren’t making it surreal (“the fuckup like red acid rain…who is Mr. Karlheinz Stockhausen?…Soundtracks! Soundtracks!” Actually all of that’s pretty literal, too.) When the drums come in (“drums come in!“) they’re pitched so weird and at such an angle from the phrasing it’s like some kind of mechanical accident. This song is jagged with way more garish horror than its hero warranted, maybe. But that’s also barely relevant. – Anthony Strain

Listen: The Fall – “I Am Damo Suzuki”

139. Peter Gabriel – “Sledgehammer“
(1986; Geffen)

The `80s introduced a unique conundrum for music fans: Do I really like this song, or just the video? I’ve often wondered this about Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer.” The video, full of bizarre stop motion animation, including dancing chicken carcasses, was somewhat revolutionary when it came out, and certainly contributed to the popularity of the song. But listening to it now, divorced from the video, the song still stands on its own. Channeling the brass and bass of Stax soul, throwing in some odd flute flourishes and a lot of sexual metaphors, “Sledgehammer” is the rare song that lends itself to both the dance floor, and repeat, reflective listens on your headphones. I’ve heard it countless times and still often pick up on something different happening deep in the tracks. – Elizabeth Malloy

138. Afrika Bambaataa and Soulsonic Force – “Planet Rock“
(1982; Tommy Boy)

The only thing better than one Kraftwerk sample is two Kraftwerk samples, the evidence of which is “Planet Rock.” There was a point in New York’s history when dance culture was wild in the streets and no other song short of, y’know, actual “Dancin’ In The Streets” makes me think of that, or wish I’d been there, more. Incidentally I’m pretty sure “Planet Rock”‘s attribution of punchy, ominous electro made it a little easier for the Neptunes to exist. To be sure, hip-hop and synth effects have rarely found that kind of synergy since. The dancing in the video cinches it; as some inspired wacko on Twitter said once, “why is it called breakdancing when it fixes everything?” – Anthony Strain

137. Iron Maiden – “Run to the Hills“
(1982; EMI)

“Run To The Hills” was, for many, an introduction to Iron Maiden, and for others, the introduction to one of the decade’s most enthusiastic and charismatic frontmen, Bruce Dickinson. The single shone the light on a new wave movement of heavy metal coming out of England in the late ’70s and early ’80s, bringing to the forefront not only a titan like Iron Maiden, but bands such as Judas Priest and Mötörhead, as well. who played their music with more grit and attitude compared to their hair metal counterparts across the pond. Although the leather clad blokes were mainly underground successes playing up a quiet dignity, and despite the short era of success and excess that the Sunset Strip rockers enjoyed, Iron Maiden lives on, keeping heavy metal alive for more than three decades. – Jordon Chiarelli

136. XTC – “Dear God“
(1987; Geffen)

Not to put too much weight on a pop song, but hearing “Dear God” was the first time that I remember hearing religious views challenged. Today, you can hear any number of people, from Bill Maher to Joss Whedon, or even Adam Savage, speaking about a lack of faith. “Dear God” starts with the voice of a child, backed by acoustic guitar, reading a letter to God, somewhat angry about the lack of actual divine intervention on earth. The voice changes to that of Andy Partridge, and at a certain point, the acoustics change to electrics. And while the music becomes charged, so too does the rhetoric. It’s brilliantly constructed, incredibly memorable, with a masterful balance between verses, bridge, and kinetic crescendo. A few years later, Trent Reznor would sing, “God is dead, and no one cares,” and all of these ideas have been posited before (Nietzsche, anyone?), but never this infectiously. – Terrance Terich

135. Jane’s Addiction – “Jane Says“
(1988; Warner Bros.)

Heroin use has never sounded so beautiful. Dave Navarro’s acoustic guitars, Stephen Perkins’ steel drums, and Perry Farrell’s distinctive whiskey soaked scratchy vocals combined in a magical way on “Jane Says.” First appearing as a live track on Jane’s Addiction’s live debut (itself, a rarity), “Jane Says” was an anomaly of sorts. Other than the more sober covers, “Jane Says” was a stand out slow burner among a series of high-energy glam rock. The song itself is heartbreaking, about the titular Jane, a heroin addict who has never known real love, and famously, “only knows when someone wants her.” “I only know they want me,” is what Jane ultimately says, among other things, and Farrell squeezes out every ounce of pathos. – Terrance Terich

134. U2 – “New Year’s Day“
(1983; Island)

Bono once remarked that in the early days, U2 was a band of “miserable bastards,” at least when compared to their work from Achtung Baby forward. He may very well be right; who the hell writes a pop song about Lech Walesa (even if subconsciously)? Yet U2 sounded their most inspired when at their most martyr-like. You can hear it in “Sunday Bloody Sunday,” you can hear it in “Pride (In the Name of Love)”, and above all, you can hear it in “New Year’s Day.” A fairly simple love song wrapped in an immortal package, “New Year’s Day” is one of the biggest songs ever written by one of the world’s biggest bands, all scratchy guitars, slithering bassline and chilly piano. Its instrumental midsection is arguably its highest peak, with Bono adding nonverbal sounds to the haunting, minor key proceedings. Even the abandonment of language can’t take away his earnestness. – Jeff Terich

133. Morrissey – “Suedehead“
(1988; HMV)

After the Smiths’ sudden breakup in 1987, with his deft guitar work and exceptional ear, many assumed that it would be Johnny Marr who would go on to continue achieving success, leaving Morrissey to flounder. Any doubts in Morrissey’s ability to conjure life post-Smiths were promptly quelled with his debut solo single “Suedehead.” Not only did “Suedehead” storm the UK Top 5 -— a feat the Smiths were never able to achieve — but it was a damn good song, easily holding its own when held up against his former band’s classics. Pleading to a lover that won’t leave him alone long enough for his obsession to diminish, Moz plays the victim better than just about anyone else on the planet. Meanwhile, the song’s jangling chords and a swelling keyboard are positively danceable. “Suedehead” was the first staple in what has become the institution known as Morrissey. – Chris Karman

132. Eleven Pond – “Watching Trees“
(1986; Self-released)

One of the great unearthed gems brought back to the world at large by compilations like Cold Waves and Minimal Electronics and The Minimal Wave Tapes, as well as labels like San Francisco’s Dark Entries, Eleven Pond’s “Watching Trees” is a new wave juggernaut of jagged, churning synth arpeggios, voyeuristic love/lust, New Order guitar lines, and trembling, twilight atmospherics. The band was from Rochester, N.Y., but “Watching Trees” has a great deal in common with the more brutal and minimalistic music being made on the other side of the Atlantic at the time, utilizing the new machines available to create a sound less indulgent than alien and uncompromising. But it also brims with pop pleasantries, and in the intersection between malice and sugar, something truly intoxicating emerges. – Tyler Parks

131. Beastie Boys – “Paul Revere“
(1986; Def Jam)

Everyone knows about the Golden Age of Hip Hop’s crown egg: the Beastie’s Licensed to Ill. The album is the first of the genre to top the Billboard Top 200, it’s Capitol Record’s highest selling debut with nine million copies sold, and possesses probably two of the biggest singles of the decade with “Fight For Your Right” and “No Sleep Till Brooklyn.” Their third single however, is quite a bit different from the first two. There are no hooky guitar riffs, but rather a spare beat with the Beasties actually rapping. The single showcases the first well-known white rappers and what the Beasties were really all about. And we can likely thank its acceptance by mainstream audiences for the Beasties’ more-rap-than-rock evolution that continued to progress for the next couple decades. – Jordon Chiarelli

130. Roxy Music – “More Than This“
(1982; EG)

Admittedly, Roxy Music was in far less adventurous territory by the time of their last album, Avalon, than they were in their early to mid-`70s prime, but don’t even think about tagging their sophisticated pop with a derogatory term like adult contemporary. With its slick production and elegant synth washes “More Than This” may fall loosely under the banner of soft rock, but this is no frivolous love song. Quite the contrary, in “More Than This,” Bryan Ferry ponders hefty, unanswerable questions such as the nature of what can and cannot be changed in life. It’s Ferry’s delivery that really sells the song, his inescapable longing lifts the song into the sublime. – Chris Karman

129. Depeche Mode – “Personal Jesus”

(1989; Mute)

By 1989, exploring power dynamics between lovers was hardly a new subject for Depeche Mode, whose previous singles had included tunes like the BDSM-themed “Master and Servant” and jailbait-lust number “Question of Time.” Released just prior to 1990’s Violator, on which the single would also appear, “Personal Jesus” was a forerunner of what would become the best selling record of the band’s career, eventually landing the #3 slot of the U.S. Billboard Modern Rock Hits among other sales charts around the world. Inspired by Pricilla Presley’s description of her relationship with Elvis in her 1985 memoir Elvis and Me, and armed with a march-like drum cadence and swaggering bass groove, the synth-rock quartet crafted a dark, mysterious, and catchy song with lyrics that toyed with the idea that in many relationships one figure can take on the role of a mentor, or “savior.” No stranger to pushing buttons for the sake of exploration, with “Personal Jesus,” lead songwriter Martin Gore hit on something dark, but strangely universal–Who out there hasn’t at some point been involved in an unhealthily unbalanced relationship? With its driving beat and thumping groove of its bass line, the song is still as unhealthily alluring as the object of a love fixation. – Jamie Ludwig

Listen: Depeche Mode – “Personal Jesus”

128. U2 – “Sunday Bloody Sunday“
(1983; Island)

In the decade of Live Aid, “Do They Know It’s Christmas?”, and “We Are the World,” popular artists didn’t shirk from injecting social awareness into their music. In 1983, U2 made a blatant political statement with “Sunday Bloody Sunday” – a distinctive plea from one of the quintessential Irish bands, whose home country was entrenched in a bitter conflict at the time. Obviously informed by the continuing “Troubles” in Ireland and deeply resonant with the people of their homeland, this anthem also looked beyond one particular incident or people to make a wider statement about violence and suffering across the world. The lyrics may not be subtle, but they are effortlessly transformed from trite to true by Bono’s impassioned and genuine vocal performance. While, like many U2 songs, “Sunday Bloody Sunday” is centered on The Edge’s undeniable guitar riffage, virtually every layer of this song is a hook that grabs hold and refuses to let go, all colliding in what is perhaps the most anthemic single of the 1980s. – Derek Emery

127. Violent Femmes – “Add It Up“
(1983; Slash)

There was a stretch of time in middle school when my younger brother would call 98.5 KOME everyday and request “Add It Up.” Looking back, it seems all too fitting. Think of all the dark things going on in early adolescent minds. Pretty icky, right? “Add It Up” burns with the sex and the violence in the thoughts of angry young men. It’s restless, it’s confessional; it’s a dark little psycho city full of menace. There’s the sexual tension and frustration, sublimated in most cases through lots of rock music and frequent masturbation. (Mockingly, the radio edit of the lyric “Why can’t I get just one fuck” replaced the f-word with a woman moaning in ecstasy.) There’s the anger and violence caused by hormones out of control, sublimated in most cases through lots of rock music and frequent masturbation. There’s even a bass solo, which in lesser songs is akin to masturbation but here communicates that rage, lava-like, brimming over and enveloping everything in its path. This is the song for the difficult, angry alleyways of adolescence that creep on into adulthood. – Hubert Vigilla

126. Duran Duran – “Save A Prayer“
(1982; EMI)

The first true “video band” used tropical backdrops for a series of music videos associated with their punishingly good second album Rio. While both the title track and “Hungry Like the Wolf” ended up with iconic associated imagery, this cut may have been the album’s best dovetail of sound and vision. The synthesized wind-instrument sounds surrounding Simon le Bon’s dismissive tenor suggest otherworldly and magical relationships, even without the visual aids of jungle waterfalls and ancient ruins. – Adam Blyweiss

125. AC/DC – “Back In Black“
(1980; Atlantic)

Let it be known that throughout rock history, only one band has ever been able to replace their lead singer (deceased, no less) and get away with it. AC/DC is that band. It certainly doesn’t hurt that Brian Johnson’s ferocious screech is nearly as legendary as Bon Scott’s own mighty growl, but what primarily separates AC/DC from unsuccessful experiments as VanHagar, VanCherone or, you know, Judas Priest with the guy from the Judas Priest tribute band is that Australia’s baddest rock ‘n’ roll outfit managed to release their greatest song, and for that matter album, with Scott’s successor. “Back In Black” isn’t necessarily a drastic alteration to the blues-based hard rock anthems the group cranked out in the years preceding, it was just that much louder, stomped that much harder, and carried itself with that much more swagger. Surely there could be no better eulogy to one of rock ‘n’ roll’s biggest badasses by turning out this bad motherfucker of a tribute and having it sung by an equally badass frontman. – Jeff Terich

124. Gang of Four – “To Hell With Poverty!“
(1981; EMI)

With their second album Solid Gold, Gang of Four seamlessly began adding dancier rhythms to the jagged punk and funk combination of their debut post-punk masterwork Entertainment!. “To Hell with Poverty!”, originally appearing in the United States as the lead track on the Another Day/Another Dollar EP, quickly followed the band’s second album. In many ways, the song is a natural continuation of that album’s genius. Jerky stop-start dynamics are carried by an uncontainable bass groove and characteristically serrated guitar work. What throws the track over the top are the echoing “ows” of vocalist Jon King which bounce off of the song’s walls in between his typically unflattering commentary on capitalism. With “To Hell with Poverty!”, Gang of Four continued to define and push the parameters of the same dance-punk that made a resurgence last decade with bands like the Rapture and Radio 4. – Chris Karman

123. Bruce Springsteen – “Dancing In the Dark“
(1984; Columbia)

Following the release of his fragile, pessimist masterpiece Nebraska, The Boss set out to record his most pop-driven record to date: the upbeat, anthemic, and relatively synth-heavy Born in the U.S.A. Widely considered to be one of Springsteen’s absolute best, this record would go on to be one of the best selling records of all time, propelled heavily by a series of massively successful singles. The first, “Dancing in the Dark,” no doubt departed the furthest [from his previous work], its driving beat, guitar jangle and walls of synthesizers starkly refashioning the bombastic Bruce power-anthem as pure pop accessibility. But the fit is remarkably comfortable; Springsteen’s raspy croon fits in perfectly and soars with enough charisma to inspire just about anyone to join him on stage and bust out whatever goofy-looking ’80s dance moves come to mind. “You can’t start a fire without a spark“— Bruce didn’t know how right he was. – Derek Emery

122. The Birthday Party – “Nick The Stripper“
(1981; Missing Link)

Dapper gentleman though Nick Cave is, as frontman of Australia’s notorious post-punks the Birthday Party, “sexy” wasn’t part of his vocabulary. Even when confronting sex itself via “Nick the Stripper,” a self-referential single with a fittingly bizarre video, Cave lobs phrases like “fat little insect” and “hideous to the eye” at his slithering ecdysiast of an alter-ego. Tracy Pew’s sly bass rumble and Rowland Howard’s reverb-heavy jangle take the scenario a step further by giving this birthday suited grotesque a sultry post-punk burlesque soundtrack. The result, ironically, is a little sexy, despite Cave’s horrifying squeals, which, no doubt, contributed to the coining of the word ‘pigfuck.’ There’s probably a reason why this hasn’t replaced “Pour Some Sugar On Me” as exotic dancers’ favored backdrop. – Jeff Terich

121. Aztec Camera – “Oblivious“
(1983; Rough Trade)

Avoiding distorted, abrasive guitars and glossy synthesizers in favor of a sprightly, flamenco-inspired guitar pop style, Aztec Camera were something of an anomaly in new wave. And their biggest hit, 1983’s “Oblivious,” sounded like practically nothing else released at the time, driven by then 18-year-old Roddy Frame’s youthful gloom and dazzling instrumental feats. Like a Scottish sophisti-pop combination of both Morrissey and Johnny Marr, Frame deadpans lines like “I hear you crying and I want to kill your friends” and “They bought the bullets and there’s no one else to shoot” over elegantly intricate acoustic riffs that escalate into one of the decade’s greatest solos. Yet despite the jaw-dropping interplay between Frame’s perfectly timed wordplay and infectious melodies, the song’s breezy feel and delightfully unshakable chorus are engineered for maximum replay value. – Jeff Terich

120. The Fall – “The Classical”

(1982; Kamera)

The Fall, when you really think about it, is the British Devo. Both bands had high-art ambitions and eccentric modes of realizing and both bands had a disdain for mainstream culture. However, where Devo concealed it over a veil of pop hooks, irony and slogan-like, metaphor-based lyrics, The Fall cut the shit and did the best they could to present to listeners what a wasteland civilization really was. Various rock bands have made grand efforts to remake “1984” in sonic form with appalling, even offensive results, The Fall simply outdid them by writing a sequel to “Brave New World” in which the good times are in steep decline and the hedonism continues out of habit but in a brutal, demonic form. “The Classical,” in essence, is the world anthem for the new anarchy and its recurring state of panic, desperation and freedom. – Chris Morgan

Listen: The Fall – “The Classical”

119. Devo – “Girl U Want“
(1980; Warner Bros.)

On first listen, Devo’s “Girl U Want” seems like your standard I-really-have-a-thing-for-her song, albeit one that sounds like a jagged, geometric “My Sharona.” But there’s something going on lyrically worth looking at. Your mouth waters over this girl, but she comes from some abstract place: “She sings from somewhere you can’t see / She sits in the top of the greenest tree / She sends out an aroma of undefined love / It drips on down in a mist from above“. There’s this split between the girl who’s there and the idea of the girl who’s there. One’s the actual girl (just the girl), the other’s the idealization of that girl (the girl you want). The narrator of the song wants the idea of the girl more than the actual girl, but you can never have the idea. As someone who’s done this before, “Girl U Want” hits close to home. It’s no surprise that the chorus makes the difference clear: “She’s just the girl, she’s just the girl / The girl you want.” It’s fitting that the song ends abruptly with “Just the girl,” because she’s who you should really want. –Hubert Vigilla

118. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds – “The Mercy Seat“
(1988; Mute)

I wonder if Nick Cave ever had trouble trying to transition from weird angry non-goth goth frontman to the evil version of Leonard Cohen? In any case, it’s more than evident now that he succeeded, and that he not only mastered but improved the death ballad. Though his style is distinctive to say the least, embodying the narrative and characters in a given song is part of his style and he can sink into it more convincingly than most other storyteller songwriters, and without making it a monologue set to music—even though he does actually talk in parts of the song. – Chris Morgan

117. Bauhaus – “Dark Entries”

(1980; 4AD)

In many ways, Bauhaus’ second single, “Dark Entries,” is quite similar to the epic creature that preceded it, “Bela Lugosi’s Dead.” Both songs feature an eerie, descending hook, as well as a lengthy series of stream-of-consciousness lyrics from Peter Murphy, whose own defiance of age makes one wonder whether or not the man was born in Transylvania. But where “Bela” is a spacious, nine-minute dirge, “Dark Entries” is a hectic, three-minute punk song. Daniel Ash’s guitar slashes like a meat cleaver, and screeches like its victim during the brief interludes between verses, while Murphy goes unhinged, howling lines like “Don’t go waving your pretentious love!” with menace rather than misery. The band certainly seemed comfortable behind their eyeliner and hairspray, but with “Dark Entries,” they showed that even a theatrical group of glamorous Goths could still wreck shit. – Jeff Terich

Listen: Bauhaus – “Dark Entries”

116. The Jam – “A Town Called Malice“
(1982; Polydor)

I came late to The Jam (started listening to them in college), and this is the song that won me over. It’s lost none of its potency more that 10 years after my first encounter with it. There’s even an added weight to “A Town Called Malice” these days given the recession. There’s that catchy Motown bassline that sounds straight out of “I’m Ready for Love” (the second time I can think of that The Jam nodded to Martha and the Vandellas, the first being their cover of “Heat Wave“). There’s that organ boiling that warm sound through the song. There’s the too-cool snapping; the hand clapping; the crisp, sharp strums from Paul Weller’s guitar. Against that bright backdrop is a tableau of a depressed town crumbling; it’s a place full of abandoned swings, ghosts of industry, an empty milk bottles held to the breasts of desperate mothers. And yet, there’s something great about this kind of woe. Here’s a blast of a song that sprang up from the hardships of Thatcher’s England. Even a wasteland can’t stop the growth of beautiful things. – Hubert Vigilla

115. Michael Jackson – “P.Y.T.“
(1983; Epic)

In the Thriller diaspora–millennia units moved, influences made and reborn, grooves worn fingernail-ragged and revived — two songs tend to get overlooked. One is “Hot Street,” a piece of mean, bullet-fast funk that was excised from the tracklist, and the other is “P.Y.T.,” which peaked at No. 10. By Thriller standards that barely rates. Acolytes routinely cite it way down on any MJ list, but “P.Y.T.” is probably the sweetest song on Thriller in both melody and attitude. Deceptively, it swings back toward the proper disco of Off The Wall; as with everything from that album it’s hard to decide if you’d rather groove to it or lounge to it. Vocally Jackson sounds so at ease with himself on “P.Y.T.”; in terms of pure chronology it’s one of the last times that would be fully true. – Anthony Strain

114. Dead Kennedys – “Holiday in Cambodia”

(1980; I.R.S.)

“Holiday in Cambodia,” the second single released by San Francisco punks Dead Kennedys, was an assault on privileged white American. The song targeted everyone from authoritarian cops to liberals that claimed to feel solidarity with America’s underclasses, minorities, and victims of foreign conflict from the comfort of their ivory towers (or more likely, high-rise apartments and condos). Vocalist/frontman Jello Biafra then contrasts these images with depictions of life under the Khmer Rouge, the militaristic regime that controlled Cambodia in the late-1970s and under the leadership of Pol Pot led a genocide that killed over 20 percent of the country’s population. The dismal nature of the lyrics become even more powerful when placed against a backdrop of upbeats tempos, surf rock-inspired guitar lines, and satirically happy-sounding sing-along choruses (ex. “It’s a holiday in Cambodia / Where you’ll kiss ass or crack“). While “Holiday in Cambodia” may come across a little self-righteous by today’s (even more) jaded standards, the song remains a punk classic, and an illustration of powerful political rock. – Jamie Ludwig

Listen: Dead Kennedys – “Holiday In Cambodia”

113. Dinosaur L – “Go Bang #5“
(1982; Sleeping Bag)

What’s most fascinating about Arthur Russell’s mark on dance and club culture is that he was never a disco literalist. Yet his most cryptic recordings always burned well in the bright lights thanks to a soulful sensibility that never wavered, and beautiful touches from gifted collaborators who knew how to give the people what they wanted. As a result the tracks found multiple identities that mirrored the protean complexities of that incomparable 76-83 scene. “Go Bang” in all its ascendingly funky iterations filters brazen camaraderie through Russell’s twisted, euphoric vision; the proclamation “I want to see all my friends at once” and that exquisite ellipsis between “see” and “all” are moments in dance music that have been rarely equaled. Strange and addictive, the song defined a genre while not really belonging to one. This was progress. – Anthony Strain

112. Public Enemy – “Rebel Without a Pause“
(1987; Def Jam)

Outside of perhaps N.W.A., there wasn’t a force in hip-hop in the 1980s as unstoppable and uncompromising as Public Enemy. Preaching militant black power politics and deconstructing American racial hierarchies with biting intelligence over some of the most ferocious production you’ve ever heard, their music was raw and relentless. “Rebel Without a Pause,” the first single from their landmark record It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back, opens with relative calm as a sample taken from the documentary Wattstax proclaims, “Brothers and sisters…. brothers and sisters… I don’t know what this world is coming to.” And then the beat opens up. Looping a three-second sample of screeching trumpet from The J.B.s’ “The Grunt,” producers The Bomb Squad thrust the listener into an abrasive, nearly-maddening soundscape that amplifies the feeling of alarm and urgency in Chuck D’s flow to a level that surely made most of white suburbia very uncomfortable. “Yes — the rhythm, the rebel / Without a pause, I’m lowering my level / The hard rhymer, where you never been I’m in / You want stylin’, you know it’s time again” sets the tone with considerable force as Chuck postures as an MC and takes shots at those who need to either join up with P.E. or get the fuck out the way. A “Rebel Without a Pause,” indeed—the cause is clear and Public Enemy assures you the fight will never be over until the goal is reached without compromise. – Derek Emery

111. The Minutemen – “This Ain’t No Picnic”

(1984; SST)

Due to its minor airplay on MTV, “This Ain’t No Picnic” was likely the first thing many had ever heard from the Minutemen and I doubt anyone walked away from the experience unchanged. Lyrically, it’s a straightforward, all-too-relatable rant against the typical soul-sucking 9 to 5. Musically it’s a behemoth; D. Boon drops Gang of Four-esque shards on his guitar, Mike Watt pounds away on his bass with typically expert precision and George Hurley’s drums strike like hammers. The Minutemen’s classic opus Double Nickels on the Dime was all over the map, toying with seemingly disparate styles and ideas like it was a game. “This Ain’t No Picnic” is characteristically distinctive and it’s something we can all shout along to. – Chris Karman

Listen: The Minutemen – “This Ain’t No Picnic”

110. Orchestral Manoeuvres In the Dark – “If You Leave“
(1986; Virgin)

“If You Leave” is probably not OMD’s critical or discerning fan favorite, but it certainly remains the emotional pick. Played during the romantic ending of Pretty in Pink, it immediately won over the hearts of lovelorn teens everywhere, almost as much, if not more, as “In Your Eyes” from Cameron Crowe’s Say Anything. Rather than the cold, somewhat robotic synths of their past, “If You Leave” is full of warmth, adorned with strings, and dripping with simple and somewhat nonsensical lyrical honey. Though we all rooted for Duckie, “If You Leave” softened the blow for a somewhat disappointing Molly Ringwald and Andrew McCarthy smooch. And if you’re griping about a spoiler alert, you’re 25 years too late. – Terrance Terich

109. Spacemen 3 – “Walkin’ With Jesus“
(1986; Glass)

Somewhere on the far edge of Psychocandy‘s brilliant fusion of white noise and girl group harmonies, Spacemen 3 launched into a searing, bloody-minded explosion called “Walkin’ With Jesus” that took the sound of confusion to an even more intense peak of amphetamine insanity joy. “Here comes the sun / the sound of love,” sings J Spaceman/Jason Pierce and whether that is god, the actual sun, or an incantation of light induced by drug A, B or F, it burns as bright and as rapturously as just about anything that has ever appeared in a (droning, buzzing, fraying or otherwise) rock and roll song. – Tyler Parks

108. Duran Duran – “Hungry Like the Wolf“
(1982; Capitol)

I have other favorite Duran Duran songs. When it comes to the Wild Boys, I prefer the deep cuts. But, there’s no getting around how hugely successful and ubiquitous “Hungry Like the Wolf” was back in 1982. Whether it was Simon Le Bon’s off key, yet earnest whines, John Taylor’s disco inspired bassline, or the animalistic sexual moans in the coda, “Hungry Like the Wolf” became one of Duran Duran’s signature songs. Of course, it didn’t hurt to have an expensive, cinematic video, directed by Russell Mulcahy, and modeled after Indiana Jones films. Of course, if anyone can explain “I smell like I sound” or “straddle the line in discord and rhyme,” I think a lot of us want to know. – Terrance Terich

107. Elvis Costello and the Attractions – “Beyond Belief“
(1982; Columbia)

With the suspenseful boom of a bass string, “Beyond Belief” begins like a great thriller. The audience is left hanging as Costello sets an elaborately detailed stage for the actions about to unfold. Yet, therein lies the brilliance; though this is a song that intricately stacks brick by brick of palpable tension, nerves and sweat, despite its final 30 seconds of explosive climax, there is, for Costello, like an earlier song of his, no action. Eyeing a target of sexual attraction in an “almost empty gin palace,” Costello retreats into self-defeat, lamenting, “I know there’s not a hope in Hades / All the laddies cat call and wolf whistle/ So-called gentlemen and ladies/ Dog fight like rose and thistle. “And in the end, the high energy coda is merely a reflection of his resignation: “Once this seemed so appealing/ now I am beyond belief.” Like all great literature, “Beyond Belief” is not for casual consumers looking for the happy ending, it’s for those who take delight in wordplay and allusion. In just two minutes and 30 seconds, Costello crafted possibly the most intricate and cleverly crafted song of his career. – Jeff Terich

106. Loose Joints – “Tell You (Today)“
(1983; West End)

It’s no surprise, since he appears most definitely to have been one himself, that a great many pieces that Arthur Russell had a hand in are fantastic anomalies. “Tell You Today” is most definitely one of those, a single released in 1983 that clatters along on an Afro-disco beat, shoots into orbit on a bristling, seriously shake-inducing horn section, finally tumbling into some huge, smiley whistling and Russell’s warm, fragile and romantic voice expressing some stumbling moments of tremendous and everyday love/joy. There really isn’t anything quite like it in his or anyone else’s oeuvre and it is fun to watch it get people on its wavelength. – Tyler Parks

105. XTC – “Generals And Majors“
(1980; Virgin)

XTC could rock and pogo with the best of their UK post-punk peers, but what set them apart from their more abrasive contemporaries, aside from later forays into pastoral orch-pop, was the band’s sense of smirking delight. Easily one of the most satirical and cynical bands of the 1980s, XTC never came off as painfully earnest (like U2) or misanthropic (like Magazine) or completely insane (like The Fall). Instead, they delivered their scathing barbs with a smile, best exemplified by standout single “Generals and Majors.” The stomping disco-punk beat approximates the sound of soldiers marching, as does the whimsical whistling outro. And it’s hard not to picture Andy Partridge grinning as he sneers, “Generals and majors always seem so unhappy unless they got a war.” It’s a shame Partridge’s stage fright kept the band from continuing to perform live, long-term, because this sounds like it would have been a ripper live. – Jeff Terich

104.The Waterboys – “The Whole of the Moon“
(1985; Island)

“The Whole of the Moon” is a song all about the power of imagination, and the perceived shortcomings and self-consciousness of one person in relation to the limitless potential of another. These `others’ have been rumored to be anyone from C.S. Lewis, to Mark Helprin, and even to Prince, though it could easily have been addressed to a friend or lover who is creative, yet insular. The imagery of the lyrics is only one aspect to the brilliance of the track, with its big multi-instrument sound. Along with other bands from Scotland, Wales and Ireland, the Waterboys defined an entire genre, with Mike Scott as the pied piper, leading his fans into worlds of wonder. I loved them all, the Alarm, Big Country, and later spinoff World Party, but This is the Sea was always my touchstone, and “The Whole of the Moon” a go-to track for a much needed emotional charge. – Terrance Terich

103. U2 – “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For“
(1987; Island)

The ubiquitous nature of “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” (and U2 themselves) can make it easy to underestimate the song’s profundity. Even in the band’s fledgling days, U2 was never exactly adverse to weighty, world-bearing topics; “I Still Haven’t Found…” still files as one of the weightiest. It’s an honest look at their personal struggle with faith, doubt and a search for meaning. The song’s success lies in the balance beam it straddles. It’s insightful and knowing, yet unsure and self-effacing; far-reaching, but not overcooked. Each of the Edge’s ringing guitar sounds are discreet, but layered to gorgeous affect. It’s a gospel anthem sung with typical fervor, whose influence can still be spotted today in anyone from the Arcade Fire to Coldplay. – Chris Karman

102. Simple Minds – “Don’t You (Forget About Me)“
(1985; Virgin)

For a while, Jim Kerr tried to out-Bono Bono, and he came pretty close. It would take a song that they didn’t write to vault Simple Minds into the hive mind of pop culture stardom. They had come close several times, with tracks like “Up on the Catwalk” and “Waterfront,” but nothing trumps a central song in one of the most popular John Hughes teenage films. Originally meant for Cy Curnin (The Fixx) or Billy Idol, it took Simple Minds a while to get used to the idea of having a number one hit they didn’t pen, but the world got used to it right away, and it became an anthem of ’80s nostalgia. – Terrance Terich

101. Split Enz – “Six Months in a Leaky Boat”

(1982; A&M)

Long after shedding the garish, theatrical Zolo image they assumed in the ’70s New Zealand’s Split Enz matured into one of the greatest pop bands to hail from their fair Pacific island nation. And in “Six Months In A Leaky Boat,” their soaring 1982 hit, the Finn Brothers pay tribute to their homeland, with mightily crooned lines like “Aotearoa, rugged individual, glisten like a pearl/ at the bottom of the world,” incorporating imagery of early settlers as well as the Maori name for New Zealand. But more than mere geography or history lesson, “Six Months In A Leaky Boat” is a cathartic testament to endurance. It’s only in the song’s final act that Tim Finn utters the words “Ship wrecked love can be cruel,” revealing a doomed relationship deep in the hull of our heroic sailors’ vessel. In the end, there are only rocky shores and sea monsters below, but with a melody this powerful and hooks this enormous, no journey seems too far, nor any obstacle too insurmountable. – Jeff Terich

Listen: Split Enz – “Six Months in a Leaky Boat”

100. Morrissey – “Everyday Is Like Sunday”

(1988; HMV)

Morrissey, the master of depression presented as catchy, melancholy pop, has built a career on genuine, clever, but often sarcastic and bitterly comical lyricism. But even in his most humorous of offerings, an undercurrent of pain and solitude seems to always loom heavily in the folds. And while there’s something a little funny about the dramatic phrasing of this song’s refrain (“Every day is like Sunday / Every day is silent and gray“) as well as Morrissey’s anticipation of the abyss (“Armageddon – come Armageddon! / Come, Armageddon! Come!“), pensive melodies and Moz’s measured, mournful croon ensure that this tune can pull virtually anyone into a dejected state. Always the literary composer, his reflection on the parallels of sadness and dreary-weathered, off-season seaside towns contains references to Nevil Shute’s novel “On The Beach,” in which residents in Australia await clouds of nuclear radiation to drift into the coastal town of Melbourne (“Come, come, come nuclear bomb!“). Graceful and effortless, “Everyday Is Like Sunday” holds all of Morrissey’s strengths in balance in a way that makes it one of his most genuine and meticulously constructed songs. – Derek Emery

Listen: Morrissey – “Everyday Is Like Sunday”

99. Dinosaur Jr. – “Little Fury Things”

(1987; SST)

Bands have been making God awful racket with their guitars and whatever else they could find for a while before Dinosaur Jr., but Sonic Youth’s monopoly over it likely gave many the impression that noise was utterly stupid if it didn’t adhere to a larger “vision.” That, of course, is bullshit. Unlike Sonic Youth, Dinosaur Jr. actually came out of the hardcore scene of the `80s and as a result took a more populist—or at least less pretentious—approach to making noise. In the capable hands of J Mascis, the guitar became kind of rad again, and cathartic as well. If his vocal style is any indication, Mascis was looking for anything that wouldn’t bore him to tears. Distortion pedals took him a long way even if he didn’t necessarily show it outside of his actual playing. – Chris Morgan

Listen: Dinosaur Jr. – “Little Fury Things”

98. The Chills – “Pink Frost”

(1984; Flying Nun)

The signature song from New Zealand’s Flying Nun legends, The Chills, “Pink Frost” is a strange little tune that seems to have quartered a little bit of perfect in its mourning guitars and the mysterious image of pink frost that permeates its every corner. It’s one of those songs you play on repeat on days that seem to have arrived defective, that overwhelms the petty bullshit pouring in from all sides and washes everything out in a blurry watercolor through which the world can be reborn, the dark rivers crossed, and breaths taken through which hope and tomorrow are restored. That may sound and in fact be insane but it is, more importantly, true. – Tyler Parks

Listen: The Chills – “Pink Frost”

97. Madonna – “Burning Up“
(1983; Sire)

Madonna’s second-ever single basically DOA’d and I don’t understand why, because it’s awesome. “Burning Up” integrates electric guitar with the drums from Human League’s “Sound Of The Crowd” for what some called a rock edge. But the spirited, groovy 12-inch mix enthuses over a better idea, Madonna the club kid. According to legend she and a pack of friends liked to make out with boys en masse on the dance floor, collect phone numbers and make a show of tossing them to the floor. “Burning Up,” if anything, finalized Madonna’s Big Gulp sexuality and prefigured later, bigger hits like “Lucky Star” and “Like A Virgin.” It was her best introduction, even if almost everybody missed it. – Anthony Strain

96. Talking Heads – “Road to Nowhere“
(1985; Sire)

Late in their career, Talking Heads had turned from African-influenced post-punk to slick, considerably more radio-friendly productions on releases like Naked. This song, accompanied by what’s now a gloriously dated stop-motion video, bridges the gap with some of the same squeezebox help Paul Simon employed at points on Graceland. – Adam Blyweiss

95. The Jesus and Mary Chain – “Head On“
(1989; Blanco y Negro)

It’s kind of funny, if not surprising, how many songs have been written ambiguously enough not to make a clear distinction between romantic love and drug use. The La’s pulled this off in dreamy, gorgeous fashion with 1988’s “There She Goes,” but The Jesus and Mary Chain took this idea and made it into a rollicking, badass rock anthem just a year later. “Head On” is a song so simple and yet so powerful, it seems to have existed for eternity, its three distorted, chugging chords accompanying ambiguously ecstatic statements like “I come around catching sparks off you” and “Makes me wanna pull the stars from the sky.” What this song is actually about seems irrelevant; with such a universal feeling of euphoria emitting from every streamlined note, its fist pumping appeal translates into whatever the listener desires. – Jeff Terich

94. Prince – “I Would Die 4 U“
(1984; Warner Bros.)

Each of the nine songs on Purple Rain makes a dramatic sonic statement, whether it’s the title track’s soulful epic balladry, the massive funk of “Baby I’m a Star” or the hard rocking raveup of “Let’s Go Crazy.” Yet “I Would Die 4 U” is oddly subtle by Prince’s standards. A refreshing jolt of ethereal funk, “I Would Die 4 U” is every bit as urgent and danceable as the album’s many other singles, yet, paradoxically, feels breezy, lighter than air. Likewise, the Purple One’s declaration, “I’m not a woman/ I’m not a man/ I am something that you’ll never understand,” is an equally nebulous series of statements, possibly alluding to his faith, though definitely not explicitly. Subtlety never really was Prince’s thing, and for a while, at least, excess served him just fine. But with three fleeting minutes on “I Would Die 4 U,” he proved he could create a transcendent, perfectly crafted single without breaking a sweat. – Jeff Terich

93. The Chameleons – “Up the Down Escalator“
(1983; Virgin)

Not many of the early ’80s post-punk giants succeeded at writing that one great rock `n’ roll anthem, and that shouldn’t be too surprising. That wasn’t really their aim, now, was it? There were, of course, exceptions – The Psychedelic Furs’ “Pretty In Pink” only took five years to become a hit, and we all saw what happened with U2. But Manchester’s Chameleons, or Chameleons UK as they were known in the states, showed much stronger proficiency in penning soaring rock anthems fit for airplay and fist-pumps. “Up the Down Escalator,” the catchiest of the bunch, displayed the kind of jagged guitar riffs that justified mentioning them in the same breath as Joy Division or Comsat Angels while boasting the kind of adrenaline-pumping melodies that U2 haven’t written in decades. It may have been just slightly too arty for as broad an audience as Bono and the Edge would later command, but when Mark Burgess belts, “There must be something wrong boys!,” it’s hard to picture him delivering that sentiment anywhere but in an arena. – Jeff Terich

92. Peter Gabriel – “In Your Eyes“
(1986; Geffen)

As if it wasn’t enough that “In Your Eyes” made us melt in a mix of passion and tribal drums, Lloyd Dobler had to go and ruin the idea of romantic gestures for everyone, in using it to woo Ione Skye. Peter Gabriel’s sandpaper voice has never sounded as smooth as on this track. “In Your Eyes” sat among a bevy of chart toppers on So, yet still stood out somehow, far outlasting the others with respect to the test of time. The extended version, which is usually also the live version, has quite a dramatic opening, yet I still have a hard time deciding if I prefer one over the other. It’s not often that a song stands as a symbol of an entire decade’s worth of romantic love, but that’s exactly what “In Your Eyes” is. – Terrance Terich

91. The Smiths – “Panic“
(1986; Rough Trade)

Oh Moz, you sly devil. By taking one of the most radio friendly melodies in the Smith’s discography and pairing with lyrics about the awful state of popular music, with “Panic” the Smiths more or less dared DJs to play a record that calls for their hanging. Though the song calls out to UK cities large and small, it’s a universal conceit. “Panic” always reminds me of standing around at junior high dances, praying for the Coolio and Mariah Carey to stop long enough for just one Pearl Jam song, or at the very least Oasis. The Smiths caught some heat for “Panic” due to the lyrics about burning down discos, some people viewed that as racially charged. But in calling out all those provincial towns – Dublin, Dundee, Humberside – the band was just acknowledging music fans who lived far from the zeitgeist and, in the pre-Internet era, at the mercy of the guy spinning records at the local station or club. A jangly gem, I’m sure this song is still speaking to budding audiophiles everywhere. – Elizabeth Malloy

90. This Heat – “S.P.Q.R.”

(1981; Rough Trade)

To say This Heat is a bit of an enigma is a gross understatement. The band tracked most of their output in an abandoned meat locker, their political messages were often indecipherable, and their sound doesn’t really even fit loosely in any one genre. Of course, this is also a large part of the band’s allure. That said, one of the band’s finest moments on their 1981 album Deceit, “S.P.Q.R.,” may be one of the only instances in This Heat’s existence when they actually sound like a real live rock band (at least for an entire song). There’s little in the way of tape manipulation, prog-like transitions or static noise typical of the band’s other recordings. Still, even in this instance, the band’s clatter doesn’t sound like your average post-punk band (a genre they were often lumped into). The drone-like vocals weave through a gangling, discordant guitar line and rattling symbols which clang like kitchen utensils. No one else could execute the kind of rigorous chaos This Heat excelled at. – Chris Karman

Listen: This Heat – “S.P.Q.R.”

89. Cocteau Twins – “Lorelei”

(1984; 4AD)

There are few songs in the world that sound less like they were made by human beings on this planet than Cocteau Twins’ “Lorelei.” Elisabeth Fraser sings not one intelligible word in a way that makes words seem like worthless garbage that we could do much better without, grasping in her strange unsyllablic murmurs, coos and yawps whatever it is that makes one continue to live emphatically, with love, grace, sunshine, stillness and dreams in a world of brute contours and arbitrary boundaries. That is, she is pure magic in this song, magic being the only thing capable of introducing a desire worth following. The stuttering drum machines and moaning, glistening fields of sound are also absolutely worthy of your unconditional adoration. – Tyler Parks

Listen: Cocteau Twins – “Lorelei”

88. The Jam – “Going Underground“
(1980; Polydor)

At their best, The Jam were able to put together songs that were and are remarkably lean, immediate and urgent, as if everything the least bit extraneous has been expertly removed via scalpel to leave only a pumping and pulsating core that drives itself straight into the hearts and minds of those with even the remotest sensitivity to human passion. “Going Underground” is a prime example of that and it is no surprise that it spent some time atop the charts in Britain. Paul Weller is his usual, socially attuned self here, weaving scenes of contemporary England into a strange mélange of exultation and renunciation, despair and the unwillingness to turn away from impossible tasks that abound. – Tyler Parks

87. Dexys Midnight Runners – “Come On Eileen“
(1982; Mercury)

There’s a lot of ironic love out there for “Come on Eileen,” but there’s a lot to love about it without the irony. There’s something so honest about those early attempts to get into someone else’s pants. That’s the song in a nutshell. It’s that point in everyone’s life when those innocent crushes of childhood change thanks to the hormones. Those dreams of youth meld with the invincible possibilities of teenage life, neither of which have been yet dulled by adulthood and real disappointment. And then you try having the sex. Hilarity ensues. There’s something else at work in “Come on Eileen” as well. Though the two youngsters are surrounded by reminders of aging, they want to sing the songs of their youth as they grow older, like doing so will keep them young and virile. This popped-out Irish folk tune gets down to the essentials: sex and dying. Stripped to this truth, fiddling and fussing itself, the music skips around barefoot, frolicking in a summer sound that lasts less than four minutes. – Hubert Vigilla

86. Grandmaster Melle Mel – “White Lines“
(1983; Sugar Hill)

Melle Mel was already familiar with mixing hip-hop and politics when he did the anti-coke “White Lines.” (As one of the Furious Five, he was responsible for many of the lyrics in “The Message.”) More than just being an anti-drug song, “White Lines” is danceable as hell. This seems to be an effective practice when it comes to socially conscious music: you make your point best when you can affect the heart, the glands, and the hips. That’s precisely what Melle Mel did. The churn and thump of that bassline, those hand drums, and that big kick drum are relentless. The groove doesn’t stop. It even gets heightened in the chorus with those horns. Maybe there’s a brief break as the backing vocals build to a crescendo and dump you back into the groove. While your hips and glands are moving, Melle Mel talks about the desperation of the cokehead and the social dimension of drugs. Had the song been too serious, the whole thing would seem so easy. But like Curtis Mayfield’s “Pusherman” or “Freddie’s Dead,” “White Lines” is memorable because it’s simply well made rather than simple minded. – Hubert Vigilla

85. Big Country – “In a Big Country“
(1983; Mercury)

There were countless one-hit wonders during the 1980s, but few of those hitmakers were as unflaggingly earnest as Scotland’s Big Country. This was the 1983 song to garner more fans than ever from the wrong side of the Atlantic, and it bucks the trend of cheesiness inherent in songs containing a performer’s name. “In a Big Country” distills both the band’s populist songwriting and their guitar mimicry of bagpipes. It’s not just a band theme song; it’s an unofficial national anthem. – Adam Blyweiss

84. Nirvana – “About a Girl”

(1989; Sub Pop)

In his book Come as You Are: The Story of Nirvana, Michael Azerrad reveals that Kurt Cobain liked to keep a copy of ABBA: Gold in the band’s tour bus, because he loved pop music. “About a Girl” is arguably the first time evidence of this love appears up a Nirvana song. The clear guitar sound and crisp drumming stand out sharply from the rest of the sludgy Bleach, and the verse-chorus-verse-guitar solo-verse-chorus structure is unfailingly radio friendly. In a lot of ways, it foreshadows much of what would come on Nevermind. If “Smells like Teen Spirit” didn’t tear the world open a few years later, would most of us would probably never have heard this song, but that doesn’t diminish its own merits. It’s a small gem, even without everything that came after. – Elizabeth Malloy

Listen: Nirvana – “About a Girl”

83. R.E.M. – “Fall on Me“
(1986; I.R.S.)

No offense to the great songs on any of R.E.M.’s first three albums (which I revere), but “Fall on Me” is their first real single, in every sense of the word. The counter vocals of Mike Mills stand out, showcasing the strength of the dynamic between him and Stipe. It was “Fall on Me” that introduced me to my favorite R.E.M. album, Life’s Rich Pageant, an album that is still often underrated in the catalog. Packed with politics, history, great lyrics, and indelible tunes, I challenge anyone to deny its merits. “Fall on Me” is a gem, only to be equaled later, perhaps, by “Losing My Religion” or “Everybody Hurts.” – Terrance Terich

82. Mudhoney – “Touch Me I’m Sick”

(1988; Sub Pop)

“Touch Me I’m Sick” is Ground Zero for that ’90s phenomenon tagged “Grunge” (a term rumored to have been coined on the spot during an interview by Mudhoney’s own Mark Arm). Sure, members of Mudhoney got their start in the proto-Grunge outfit Green River, a band which also contained future members of Pearl Jam, but Mudhoney’s first single was arguably the genre’s first fully-formed slab of sludge. The single sparked an incredible indie buzz that paved the way for Nirvana’s eventual to signing to Geffen. Deftly melding rock’s dirtiest tendencies into their own monster, easy to recognize touch points like ’60s garage, Stooges grind and pacific punk aggression are amalgamated into the band’s tunefully primitive assault. Arm’s snarl was infused with a sense of humor nearly unparalleled among their Pacific Northwest-based brethren. Shortly thereafter, they went on to release a handful of stellar singles along with the band’s high-water mark Superfuzz Bigmuff. With “Touch Me I’m Sick” along with those subsequent records, Mudhoney cemented their place among Grunge royalty, even if they never quite found the same commercial success as their better known peers. – Chris Karman

Listen: Mudhoney – “Touch Me I’m Sick”

81. Talking Heads – “Born Under Punches (The Heat Goes On)“
(1980; Sire)

Don’t you miss it, don’t you miss it, some of you people just about missed it! This boiling, bubbling, popping and snapping bit of new wave Afrobeat never came close to being the sort of hit that “Once In a Lifetime” did; in fact, it was only released as a single in Japan, curiously. But its ubiquity is irrelevant when held up against the sheer artistry of “Born Under Punches (The Heat Goes On),” a song with all the paranoid eeriness of “Psycho Killer,” but with a burning intensity, and countless more layers. David Byrne chants a variety of darkly cryptic lines (“take a look at these hands, take a look at these hands!“, “I’m so thin,” “All I want is to breathe“) as the Heads hammer out the funkiest, nastiest groove of their career, a bizarre kind of art-house jam that melds Fela Kuti with Devo. It’s a hot-and-bothered exercise in fluid agitation, rising in temperature ever so gradually until Adrian Belew’s guitar-synth freakout and the haunting chants of “The heat goes on/ where the hand has been” closing out the song in a whirlwind of sweat and polyrhythmic urgency. This song may have inadvertently been many Americans’ introduction to Afrobeat, that is, if Africa were actually a continent on Mars. – Jeff Terich

80. Pixies – “Monkey Gone to Heaven“
(1989; 4AD)

The Pixies were every bit as calculated as Sonic Youth in honing what can more or less be called the “big weird” sound. However whereas Sonic Youth were aiming to be the spokespeople of the forgotten generation, the Pixies played as though there are no people for hundreds for miles. Hence, nearly everything they did prior to Bossanova sounded as though it were being broadcast from some Lynchian nether realm. Doolittle was simply the first indication that their world wasn’t altogether hostile. “Monkey gone to Heaven” draws listeners ever inward into this realm of bizarre logic with its contrasting hellfire guitar chugging and celestial string arrangement before being drowned altogether when the elements of the chorus fall into place a little too perfectly. – Chris Morgan

79. Tears For Fears – “Mad World“
(1982; Mercury)

There are numerous reasons why Tears for Fears stood out as one of the most innovative duos of the ’80s, but to summarize in brief terms, they made torment radio friendly. Almost every song on debut album The Hurting, from the seething “Pale Shelter” to the cathartic title track, is a document of trauma or abuse, none more perfect than “Mad World.” Later linked to Donnie Darko through Gary Jules’ stripped-down cover, “Mad World” stalks like an unwanted late night visitor, its pulsing drum machine beat ticking like the stoic click of a wall clock. And its synthesizers, wobbly and woozy, ooze like ghosts seeping through creaky wood walls. And after the detached, spectral sounding Curt Smith creeps his way through the verses, Roland Orzabal delivers the chorus’ coup de grace: “I find it kind of funny/ I find it kind of sad/ that the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had.” Chilling. – Jeff Terich

78. The Clash – “Should I Stay Or Should I Go?“
(1982; CBS)

Sometimes I think this is the perfect rock and roll song. It’s so deceptively simple, it sounds like any band in any garage could have come up with it. But they couldn’t have; this song is 100 percent Clash. Mick Jones snarling his indecision over dirty, shambling guitar riffs, with the whole band eventually falling into a Little Richard-style roadhouse stomp are the kinds of things that made the Clash so influential and eternal. Were this song written in 1955 or 2010, it would still pack the same punch. “Should I Stay or Should I Go” was the Clash’s only number one, and arguably the biggest “hit” of punk rock, for what that’s worth. But more than that, it’s one of those songs that occasionally pops up and gives the world a must needed jolt, a shot in the arm of basic, gritty rock and roll. It’s not really perfect, but that’s what makes it all the better. – Elizabeth Malloy

77. Prince – “Purple Rain“
(1984; Warner Bros.)

I’ve written about Purple Rain quite a lot on this site and I never tire of it, just as I never tire of the album, quite possibly my favorite of all time. The title track is an epic ballad, as the official script calls it, “It’s a ballad, a poem really, a plea for understanding, love and survival. It’s a testament, a pact, if you will, between himself and others.” Prince is a notorious perfectionist, an impresario who performed every instrument, yet in the film, he generously creates the fiction that Wendy & Lisa wrote the song, performing it as his closing contest triumph. “Purple Rain” features, arguably, Prince’s most passionate vocals (“Honey, I know, I know times are changin’“) and his most charged guitar solo. In other words, “Purple Rain” is genius. – Terrance Terich

76. Stone Roses – “Fool’s Gold“
(1989; Silvertone)

Of all of the early Stone Roses songs, none can be as easily identified with the Madchester scene as the baggy beats of “Fool’s Gold.” Their first album is considered the seminal Madchester record, but in reality, when it comes to that scene it is all about this song, which was tacked onto to the end of the U.S. version of the album months after its original release. Their self-titled debut proper was a masterwork showing the band as Britpop innovators; “Fool’s Gold,” on the other hand, was all about finding the perfect, hazy groove. One reason for the distinction was the way the track was cut. Whereas the album had been recorded mostly live as a band, “Fool’s Gold” was recorded piecemeal, starting with a drum loop. After the drum loop came an avalanche of ideas; two dueling bass lines, inspired guitar riffs, Ian Brown’s laidback inflections, and congas were all melded together perfectly without one note spoiling the vibe. The resulting track was the perfect mix of dance-heavy acid house rhythms and psychedelics. The album version is the definitive one; it’s nearly ten minutes long, but not a minute is wasted. – Chris Karman

75. R.E.M. – “The One I Love“
(1987; I.R.S.)

Despite being on a small label — I.R.S. Records — R.E.M.’s star continued to rise above their college radio roots throughout the course of the 80’s (and the group would, of course, soon sign with Warner Bros. and go on to become one of the biggest bands in the world). Despite the odds, “The One I Love” became the band’s first top 10 single. Michael Stipe has repeatedly claimed in interviews that he never felt like “The One I Love” was the kind of song that belonged in the top 10, mainly because of its acerbic lyrical content. In fact, he has even gone so far as to say he’s been embarrassed by the song’s rather bitter take on a relationship. Stipe’s feelings about the “The One I Love” obviously didn’t stop it from connecting with a wider audience than they had seen up until that point, even if the song was widely misinterpreted to the point that it’s been played at numerous weddings. Nonetheless, its actual content is still a frighteningly accurate portrayal of a failed relationship. Oh yeah, and those guitar riffs are classic. – Chris Karman

74. Devo – “Beautiful World“
(1981; Warner Bros.)

I heard this song in a commercial this one time and I couldn’t help but think that Devo wanted it that way. Not so much because of the sweet royalties they had coming as a result (though that’s a nice plus that no one would contest), but because it is, at least to me, a delightful fuck you to the ad jingle. I speak from personal experience when I say that people who work in marketing and advertising, at least the non-Don Draper types, actually believe the bullshit they’re hocking. The world rules and would rule all the more teeming with consumer products. “Beautiful World” shines with brilliant hooks and depictions of happy people leading happy lives before going on to point out the ignorance that such a lifestyle can breed and that perhaps joy and beauty for one comes at the expense of another’s. – Chris Morgan

73. Mission of Burma – “Academy Fight Song“
(1980; Ace of Hearts)

Mission of Burma’s curse as the band whose songs comprised an indie rock score for a movie that would never be made has no greater representation than it does with “Academy Fight Song.” Its nervous punk riff, melodic bass, marching order drums, and cantankerous lyrics make up the sonic-cinematic bristle of “cool kid” late adolescence with all its style, pent-up aggression and melodrama. – Chris Morgan

72. David Bowie – “Let’s Dance“
(1983; EMI)

Though David Bowie has always been known as a chameleon-like artist, I think there was no more drastic transformation than that between clown / alien Bowie from Scary Monsters and the New Romantic blond pompadour Bowie from Let’s Dance. The title track showed off Bowie’s new image and new sound, proving that he could pull off popular instead of just cult. Alongside “Modern Love,” “China Girl,” and “Cat People,” “Let’s Dance” provided one piece of a puzzle that would become one of Bowie’s biggest commercial successes. Above all, it was fun. The single version is a solid four minutes of disco, but it’s the album version that stretches out the magic, nearly doubling the length of the single. As I’ve always said, the more Bowie the better, and “Let’s Dance” is a celebration worth experiencing over and over again. – Terrance Terich

71. Prince – “Little Red Corvette“
(1983; Warner Bros.)

When Prince is telling you that “you’ve got to slow down,” it’s probably time to chill out on the promiscuous sex. Of course, slow down once the Purple One has had his turn. At once explicit sex-jam and seasoned words of warning, “Little Red Corvette” is a masterpiece of analogy and innuendo, rich with raunchy, metaphorical puns based on modes of transport: “Now move over baby, gimme the keys / I’m gonna try to tame your little red love machine.” With the slow-churning drum machine and synth build-up of the intro, the song starts as brooding reflection punctuated by an infectious and explosive chorus, gradually transforming into a seemingly endless crescendo of guitar solos, soaring keyboards, and an incredible vocal performance by Prince. Even at the risk of death – “Babe, you’ve got to slow down / `cause if you don’t, `cause if you don’t / you’re gonna run your body right into the ground” – his recommendations for responsibility come across as a little half-hearted, if only because “Little Red Corvette” itself inspires little else but the physical desires the protagonists of this jam ultimately succumb to. – Derek Emery

70. The Cure – “In Between Days“
(1985; Fiction)

“In Between Days” is the perfect Cure song as far as I’m concerned. The drums at the beginning drop you into the deliberate guitar melody. Then another quick drum roll and the song kicks forward again with a bubbling lead on an electric guitar accompanied by the flaring strums on an acoustic guitar. Then come the synthesizers, those glorious, soaring, swallow-tailed synthesizers. It’s like dropping an Alka-Seltzer and flavored syrup into a glass of sparkling water. And that’s just the first 50 seconds. As this all continues to effervesce, Robert Smith appears at his most melancholic, his opening lines about aging, dying and crying. He dares someone he loved to go away. It’s a love-gone-wrong song. But then at the halfway mark comes the second verse. With the fear of loneliness is his desire to reconnect with the old flame from the first verse. Now it’s become something like a new wave torch song. All these shifts in feeling and those uncertainties and surprises, and that joy of living that bubbles beneath every unavoidable sadness; this is your life as a three-minute pop song. – Hubert Vigilla

69. The Beat – “Mirror In the Bathroom“
(1980; Go Feet)

Few acts brought ska to the forefront of music’s consciousness like The Beat. They may have had bigger hits, and they managed to spread their influence in splinter groups like Fine Young Cannibals and General Public, but the chugging guitar and punctuating brass in “Mirror in the Bathroom” were set in opposition to Dave Wakeling’s plaintive chant. Ska normally straddles a fragile nexus of punk politics, pop relationship tales, and reggae good vibes, but this song is a different beast altogether. Oddly entertaining and wholly neurotic scene setting seems derived alternately from your last drug haze and from the “Every Breath You Take” school of obsessive observation. – Adam Blyweiss

68. Pixies – “Debaser“
(1989; 4AD)

“Debaser” is, roughly, how I felt on just about every last day of school during my formative years, embodied in song form. Those perfectly toned guitars shine brightly as the Pixies jump from one driving power chord burst to the next with little respite, slowing only for a lilting lead during the song’s brief refrain. Black Francis’ (aka Frank Black) maniacal caterwauling details nothing in particular, his lyrics informed by the surrealism of Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí’s film Un Chien Andalou, which contains the famous scene in which a nameless woman’s eye is slit with a razorblade (“Got me a movie / I want you to know / Slicin’ up eyeballs / I want you to know“). But every element of “Debaser” – the timbre and melody of the instruments, the continuous, upbeat drum gallops, Black’s barks and yelps, Kim Deal’s breathy, ethereal back-ups — seems to be reaching toward some unforeseen high, reflecting the pure delirium of true elation and requiring that one shout “I am un CHIEN Andalusia!!” with similar gusto. – Derek Emery

67. Hall and Oates – “I Can’t Go For That (No Can Do)“
(1981; RCA)

Though several artists were subject to some unfortunate vote splitting in this poll’s voting process, Daryl Hall and John Oates seemed the least prone to consensus. “You Make My Dreams,” “Private Eyes” and “Method of Modern Love” were personal favorites for some writers, and with good reason; few pop duos in, well, any decade wrote such pristine pop jewels like this Philadelphia pair did. But there was one massive exception, of course: “I Can’t Go For That.” A song bearing an infamous bludgeon of ambiguity that Meatloaf should, frankly, have to pay royalties for, “I Can’t Go For That” manages to both make a cheesy sax solo a necessary component and turn out an undeniable hook from the phrase “no can do.” That takes a special kind of talent to pull off, and perhaps only a songwriting partnership responsible for more top 40 hits than anyone else on this list, save for the Midwest’s Big Three (Madonna, Prince, Michael Jackson), had the chops to do it. But despite whatever kitsch value some might find in this tune, its combination of dreamy keyboards, popping drum machines and silky smooth funk bassline (which inspired an even more massive hit a year later) is the coolest. – Jeff Terich

66. Modern English – “I Melt With You“
(1982; Sire)

No matter how many crappy food commercials it appears in, little will dull “I Melt With You.” There are the immediate lyrics about being in love and wanting it to last forever, like those fledgling bits of poetry found on the margins of your history notes. They’re quick, they’re honest, they’re confessional, and because they don’t try too hard, it just the kind of songwriting where the truth is found. But that brightness is undercut during the bridge, which is key. The guitar drops out, and something a little shadowy is introduced in the way the drums and the vocals echo off into the distance. “The future’s open wide,” which presents the possibility of failure, of waking up from that dreamy early stage of love. But it’s that uncertainty that the song orbits around. Without it, the song’s just catchy rather than a gem that endures. “I Melt With You” isn’t just about love; it’s about the fear of losing someone so perfect and the lengths you’ll go to in order to hold on. Stopping the world means never wanting to let go even though you know full well that the planet spins regardless. – Hubert Vigilla

65. Prince – “Raspberry Beret“
(1985; Paisley Park)

I consider this song Prince’s ode to the workingman. Hear me out: On the surface, it’s about Prince meeting a girl wearing a raspberry colored beret, taking her to a farm on his motorcyle, and having sex with her in a barn during a rain storm. BUT, I maintain that while he is singing in first person, Prince himself is not the narrator of this song, and moreover, the girl is not real. The narrator really is just a regular five and dime clerk, and the girl is a complete figment of his imagination, cooked while trying to avoid his boss. After all, this song is about a girl who shops at second hand stores, not Apollonia, and the dream date is a drive out to the country, not meeting in a hotel lobby where your paramour is masturbating to a magazine. “Raspberry Beret” sounds like a fantasy, but not one of Prince’s. But, by writing a song about it – and one with such an incredible hook to boot – Prince is validating this common daydream, considering it just as important as his own. “This ordinary, everyday man,” Prince is saying, “is just as cool as me.” Noblesse oblige, indeed.

Or maybe Prince just wrote a hot synthesizer track and decided to pair with lyrics about hot chicks and bikes. Either way, great stuff. – Elizabeth Malloy

64. Mötörhead – “Ace of Spades“
(1980; Bronze)

Few songs from the rock ‘n’ roll era provoke such immediate feelings of danger as Mötörhead’s “Ace of Spades.” After its release date in 1980, the song spent 12 weeks defiling the British music charts and quickly became a favorite among metalheads, punks, and hard rock aficionados around the world. A pulverizing blues-based rocker performed at breakneck speeds, “Ace of Spades” helped to define the then-burgeoning thrash metal sound and provided a lyrical antithesis to the greed and capitalism that would come to characterize the 1980s in many parts of the world. Its words are filled with imagery about gambling, but “Ace of Spades” isn’t an ode to city lights, high rolling and big riches; this narrator gets his rocks off simply by taking risks. “Win some, lose some, it’s all the same to me,” bassist/front man Lemmy Kilmister deadpans in his rich, road worn and whiskey-soaked voice. Cards are the vice of choice, but it’s a sure bet that if the game changed to Russian Roulette, this dude would be the first to press the barrel against his temple and pull the trigger. (“That’s the way I like it baby / I don’t want to live forever.“)

Today, “Ace of Spades” is known as Mötörhead’s signature song. It has become a staple at sports arenas, frat parties and pretty much every movie that involves car racing, but its severity has all but been lost. Thirty years after its release, the opening bars of “Ace of Spades” are still enough to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and it seems likely that the song will continue to have a profound effect on every future generation of hard rock bands until the genre finally fizzles and dies out. Or the Apocalypse, whichever comes first. – Jamie Ludwig

63. R.E.M. – “Driver 8“
(1985; I.R.S.)

Looking back, it’s hard not to draw parallels between The Smiths and R.E.M. in the mid-`80s. Despite the fact that R.E.M. had arrived just a little bit earlier and released one more album than The Smiths by the time of the UK band’s split in 1987, both bands had oddly similar dynamics. Both band boasted a taut and dynamic rhythm section, a guitarist wielding an edgy yet shimmering jangle, and, most importantly, a sexually ambiguous frontman known for vocal affectations. Yet while The Smiths reflected the separation of class in Thatcher’s England, to a certain degree, R.E.M.’s early records contained imagery of rural America. “Driver 8” is just such a song, following the travelogue of a locomotive and Michael Stipe’s observations such as “I saw a treehouse on the outskirts of a farm/ the power lines have floaters so the airplanes don’t get snagged.” It’s a fairly simple if poetic snapshot, one that could well have been made into a fine folk tune, but R.E.M., instead, dressed it up in surf-inspired guitar riffs and jittery rhythms, making for a classic, idiosyncratic rock `n’ roll song. – Jeff Terich

62. Eric B and Rakim – “Paid In Full“
(1987; 4th & Broadway)

The late ’80s and early ’90s saw the peak of my hip-hop fandom. While A Nation of Millions, Straight Outta Compton, Paul’s Boutique and Raising Hell stand out as some of my favorite hip-hop albums, it’s hard to beat “Paid in Full” as one of the best hip-hop tracks of all time. Rakim’s voice is unparalleled in its smoky and smooth flow, often looked to as one of the signature voices of the time, but his voice is merely the vehicle for his incredibly sophisticated rhymes. “Paid in Full” is one of only a handful of songs whose lyrics I can recall in their entirety. And, they may not have coined the phrase, but I’m pretty sure that “Paid in Full” marked the first time I ever heard the term “dead presidents.” My only concern in listening to “Paid in Full” is whether I want to hear the original single version, or the Coldcut remix version, complete with Ofra Haza’s mesmerizing voice in sample. – Terrance Terich

61. Hüsker Dü – “Celebrated Summer”

(1985; SST)

I have never known quite how to describe this song to myself, only that it was the most thrilling and moving of Hüsker Dü songs in the way it united their muscular barrage of noise with Bob Mould’s vague and nostalgic lyrics. There is a strange balance of power and fragility here, a sliding from one pole to the next with unique resonances at the points in between, as when Mould recedes behind the line, “I summer where I winter at and no one is allowed there.” Something opens and something closes, the flickering light of long summer evenings gets flattened up against images of childhood summer obliterated by snow, static, or the decaying of memory that leaves behind something robust and suggestive but completely gone, submerged in an insurmountable wall of feedback. – Tyler Parks

Listen: Hüsker Dü – “Celebrated Summer”

60. Tears for Fears – “Head Over Heels“
(1985; Mercury)

Tears for Fears did for synth pop what Helmet did for metal. Both represented the zenith of their chosen styles and both made them easier to for your average white suburbanite to digest rather than crazy denim jacket headbangers (Helmet) or sexually liberated, chemically enhanced club dwellers (Tears for Fears). Indeed, there was something macho about Tears for Fears that was lost on likeminded bands like Depeche Mode, New Order and Erasure. “Head Over Heels,” to be sure, is as glittery a song about longing and love as one could ever hope for—and oh how they hope—but it is more assertive than mopey or sensual, more in tune with nervous even aggressive passions in which one is more inclined to act on impulse and less inclined to think, kind of like jumping out of the trenches and into the no man’s land amid heavy fire for the fuck of it. Tears for Fears created some of the most memorable melodies of the decade but delivered them with remarkable gusto, as if this was the music to which we were meant to pump fists. – Chris Morgan

59. Pixies – “Here Comes Your Man“
(1989; 4AD)

I’ll never quite grasp why the Pixies didn’t experience more mainstream success in their heyday. I’m sure there are a multitude of reasons, based in socioeconomics and the time-space continuum and whatnot, but none of them seem to hold water when I hear a song like “Here Comes your Man.” From the moment that jaunty guitar riff starts, to when Black Francis and Kim Deal start trading vocals in the chorus, it has all the makings of a hit. Like, a really big hit. Alas, it was not to be. Of course, all this glorious, unsung underground stuff from the ’80s eventually broke free in the form of other bands in the ’90s, and the Pixies have gotten their due in recent years, so all’s well that ends well. But still, I can’t help but think the world would be a better place if more people heard this when it was new. – Elizabeth Malloy

58. Madonna – “Into the Groove“
(1985; Sire)

There are a great many anemic songs about dancing and there are a great many Madonna songs that have passed through ubiquity to nullity, but “Into the Groove” is neither of those things. It is, rather, a synth-funk bomb that immediately projects the more than pleasant images of Madonna dancing in Desperately Seeking Susan, and is light years ahead of almost every ’80s song that plays up the dancefloor and its links with transcendence and sex, the possibility of something remarkable happening and of being someone remarkable who you are not in your day-to-day life. And it just circles and circles, repetition upon voluptuous repetition, circling you until you are dancing like the most wonderful asshole in the world. – Tyler Parks

57. Siouxsie and the Banshees – “Cities in Dust“
(1985; Polydor)

From their early days as a pummeling punk band with a flair for the dramatic, Siouxsie and the Banshees had clearly mastered the art of intensity. Even amongst lineup changes, additional keyboard arrangements and eventually dance beats, Siouxsie Sioux remained a commanding force to be reckoned with. Case in point, on the group’s seventh album, Tinderbox, as they grew increasingly melodic and danceable, the intensity of Sioux’s performance on the album’s centerpiece “Cities in Dust” hadn’t diminished one iota. The melody may be more immediate, but her depiction of a city covered in volcanic ash remained troubling. The song’s haunting synth generated bells may illustrate just why the band was considered inadvertent pioneers of the goth movement, but their newfound accessibility showed they were clearly capable of much more. – Chris Karman

56. De La Soul – “Me, Myself and I“
(1989; Tommy Boy)

One of the greatest (and most fun) hip hop songs ever, “Me, Myself and I” continues to be living proof that sometimes great samples make great, and unique, songs. Taking from, among other sources, Funkadelic’s “(Not Just) Knee Deep” and the mad cosmic funk of Edwin Birdsong’s “Rapper Dapper Snapper,” De La crafted a ferociously infectious and witty jam about living a hip-hop life outside the trappings of dark sunglasses, gold chains and track suits. Somehow even more colorful than even the clothing of the three men who thought it up, it has already lived a long and much loved life, and should continue to pop up pleasantly in all the right (and wrong) unexpected places. – Tyler Parks

55. Soft Cell – “Tainted Love“
(1981; Sire)

A one hit wonder in the United States whose legacy here is largely relegated to “Best of the ’80s!” mix CDs you find in bargain bins at Bed, Bath & Beyond, English duo Soft Cell were nonetheless a pioneering act in synthpop music, and their influence can still be heard today. “Tainted Love” was by far their biggest hit, but its sound colored a lot of what would be heard for the rest of the decade. A cover of an obscure British soul song from the `60s, the members of Soft Cell added spacey blips and binks to “Tainted Love,” and drum machine flourishes that sound like robots clapping. The effect is one of the coldest, most distant sing-along favorites ever. The song has something of a reemergence every few years thanks to an appearance in a movie or commercial. If you listen to anyone from Nine Inch Nails to Cut Copy, it’s kind of like it never left. – Elizabeth Malloy

54. Tom Tom Club – “Genius of Love“
(1981; Sire)

Chris Frantz and Tina Weymouth, half of one of the most articulate and difficult bands ever, formed Tom Tom Club nearly as a rebuttal. They accidentally made a dance track so filled with edge and spirit it enthralled a generation and prosecuted dancefloor relativism from decade to decade. Pretty much all beat, “Genius Of Love” merged tropical esoterica with the familiar grooves of Bohannon and Sly Stone when that kind of ideation wasn’t really done, at all. Frantz himself maintains that, except for the samples, there’s never been a song that sounds quite like it. Of course the two most famous usages are for “Fantasy” and “Return of the Mack,” two of the most bodaciously great talking points of ’90s radio. That’s not an accident; “Genius Of Love” is a cyclical pop miracle. Checking out “Genius Of Love” on Jimmy Fallon earlier this year was like stumbling into a glamorous bodega of citywide proportions, Frantz and Weymouth grinning hugely amid a manic multi-hued circle of friends. The song was 30 years old but having the prime time of its life. – Anthony Strain

53. Joy Division – “Heart and Soul”

(1980; Factory)

If Joy Division’s calling card, “Love Will Tear Us Apart,” shows the British post punk pioneers at their most accessible, “Heart and Soul,” finds the group at its most majestic and exploratory. The long-form, free-flowing song is structured around Peter Hook’s bass line, which provides a rock solid core, creating a trance-like effect as each additional instrument takes turn taking center stage. Ian Curtis’ echo-laden vocals float in and out of the picture like a ghostly apparition whose messages—”Existence well what does it matter? / I exist on the best terms I can / The past is now part of my future / The present is well out of hand“—seem prophetic with the knowledge that Closer was released just weeks after the singer’s suicide in the spring of 1980 and that his legacy as a cult figure has grown stronger with each passing year. – Jamie Ludwig

Listen: Joy Division – “Heart and Soul”

52. Pixies – “Gigantic“
(1988; 4AD)

Kim Deal not only takes center stage on “Gigantic” by providing some alternately cool and unhinged vocals, but drops the heavy, tumbling bassline that really makes it into the tipsy anthem that it is. Based on the film Crimes of the Heart, which depicts a married white woman who has an affair with a black teenager, “Gigantic'”s lyrics roam around a woman’s voyeurism of a black man making love to another woman, making the chorus both hilarious and, well, gigantic. But, honestly, you hardly need to understand the link between one line and the next to get carried away by this one. You don’t even need to understand a word of English. Quiet, loud, quiet, loud—there is just something about it, and “Gigantic” is proof of the Pixies uncanny mastery of the dynamic that they did so much to perpetuate. – Tyler Parks

51. Bruce Springsteen – “I’m On Fire“
(1985; Columbia)

I’m a late convert to the Church of Bruce. But, when I fell for the Boss’ music, I fell hard. Eventually, I’d love to have his entire collection on vinyl. However, early on, I didn’t understand his appeal. When Born in the U.S.A. came out, I completely misunderstood it. I thought “Dancing in the Dark” a silly pop song with a goofy live video. I mistook the title track thanks in part to the Republican attempted co-opting of it, and like many, thought it was a patriotic anthem. Then I heard “I’m on Fire.” I was immediately transfixed. The lyrics are simple and the music spare, but together they make the most haunting, passionate, subversive, erotic love song ever written. – Terrance Terich