That night, I rode the subway home, earbuds in, as the train rattled through the tunnel. I queued up track seven. The strings swelled. Ashcroft started walking.
The assignment: pick the single best song of the year.
“No,” I said. “It’s honest. That’s different.” best song of 1997
“Then pick ‘The Freshmen’ by The Verve Pipe,” I countered. “Same year. Same feeling. Worse guitar solo.”
Mark pointed at me. “You. Tiebreaker.” That night, I rode the subway home, earbuds
It was the best song of 1997. Not because it was perfect. But because it knew you weren’t, either.
“Exactly,” I said. “That’s 1997. That’s the whole year.” Ashcroft started walking
1997 wasn’t grunge’s anger or Britpop’s swagger. 1997 was the moment everyone realized the future was a cool glass door that might slam in your face. The internet was a rumor. Princess Diana was dead. The economy was soaring, but everyone felt hollow.