Musically, 1995 was a beautiful mess. On one side of the radio, you had the swagger of Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise” and the gritty boom-bap of Mobb Deep’s The Infamous . On the other, you had Alanis Morissette standing in a leather chair, screaming “You Oughta Know” with a ferocity that made the entire concept of a "polite female singer" explode.
This was the golden age of the "alternative." Being a freak was cool because it was authentic. You had to go to the record store to find the obscure import. You had to call a crush on a landline and risk their dad answering. The friction of the analog world made the rewards sweeter. uninhibited 1995
We look back at 1995 with such fondness because we are starving for what it had: presence . In a world of hyper-curated Instagram feeds and Slack efficiency, the chaos of 1995 is therapy. Musically, 1995 was a beautiful mess