It’s 1994; by year’s end, the ‘90s will be half over. In the worst genocide since WWII, Hutu extremists in Rwanda massacre about 800,000 Tutsi in just 100 days. In better news, Nelson Mandela is elected South Africa’s first black president.
1994 sees the founding of Amazon and Yahoo, the launch of PlayStation (in Japan), the invention of QR code (which I never even knew about before 2020), and the first smartphone (from IBM). The FDA approves the first GMO food, a genetically modified tomato. For the first time ever, you can take a train from London, under the English Channel, to Paris. Serial killer John Wayne Gacy is executed.
The FIFA World Cup is held in the United States. When people say you learn from your mistakes, they probably don’t have in mind the tale of Columbian footballer Andrés Escobar, shot upon returning home, reportedly as retribution for accidentally scoring a goal against his own team. In other sports-related news, star running back OJ Simpson is chased down in a white Bronco days after his ex-wife Nicole Brown Simpson and her companion Ron Goldman are found murdered at Brown’s condo. The subsequent trial will captivate the nation.
In cinema, 1994 sees the release of one of the great films of its time, Pulp Fiction, a set of three interrelated stories (plus a frame sequence) that plays with expected chronology and plot structure. Its director, Quentin Tarantino became a household name overnight.
More wholesome theater far can be found in Forrest Gump and The Lion King, or at home watching the television debut of the sitcom Friends. Foreign film buffs get creeped out by Lars von Trier The Kingdom.
In the music world, the suicide of Kurt Cobain hangs over the scene like an ominous, tragic cloud. This would prove symbolic, in a way—within a few years, the spirit of innovation would begin shifting away from guitar-based alt-rock toward a more electronic direction.
But in the meantime, 1994 proved a phenomenal year for music.
My Top 6 Albums of 1994
As always, you can jump to the playlist at the bottom of each post to listen while you read.
Within each tier (Top 6, Next 6, etc.), all albums are listed roughly chronologically (all release dates from Wikipedia, unless otherwise noted).
Note: Entries for this post may have been written alongside the Artist Spotlight posts for the respective artists and might therefore contain some similar material.
Pavement
Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain
PavementReleased 1994/02/14
Pavement’s Slanted and Enchanted (1992) debut album had been a fuzzed-out, blissful quagmire of guitar distortion, one of the seminal albums of the alt-rock era. So how do you follow that up? You change your approach.
Their sophomore album, Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain removes most of that distortion, leaving only the laid-back tunes. It reveals how Slanted and Enchanted had been so successful—without a basis in melody, all that noise wouldn’t have amounted to as much.
The alt-radio-friendly “Cut Your Hair” appeals immediately with a ragtag “ooh-ooh-ooh ooh-ooh-ooh” refrain before settling into a mellow dis—not of long hair or haircuts, specifically, but of superficiality and commodification in the music industry and the scene. It’s a catchy, charming bit of fun, and the biggest hit of their career.
The lyrics of “Gold Soundz” are a bit cryptic, but they seem to take a nostalgic look at a disintegrated relationship, from its opening intimacy and trust through its dissolution and the drunken aftermath. Vocalist Stephen Malkmus spares neither of them his pointed wit: “And you’re the kind of girl I like / Because you’re empty and I’m empty / And you can never quarantine the past.”
In “Range Life,” Malkmus yearns for a settled, “normal” life that he feels incapable at this moment of having. He’s trapped in a youthful moment, hopping turnstiles, running from the fuzz, and cruising the streets alone on his skateboard. Flashing forward to the band’s indie-rock success at the songs’ end, Malkmus also (in the song’s most infamous verse) takes a poke at the Smashing Pumpkins (“nature kids”) and “elegant bachelors” the Stone Temple Pilots (“They’re foxy to me / Are they foxy to you?”).
Removing all the fuzz has brought Malkmus’ musing to the fore, and it pays off. His laconic delivery and ironic wordplay both convey a detached confusion and evoke a genuine feeling below the surface more effectively (to me, at least) than a host of emotive wailers. It seems to me that many of today’s earnest indie-kids who claim Malkmus as an influence might take a closer look to see how it’s done.
Beck
Mellow Gold
BeckReleased 1994/03/01
If ever there was an act that should have been a one-hit novelty act, it was Beck.
The “Loser” single had been a brilliant pastiche of hip-hop rhythms, old-timey slide guitar, alt-rock self-effacement, and stream-of-conscious nonsense. It perfectly captured the moment, yet seemed to be something that would be impossible to follow up. It so clearly seemed to be an off-the-cuff improv piece that lucked into some sort of cultural synergy. It’s the kind of thing one can create when the stakes are low and anything goes. But where to go from there?
Surprisingly, Mellow Gold was flat-out brilliant, not settling with merely duplicating the magic of “Loser” but adding to it, in spades.
Beck leads off the album with “Loser,” dissing himself from the start, to let you know how to take him: “In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey.” He’s primitive, behind the times, less evolved. The song unfolds with a cascade of gibberish, a word association free-for-all of junk culture, self-critique, and economic struggle. “Shave your face with some Mace in the dark,” he quips, “Savin’ all your food stamps and burnin’ down the trailer park.” The refrain “I’m a loser, baby, so why don’t you kill me?” is itself a playful dig at his own miserable rapping skills. He punctuates the chorus with such whimsical interjections as “Get crazy with the Cheez Whiz” and “Drive-by body pierce.” The song is playful, humorous, yet with a darkness at its core.
In “Beercan,” Beck has quit his job blowing leaves and finds himself drunk and high and on the prowl for some lovin.’ A crisp beat and rolling bass lighten the mood. “How you like me now?” he asks us before giving us the correct answer: “Pretty good / Going on, feeling strong,” sounding like a dazed, insecure teenager trying to pump himself up. He’s amused to see “winos throwing Frisbees at the sun” and boasts that he’s “running like a flaming pig.” The cheerfulness of the song is given a brilliantly ironic twist by the bridge, an assortment of samples from a Care Bears. The moment when the squiggly rhythms drop out for a cartoon voice to confess, “I’m sad and unhappy,” only to become obscured in sample manipulation, must be one of the most iconic moments in Beck’s career. It brings a twisted sorrow to the otherwise celebratory vibe.
“Truckdrivin’ Neighbors Downstairs (Yellow Sweat)” brings Beck’s meagre circumstances at the time to the fore. The song opens with a real recording of the titular neighbors arguing, followed by Beck—in a deep, monotone chant—unleashing a series of insults upon them. “Acid Casualty in a repossessed car / Vietnam vet playing air guitar,” etc. His grandmotherly squeal of “Oh my goodness!” (which also appears on “Beercan”) cracks me up every time I hear it. One of the most hilarious songs ever written, “Truckdrivin’ Neighbors Downstairs” might come across as condescending if it weren’t evident that Beck himself is stuck in the same shithole, living in the same decrepit apartment building as these deadbeat lowlifes. No one wants to live near people who scream at each other all day and end up “Belly flopping naked in a pool of yellow sweat.” And what does it tell you about yourself that you can’t afford anywhere else? “Feel the grease,” Beck, feel the grease.
Even in love, he can’t bring himself to sweet-talk. In “Nightmare Hippy Girl,” he’s fallen for a spaced-out girl. “I got sucked inside of her apartment,” he sings; “I’m caught in a vortex, she’s changin’ my style.” Like he mocks himself, he mocks her, too, but it seems to come from a place of love. True love brings acceptance of the love object’s flaws, whether they be “cooking salad for breakfast,” “playin’ footsie in another dimension,” or “bustin’ out onto the scene / with nightmare bogus poetry.”
Beck comes across as the guy who can’t see anything as entirely positive or negative. (Anyone who’s read much of this blog knows I share this quality. I can’t help but poke some fun at even my favorite acts.) Even in his happiest moments, flaws and self-doubt gnaw at him; and in his darkest despair, he seems to cling to some hope. The album brilliantly veers from uptempo numbers like the upbeat “Beercan” or the defensive “Fuckin’ with My Head (Mountain Dew Rock)” and such depressive drones like “Steal My Body Home” and “Whiskeyclone, Hotel City 1997.” There are abrasive noise-fests, too, like “Sweet Sunshine” and the paranoic “Mutherfuker.” (“Everyone’s out to get you!”)
Album closer “Blackhole,” with its barely discernable, mumble-hummed vocals, shows Beck’s command of other moods. The self-critical irony that takes the form of humor throughout the rest of the album hides some pretty severe feelings of inadequacy, and the somber strumming drone and hushed, obscured vocals of “Blackhole” add the perfect finishing touch. Beck’s humor here comes from genuine struggle; it’s pretty clear that at the point of this album’s conception, Beck was living way below his expectations, in meager living conditions, unable to pay the bills. And the blackhole seems to be a place Beck retreats to when the outside world becomes too much. “Blackhole, blackhole,” he sings, “Nothing’s gonna harm you.” After all the raw lunacy of the rest of the album, “Blackhole” ends it with a tone that is sorrowful yet hopeful all at once. Masterful.
Hole
Live Through This
HoleReleased 1994/04/12
Hole’s debut album, Pretty on the Inside (), was an abrasive, raging, fairly unsatisfying affair. Its vitriol was evident, yet it remained unfocused, lost in its own unfettered expression. The best thing about the album might be the cover, with its pink tinge and the titled scrawled in tortured, spiraling letters. On Live Through This, the changes are minor, yet have a major impact. The songs rock better, drawing the listener in with catchier guitar riffs and vocal hooks, better use of dynamic changes, and more appealing song structures. Singer Courtney Love could always fly into a rage, twist toward a wretched snarl, and drop into a breathy gasp. Yet here, she times it all perfectly to fit the songs, and her lyrics feature more nuanced use of contrasts and imagery. All the emotions that were poured out over the rough canvas of Pretty on the Inside like a Jackson Pollack mess are here focused and crafted into something more direct and concentrated. The progress feels enormous.
“Violet” kicks off the album with a crisp, quiet, catchy guitar riff and the poetic lines, “And the sky was made of amethyst / And all the stars were just like little fish,” opening with an image of tranquility before surging forward in a rage. The song tackles an abusive relationship (reportedly with the Smashing Pumpkins’ Billy Corgan) and societal gender power dynamics in general, starting with a critique of the tendency to blame the victim (“You should learn how to say, ‘No’”). Men only want one thing from a woman, she says (“When they get what they want / And they never want it again”). Love defends her promiscuous behavior (she’s had “one [man] above and one below,” apparently) and attempts to psychologically reverse the power relationship. She tells the man to take everything—that’s what she wants—transferring the authority to herself. In the end, she’s the one who gets what she wants, not him.
“Plump” concerns Love’s motherhood, mocking the media’s claims of her poor parenting skills (“I don’t do the dishes / I throw them in the crib”) and commenting on the change of body image and morning sickness accompanying pregnancy (“They say I’m plump / But I throw up all the time”). You might also argue this is a line about bulimia (which would fit nicely with many of the other themes on the album). Playing off Nirvana’s “Milk It,” which seems to portray a marriage as a twisted form of codependence, “Plump” seems to do the same for a mother/child relationship: “I’m eating you / I’m overfed,” signs Love, ‘Your milk’s in my mouth / It makes me sick.” (I’ve also heard milk can be used as a euphemism for heroin, an interpretation I find less interesting, but which may be more valid, given the couple’s history.)
In “Doll Parts,” supposedly a love poem written to Kurt Cobain before they were a couple, Love reduces herself to doll parts, a hollow, disembodied shell of a person, “I fake it so real, I am beyond fake.” (Perhaps Love is also commenting on the objectification of women as a set of sexualized parts.) The song also explores the destructiveness of a love she feels (or felt at the time) is unrequited “I love him so much, it just turns to hate,” she tells us before speaking to the object of her desire, “And someday you will ache like I ache.”
“Miss World” comments on the artificiality of beauty pageants, the idea of beauty itself, the treatment of women as objects of adoration who have to put on a facade, and—of course—celebrity and all its trappings. “Asking For It,” building upon a similar line in “Violet,” criticizes the tendency of others to blame rape victims rather than the rapist.
I always took “Rock Star” to be self-mockery, and it works spectacularly as such, bringing the album to a glorious, self-deprecatory, alt-rock close. The music starts and surges and erupts in a rage before collapsing upon itself at the finale. My research tells me the song’s actually a dig at the riot grrrl movement, which may deserve it (certainly, their thinking seems more preachy and rigid, in comparison to Love’s loose-cannon feminism), but I like my original interpretation better.
Much has been made of Cobain’s contribution to this record, with all the Courtney-haters claiming that she could never have written this album without him. That seems likely. People in a couple have an effect on each other. But I’d say—comparing the parallel growth of Nirvana’s Nevermind (1991) to In Utero (1993), side by side with Hole’s Pretty on the Inside (1991) to Live through This—that Love may have influenced Cobain more than the other way around. Certainly, they’ve worn off on each other. Cobain probably influenced her craft; but the themes seem more swayed by Love’s concerns.
To some, Live Through This will be forever associated with Kurt Cobain’s suicide, his body was discovered on 1994/04/08, less than a week before this album’s release. (He is estimated to have killed himself three days prior.) Yet the album stands on its own as a landmark of the alt-rock era. If one sees the album in terms of Cobain at all, it should be seen as half of a pair, standing alongside Nirvana’s In Utero (1993), each a companion piece to the other, equals.
Guided by Voices
Bee Thousand
Guided by VoicesReleased 1994/06/21
Guided By Voices is almost the quintessential alternative rock band, in the truest sense of the word—not the radio-accessible, metal-informed brand of alternative (all that Seattle grunge crowd, for instance). No, GBV exemplifies the weird, cluttered, lo-fi, indie type of alternative that sounds like someone made it in their basement, with an odd sensibility that would prevent its best songs from ever appearing on any mainstream radio format. The real alternative, in a way, the stuff that stayed that way even after the term had been appropriated and commodified.
At their peak, GBV’s trademark was their preference for short little song snippets, masterful brushstrokes of alt-pop-rock noise that are promptly infectious and charming, filled with pop hooks, low-fi post-punk guitar scrawl, and plenty of quirky psychedelic touches. And long before each song can wear out its welcome, it’s gone, leading on to the next. GBV’s breakout Bee Thousand (1994) marks a listening experience unlike any other in rock history. The cumulative effect of hearing 20 tracks fly by over 37 minutes—each one different, each with a powerful snippet of melody or an eccentric lyric to ingrain itself in your psyche—simply must be experienced to be believed.
“Hardcore UFOs” opens the album with a distorted guitar fanfare and an image of stargazing on the roof. With a tone of hopeful uncertainty, the song seems to describe a reunion with a childhood friend, reminiscing about searching for UFOs, exploring run-down buildings, drawing, playing guitar. “Are you amplified to rock?” Pollard asks, “Are you hoping for a contact?” Pollard acknowledges both a rift in the past, saying, “You know why I left you for so long,” and reservations for the future, “I’ll be with you, without you, again.” It’s a great opening track.
In lyrics that often feel surreal and nonsensical—filled with plays on words and obtuse allusions and innuendo—Pollard and the band suggest certain attitudes and emotions that seem to form an overarching coherence belied by the mess suggested by a line-by-line parsing of the lyrics of any particular song. “Gold Star for Robot Boy” seems to be a poke at unquestioning, rule-following, robotic thinking, for which Pollard ironically awards himself a gold star sticker (in a nod to his job as an elementary school teacher). I interpret “A Big Fan of the Pigpen” as a critique of carbon-copy, cut-out, generic pop music—Pollard likes his music messy. (But maybe it’s a sincere homage to the Grateful Dead’s Pigpen.) “Echos Myron” appears to be a preemptive declaration of their arrival on the indie rock scene, with a dig at those who are satisfied to hear “the same old song” over and over again. Meanwhile, the slew of song-sketches parades past, constantly shifting gears with varying degrees of nonsense. Elves are kicked, buzzards and crows remind us of death, cans and jars have a benevolent matriarch who will protect us all, we are offered a necklace of fifty eyes, and hot freaks try to baptize us with salt.
Amid the rapid-fire song-snippets, a few pieces emerge as real “songs,” giving the album some shape and coherence. Near the start of the album, “Tractor Rape Chain” details a deteriorating relationship, two people moving side-by-side, yet emotionally growing apart—“Parallel lines in slow decline,” as Pollard sings in the chorus. “Smothered in Hugs” feels like a pledge of commitment to someone. And in “I Am a Scientist,” which comes as the album draws to a close, Pollard posits himself as a scientist, a journalist, a pharmacist of self-discovery through music (with perhaps some mind-altering substances to help the quest along). The song gives us one of the iconic lines of the alt-rock era (for me, at least): “I am a lost soul, I shoot myself with rock and roll.” He’s a mess, and rock and roll is his addiction, his reason for living; it’s a dead end, but he needs it, loves it anyway.
Some of the shortest songs can be the most effective. “Peep Hole” comes across as a short-but-sweet, warts-and-all love song. Pollard compares the couple’s love to a weight around their necks (in an allusion to Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner”) before summing up his feelings in two contradictory observations: her house is well kept (and smells good!), but she, herself, is another story; “I’m looking inside your brain / Christ, it’s a cluttered mess / I love you, I must confess….” Tidy on the outside, disordered within—and he loves her anyway. It feels like a love letter to indie-alt-rock itself, ragged and messy both within and without.
Portishead
Dummy
PortisheadReleased 1994/08/22
“Please, could you stay awhile to share my grief?” sings Beth Gibbons in “Wandering Star,” over a discordant pulse and a crisp beat, in a voice haunting and desperate, yet beautiful and fragile. “It’s such a lovely day / To have to always feel this way,” she continues, enticing us into her world. Perhaps it should be a happy place, but it’s not, and she’d appreciate our company for a while.
On Dummy, Portishead creates a masterful blast of recombinant culture. They start with Gibbons’ torch song balladry, tinted with hard streaks of solitude, melancholy, and existential angst. Multi-instrumentalists/producers Geoff Barrow (turntables) and Adrian Utley (guitar) and sound engineer Dave McDonald underpin her voice with hip-hop rhythms and DJ samples and scratches and other electronic sounds, layering in eerie and discordant touches to create an unsettling, psychedelic atmosphere. Back in 1994, it felt like a whole new musical experience, familiar yet entirely new.
In “Sour Times,” the album’s best-known track, Gibbons seems to have given up on love. Yet, at the same time she clings to it. The song is riddled with echoes of infidelity and loneliness. The tricky percussive rhythms give the song propulsion and groove, and the sample from Lalo Schifrin’s soundtrack work for the Mission: Impossible television show creates a suspenseful noir vibe. Somehow it all works together—the end result is a landmark song of the decade.
“The eerily distorted and scratched vocals sampled in “Numb” (some of it is Ray Charles, maybe all of it—it’s too altered to be sure) perfectly conveys the confusion and loneliness expressed in the lyrics. So do the “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again” horns and vocal samples in “Biscuit,” slowed and stretched to a melancholy crawl. Barrow and the production team’s selective use of classic R&B samples and scratches evokes the past, while their distortion of these sources and their use of discordant electronic sounds creates a harsh present, helping to create a nostalgic sense of loss.
Strangers” features a great beeping rhythm that appears and reappears throughout the song, alternating with passages held in ghostly suspension, reinforcing lyrics about the Inability to form true connections, and the difficulty in seeing the positive in a new day.
“It Could Be Sweet” describes the fear inherent in plunging into commitment, perhaps the fear of love, itself. (Here, Gibbons seems to mean a rekindled love, but really, the sentiments work for a new love, as well.) The music bewitches, quite subtly, with a percussive mixture of low, electronic gurgling and crisp, trebly syncopated rhythms, all bathed in glowing keys.
Gibbons seems to rally the troops in “Roads: “Oh / Can’t anybody see?” she pines, “We’ve got a war to fight.” It’s not clear if she speaks to a specific conflict she has faced or simply of the endless, solitary struggle of finding one’s way through life.
In “Glory Box,” she’s tired of Cupid and all that silly boy-girl love-talk. She seeks a pure, mature love, grounded in equality and understanding and tenderness and respect. An Isaac-Hayes-sampled beat and dripping strings, paired at times with howling guitar, creates a melancholy and yearning yet defiant tone.
“Wandering Star” is framed around an allusion to the Bible passages Jude 1:12-1:13, where God speaks about the consequences faced by “ungodly” people, who seek only their own pleasure:
These people are blemishes at your love feasts, eating with you without the slightest qualm—shepherds who feed only themselves. They are clouds without rain, blown along by the wind; autumn trees, without fruit and uprooted—twice dead. They are wild waves of the sea, foaming up their shame; wandering stars, for whom blackest darkness has been reserved forever.
Gibbons rephrases this passage, “Wandering stars, for whom it is reserved / The blackness, the darkness, forever.” Biblically, the message would be that these people live lives of sin only to be doomed in the afterlife. Yet Gibbons seems to welcome the possibility of death to escape the hell of living, singing, “The time that I will suffer less / Is when I never have to wake.” She seems to consider herself one of these wandering stars, and she seeks fellow sufferers to endure alongside her. It is as if they are bright lights in this world, special yet alienated and alone, cursed to live in darkness.
Other interpretations are possible, of course. Does she see herself of a victim of these hedonists, not one of them? Or is she singing from the point of view of Satan, who wants us alongside him in hell? Regardless, Gibbons, like the wandering stars, seems adrift in the world, alone yet yearning for something more. She asks us to join her. And it’s a beautiful ache to sink down into.
The Notorious B.I.G.
Ready to Die
The Notorious B.I.G.Released 1994/09/13
My exposure to rap music during my first couple years of grad school (1993-95) was quite limited in comparison to what it had been in undergrad. I really don’t remember listening to much rap in those years other that some Beastie Boys and a little Cypress Hill. The word-of-mouth from my friends didn’t include much rap; nor do I recall hearing about many rap acts from the music press. The alt-rock scene was in full bloom, so that was where everyone’s minds were at, I suppose.
So most rap albums from that time that I now know were probably bought well after the fact. I didn’t pick up anything by the Notorious B.I.G., for example, until the end of the decade, when I saw Ready to Die on a SPIN Magazine best of the decade list. I had heard of The Notorious B.I.G., of course, but not heard his music. I didn’t know much about him, other than he’d been shot dead in some sort of rap feud. I was oblivious as to what songs were hits, or whether he was popular outside the rap crowd.
But when I picked up Ready to Die, its effect on me was immediate. It was clearly the work of a master. This is gangsta rap at its peak. Something about Biggie—the insistence in his voice, the flow of his raps, the sense of humor—makes me forgive all the vulgarity, the sexism, the glorification of violence. Who else could rhyme “I got the cleanest, meanest penis” with “stroke of genius” and get away with it?
“Things Done Changed” is one of the best of many back-in-the-day rap songs of the late ‘80s and early ‘90s that chronicled the ways gang culture had become increasingly dangerous (largely due to the proliferation of crack cocaine) since their parents’ heyday. The Main Ingredient samples provide the grooves, and Biz Markie and Dr. Dre samples provide the vocal refrain.
“Warning” is one of those six-in-the-morning tales—again, one of the best of its kind. The rapped telephone conversation between Big and his pal is classic, as are too many lines to quote in this small a space. The man has a way with words, and his flow is unmatched. And ladies, “One More Chance” shows Big Poppa proving his sexual expertise, whether he’s avoiding your phone calls or shifting your kidney.
As much as I love the album, I do find it a little top-heavy. When I listen to this disc, I rarely make it past track 9 or so without wanting to go back to one of the earlier songs to hear it again. Yet, according to AcclaimedMusic.net, the great songs from this album are ones I rarely bothered with—”Juicy,” “Big Poppa,” “Unbelievable”—all songs from that less-brilliant second half of the album. Of that back half of the album, only “Suicidal Thoughts” seems to me absolutely essential, although now that I’ve forced myself to listen to the second half, I can attest that it is not without its charms. (But I’d still rank those three songs among the lowest third of the album. “Juicy” and “Big Poppa” in particular feel like straight-up mainstream rap, with much of Biggie’s personality and humor filtered out.)
Regardless, the fact that the most renowned songs from the album are among the album’s weakest attests to how strong the album is as a whole. Ready to Die stands tall as one of the great rap albums of the decade, and of all time.
Here’s the 1994: The Year in Review playlist for you—three tracks per album.
I’ll be building the playlist as I go, adding to it as I complete different tiers of commentary. By the time I finish all Year in Review posts for the year, the playlist will be complete!
Enjoy!
More 1994, The Year in Review
More Years in Review of the 1990s…
Cover Art Citations:
- Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain: By The cover art can be obtained from Matador Records., Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2144855
- Mellow Gold: By The cover art can be obtained from the record label., Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3048275
- Live Through This: By Amazon.com.br, Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=69697550
- Bee Thousand: By Derived from a scan of the album cover (creator of this digital version is irrelevant as the copyright in all equivalent images is still held by the same party) Copyright held by the record company or the artist. Claimed as fair use regardless., Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=23931626
- Dummy: By The cover art can be obtained from Go! Beat., Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=39372802
- Ready to Die: By Scanned from CD booklet., Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=20359711
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