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Matchbox Twenty – "Unwell"
Atlantic; 2003
3.2

By: Dax Mumberson, Pitchfork Contributor

There are songs that define an era, and then there’s “Unwell” by Matchbox Twenty—a song that limply gestured at defining something before retreating back into a GAP sweater of its own design. Released in 2003, but spiritually 1998, “Unwell” is a murky broth of acoustic sincerity, radio-safe angst, and the sonic equivalent of a lukewarm Sprite left on the counter at your divorced dad’s condo.

Frontman Rob Thomas—America’s reigning monarch of bland competence—delivers a performance that screams, “I’m sad, but like, in a relatable, post-TRL way.” His voice trembles with a vague vulnerability that makes you think, “This man has probably stared out a rainy window, but only during a sponsored VH1 special.” The lyrics read like therapy Mad Libs: “I’m not crazy, I’m just a little unwell” is the kind of line that makes your aunt nod solemnly and say, “That’s deep,” while clipping coupons for gluten-free Oreos.

Musically, the track is as adventurous as a mayonnaise sandwich. A plodding acoustic guitar trudges along next to a drumbeat that sounds like it was generated by a coffee machine having an existential crisis. The whole thing feels like it was designed by a focus group of 36-year-olds who just discovered feelings and are very tired.

It’s not that “Unwell” is bad in the way that, say, an active crime scene is bad—it’s more that it’s aggressively beige. It is the sonic equivalent of that one IKEA lamp you forget you own until it catches fire. It’s a musical shrug. A warm sigh in cargo shorts. A song that says, “Hey, we might not be okay, but at least we’re doing it in khaki.”

And yet, somehow, this song slaps. But only if you’re in a dentist’s chair, high on nitrous, pondering every life choice that brought you to this point.

TL;DR: If adult contemporary were a medical condition, “Unwell” would be the symptom, the diagnosis, and the follow-up email confirming your next appointment.

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Divinyls – “I Touch Myself” (1990)
★ ★ ★ ★ ☆
Genre: Sexy Pop-Rock with a Side of Subtle Shouting

If you’ve ever wanted to tell the entire world you’re into yourself—like, really into yourself—but with an Aussie accent and a jangly guitar riff behind you, "I Touch Myself" is your anthem.

Released in 1990, this song boldly launched a thousand awkward glances across car radios, shopping centre PAs, and family BBQs. It’s essentially a public service announcement for private pleasure. The late, great Chrissy Amphlett croons with the kind of sultry conviction that makes you wonder whether she’s flirting with you or challenging you to a fight. Possibly both.

Musically, it’s a classic pop-rock banger dressed in leather and smirking. The guitars chug along with a no-nonsense energy, while the chorus barrels in like a drunk confession that somehow made it onto Top of the Pops. It’s catchy. Dangerously catchy. You’ll find yourself humming it at work and immediately questioning your life choices.

Lyrically, it’s… well, it’s not subtle. There’s no poetic metaphor here—no “my flower blooms in solitude” kind of vibe. Just straight-up: “I touch myself.” A line that makes 13-year-olds giggle, adults pretend not to hear, and cool uncles nod in silent respect.

What’s genuinely impressive is how it flipped the script. At a time when most female-fronted pop-rock was still toeing the line between “empowered” and “palatable,” Amphlett smashed that line with a riding crop and lit a cigarette on its ashes. It’s one of the few songs where the chorus feels like both a dare and a declaration.

Final Verdict:
"I Touch Myself" is a bold, brash, unashamed celebration of self-love with a riff you can strut to and a chorus you probably shouldn’t sing in front of your boss—but will anyway. And honestly? That’s kind of the point.

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Chamillionaire – “Ridin’” [feat. Krayzie Bone]
Universal; 2006
6.4 (but only if you're in a Dodge Charger with illegal tints)

“Ridin’” is the rare kind of song that makes you feel both like a criminal and a misunderstood philosopher—if your philosophy thesis is mostly about how the cops are always watching, especially when you’re doing absolutely nothing suspicious in a 22-inch rimmed Escalade at 3am.

Chamillionaire, whose name sounds like a Monopoly villain, delivers a performance so straight-faced it could pass a lie detector test while stealing your catalytic converter. Backed by a beat that somehow evokes both “Matrix car chase” and “Windows XP screensaver,” he lays out a lyrical treatise on racial profiling, vehicular paranoia, and the delicate art of looking fly without catching a felony.

Enter Krayzie Bone, who slides into the second half of the track like your friend who showed up late to the heist but still brought the good balaclavas. His rapid-fire verse is technically impressive and emotionally impenetrable—a poetic flurry of words that makes you think, “Wow, this is definitely about something deep,” even if you catch about three words total.

“Ridin’” had the cultural reach of a flu strain. It was everywhere. Car stereos. Flip phones. Your cousin’s MySpace page. It was a protest anthem, a meme template, and a ringtone all rolled into one—basically, the Swiss Army knife of 2000s rap.

Is it a good song? Kind of. Is it a perfect song for imagining yourself in a slow-motion low-speed chase through a Taco Bell drive-thru? Absolutely. “Ridin’” doesn’t care if you’re actually ballin’—it just wants you to feel like you are, especially when you’re crawling through traffic with two broken taillights and something mysterious in the glove box.

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