Dan nodded slowly. “So it’s depressing.”
It was the best song of 1997. Not because it was perfect. But because it knew you weren’t, either.
The assignment: pick the single best song of the year. best song of 1997
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.
“It’s a song about being stuck inside your own life,” I said. “You have money. You have a Walkman. You have a whole city. And you’re still just some guy trying not to get hit by a bus.” Dan nodded slowly
“Bittersweet Symphony” wasn’t a song. It was a resignation letter. That orchestral sample—stolen, technically—sounded like a memory you never had. And Richard Ashcroft, shoulders hunched, muttering into the wind: “No change, I can’t change, I can’t change…”
Mark pointed at me. “You. Tiebreaker.” But because it knew you weren’t, either
I stayed quiet. I was the junior writer, the one who still took the subway home at 2 a.m. with a Discman skipping in my coat pocket.
