The 200 Best Songs of The 1980s

“A rock & roll band needs to be able to get under people’s skin,” Paul Westerberg told Rolling Stone, right before Tim came out. “You should be able to clear a room at the drop of a hat.” The Replacements never had any trouble with that. But they evolved from Minneapolis punk brats to the great American rock band of the Eighties, with the rugged confessions of Let It Be and Tim. “Left of the Dial” is a heart-on-fire guitar rager about growing older, missing your friends, getting your heart ripped out by that song playing on the radio. It sounds better than ever now on the new Tim (Let It Bleed) remix—the way it was always meant to sound.

“Planet Rock” was the electro-hop 12-inch that totally transformed how this planet rocks. DJ Afrika Bambaataa from the South Bronx hooked up with producer Arthur Baker and synth wizard John Robie, with a beat from German electronic pioneers Kraftwerk. “Planet Rock” is a sci-fi tribal vision of Mother Earth as one big starship, full of universal people looking for the perfect beat. This song was more than a giant hit—it was the mothership that gave us Miami bass, Detroit techno, Latin freestyle, Memphis crunk, ATLien rap.

A very Eighties romance: “You always wanted a lover, I only wanted a job.” The greatest of English synth-pop duos team up with a Sixties gay icon they’ve worshiped all their lives, for a lavishly witty and mega-bitchy breakup song. “What Have I Done To Deserve This?” is full of ironic melancholy, especially when Neil Tennant asks, “Now I can do what I want to? Forever? How’m I gonna get through?” The way the Divine Dusty bats her eyes and glances off that last chorus with “a-ha-haaaa” is a whole career’s worth of jaded cool in three seconds. The Pet Shop Boys were Cardi B’s favorite group as a child—pray we get a duet on this with Megan.

Woooof! George Clinton already had a lifetime of funk genius behind him when he dropped “Atomic Dog”—after the rise and fall of his Parliament-Funkadelic collective, some fools even thought he was finished. But Dr. Funkenstein just got back to the lab and devised his biggest bomb ever. George was partying hard the night he freestyled “Atomic Dog” (“I was out of my head,” he recalled), barking and growling “bow wow wow, yippy-oh yippy-yay” over that monster bass. But it inspired countless hip-hop producers, especially on the West Coast—Dr. Dre built an empire on this bassline.

The ultimate Eighties band: four antisocial post-punk twits from Manchester accidentally turn into disco visionaries. New Order were still shell-shocked from the death of Ian Curtis when they began dabbling in low-budget synth beats. Yet “Temptation” sent them on their way to defining 1980s club sounds, one oblique 12-inch at a time. They kept tinkering with “Temptation” over the years, but they got it right the first time—the original 9-minute single from the Factus 8 1981-1982 EP. “Temptation” proves Bernard Sumner could be a brilliant poet of dance-floor social anxiety (“Confusion,” “Weirdo,” “The Perfect Kiss,” “All The Way”) when he wasn’t hilariously awful at it. (Like, they actually released “1963”?) But when they chant “Up, down, turn around, please don’t let me hit the ground,” they sound like they’re having fun for the first time in their lives.

Grace Jones spent the 1970s making the scene at Studio 54, but the Eighties is when she blew up into an artist. She had her own massively influential funk/reggae club sound, her butch flat-top haircut, and her Caribbean band starring Sly and Robbie. As she said, “When I sing a song I need to get into character, because it is all theater for me.” When Madonna started in 1982, she told the U.K. press she wanted to make music for “the kind of people who might like Grace Jones.” “Nipple to the Bottle” was her ultimate rage-queen feminist anthem, snarling like the ultimate New Wave cyborg dominatrix. The bass-heavy 12-inch mix is the killer, as she chants, “I won’t give in and I won’t feel guilty/You rant and rave to manipulate me!” Everyone dreamed of being as cool as Grace Jones. But nobody is.

Goth demon queen reinvents rock & roll. John McGeoch plays his flanged-to-heaven guitar over Budgie’s power-stumble drums, while black-lipstick goddess Siouxsie Sioux testifies about psychological disintegration and why it’s fun. She chants “It sends you spinning, you have no choice,” in the voice that launched a million cobweb-gathering twirlers to make each other dizzy on the dance floor. 

The Georgia boys in R.E.M. changed the rock game in the early Eighties. You could pick any song off their classic debut Murmur for this list. (Well, not “We Walk” or “9-9.”) You could pick “So. Central Rain” or “Fall On Me” or “Wolves, Lower” or “Good Advices.” Who else had songs like this? Nobody. (Wait, “Harborcoat”? “Catapult”?) R.E.M. had their own high-energy, low-budget DIY sound—loads of guitar, but no solos, no keyboards, no spandex. They were audibly Southern, from some town nobody’d heard of, like they had no idea bands were required to move to New York or L.A. (“Gardening at Night”? “Green Grow The Rushes”?) Michael Stipe’s voice surges in “Sitting Still” with urgent emotion, without any clue what the lyrics mean. (Maybe Stipe does not believe this song goes “sit on top of the big hill” but I do.) Eighties R.E.M. were one of the best bands who ever existed—except they got twice as great in the Nineties. 

Eric B. & Rakim not only changed the future of music, but changed the past, turning James Brown into a brand new groove. Eric B slices up a dusty groove from 1971—“I Know You Got Soul,” from JB’s sidekick Bobby Byrd—reducing it to the hardest guitar lick, while Rakim grabs the mic like he’s on Soul Train, with his most fiercely complex poetics. The group Stetsasonic called it right and exact in their pro-sampling polemic “Talkin’ All That Jazz”: “Tell the truth, James Brown was old, till Eric and Rak came out with ‘I Got Soul.’” (Or as Greg Tate wrote in 1988: “Hip-hop is ancestor worship.”) Like everything else Eric B and Rakim did in the Eighties, “I Know You Got Soul” is a radically prophetic move, claiming the future in the name of hip-hop.  

Sade Adu makes her elegant entrance—as if she’d make any other kind. The Nigerian-born fashion student turned chanteuse in the U.K. New Romantic scene, adding some Nina Simone to the Bowie/Ferry diamond-life aesthetic for her own unique world-conquering style. Her whole mystique is right there in “Smooth Operator,” where she’s the worldly bon vivant with too much of her own past to care about beginners or sensitive hearts. In the video, she sings with tears pouring down her cheeks, but nobody’s ever been in less danger of blowing their cool. Part of her discreet aura: Sade-the-singer has kept Sade-the-band together for over 40 years, without most fans noticing or even caring. No need to ask—it’s Sade.

Run-D.M.C’s bombshell debut single flipped hip-hop from club music to street music. As Jam Master Jay said, “There never was a B-boy record made until we made ‘Sucker M.C.’s.” It’s two rappers from Hollis, Queens, boasting about their wild style—“I cold chill at the party in a B-boy stance”—over the toughest stripped-down DMX beats. “Sucker MC” was made from the streets, for the streets, designed to blast out of boomboxes on the corner. The Golden Age of Hip-Hop was about to begin, with Run, Daryl, and Jay leading the way.

Robert Smith’s most wildly romantic song. “Just Like Heaven” spins on the dizzy edge, showing why none of his many imitators could match his flair for lipstick-meltingly mournful melodrama. The Cure began the Eighties as the miserabilist goth puppets of Seventeen Seconds, Faith and Pornography, yet somehow became bona fide pop stars. “I remember on the Kiss Me tour we were in Los Angeles,” Smith told Rolling Stone in 2004, “and there were girls taking their clothes off and lying down in front of the bus to stop us from driving away. And I remember thinking, ‘This isn’t really what I imagined I would be doing with this band.’”

When it comes to opening tracks on debut albums, there’s no mission statement like “Straight Outta Compton.” Dr. Dre’s production sounds the alarm like a siren, while Ice Cube, Eazy-E and Ren bang on the streets of L.A., with the first gun going off halfway through the first verse. “Straight Outta Compton” completely changed the hip-hop game and put the West Coast on top of the heap—that’s the power of street knowledge.

Her first name ain’t Baby, it’s Janet, Miss Jackson If You’re Nasty, and after this song, nobody would ever make that mistake again. “Nasty” was the definitive statement from Control, Janet Jackson’s declaration of independence, still a teenager but breaking free from her family and a bad marriage. Janet formed one of the all-time symbiotic singer/producer bonds with Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis—their “Nasty” beat makes anyone 40% nastier with each listen.

One day in 1982, Johnny Marr knocked on Morrissey’s door and declared, “I’ve come to form the world’s greatest band.” They proved it in “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out.” It’s always been The Smiths’ fan favorite, double-decker bus and all—bassist Andy Rourke called it “the indie ‘Candle in the Wind.’” It’s a song that explores the darkened underpass of the heart, where a late-night drive with a friend is an epic quest. (In case you were wondering, Morrissey couldn’t drive, so he spent a lot of time in Johnny Marr’s car.) Moz sings about not having a home, but countless fans have heard some kind of home in this song. 

Nobody ever accused Kate Bush of being a conventional 1970s pop star—her first hit was about Wuthering Heights, after all. But she hit heights that were even more wuthering in the Eighties, when she got her hands on the Fairlight CMI synthesizer, like a mad scientist in her own lab. She turned her art-rock fantasies into cloudburstingly vibrant sonic dreams like “Running Up That Hill.” It crashed the U.S. Top 40 in 1985—but became an even bigger hit in 2022, spending the summer in the Top 10. It sounded bizarre on the radio between Lizzo and Harry Styles, just as it once sounded bizarre between Phil Collins and Falco. But it’s a song that can be heard countless times without ever fading into the background.

Duran Duran blew up into worldwide pop idols with “Hungry Like the Wolf,” the hit that summed up the Eighties so perfectly, it’s a bit scary. “Hungry Like The Wolf” is their arty glam-disco sex strut, the archetypal New Romantic banger: rock guitar, funk bass, synth glitter, Simon Le Bon’s over-the-top moans. And even sworn enemies will play air drums to that chorus. This song made DD made the era’s most divisive band, with their innovative mix of Chic and the Sex Pistols. Every detail is calculated to provoke, from the opening sound (a woman’s laugh) to the climax (a woman voicing slightly different emotions). But “Hungry Like the Wolf” still lights up any room.

Meet the Go-Gos: the five coolest punk-rock girls in town, cruising in their convertible in the Southern California sunshine. “Our Lips Are Sealed” was their debut hit, making every other band seem hopelessly boring. Especially since no other band had Gina Schock banging the drums. But Jane Wiedlin based it on her real-life love letters. “I was having a dramatic, traumatic, long-distance romance with Terry Hall of the Specials,” Wiedlin told me in 2000. “He had a fiancee at the time—nowadays I wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole, but I was 19 and I was like, fiancee schmiancee, man.” Yet most fans hear it as an ode to femme bonding. “I prefer thinking of it that way,” Wiedlin said.  “More interesting.  But it’s a song that people find their own meaning in.”

Whitney’s creative breakthrough—the hit everybody liked. Although she dominated the radio with balladry like “Saving All My Love For You,” she saved her most soulful vocals for this bubbly Eighties hormone-crazed glitz-pop rush, loosening up with teen-angst lyrics worthy of the Smiths. (Very close to “This Charming Man,” honestly). Her debut album mostly sells her as a staid grown-up, but here she really sounds 22, feeling the eternal philosophical love-is-strong vs. I-feel-weak dilemma. Whitney rolls out her whoops and growls and mmm-hmmms, for a hit that refined virtuosity as euphoria.

Public Enemy kicked down the doors in “Bring The Noise”—their most adventurous, radical, raging shot, with the explosive production of the Bomb Squad. “Most people were saying that rap music was noise,” said the Bomb Squad’s Hank Shocklee. “And we decided, ‘If they think it’s noise, then let’s show them noise! But we’re also gonna give them something to think about.” “Bring The Noise” goes right for the jugular right from the opening words: a sample of Malcolm X saying, “Too black, too strong.” Chuck D booms louder than a bomb, over Flavor Flav’s motormouth hype man. “Bring The Noise” dropped in the fall of 1987 on the soundtrack of the none-too-revolutionary Less Than Zero, but it makes a bold claim on history, with shout-outs to Run-D.M.C., Anthrax, Sonny Bono, and Yoko Ono.

“Billie Jean” was the hit that turned Thriller into Thriller—the song that turned a hit into a phenomenon. Nobody could have imagined a song like this before—especially since his previous single was “The Girl Is Mine.” MJ’s voice came on sounded so fragile and haunted, even before you noticed how disturbing the lyrics were, over nearly five minutes of creepy strings and heavy drums and paranoid bass. He never made another record that sounded anything like “Billie Jean,” and neither has anyone else.

Grandmaster Flash worried that “The Message” would flop. “It was a shock,” he told Record Mirror in 1982. “At first we were a little too afraid to release ‘The Message.’ It was a little too truthful.” But it became the most famous of hip-hop classics, a war report direct from the streets of inner-city America. “The Message” was a total knock out of the park,” said Chuck D of Public Enemy. “It was the first dominant rap group with the most dominant MC saying something that meant something.” “The Message” takes off from Duke Bootee’s poem about ghetto life, with Reggie Griffin’s future-shock keyboards and MC Melle Mel chanting, “It’s like a jungle sometimes/It makes me wonder how I keep from going under.” As Flash said, “It had no call and response, nothing happy in it.” But it changed hip-hop forever.

Madonna was at the center of the Eighties pop universe, but she saved her show-stopper for the end of the decade. “Like a Prayer” is her most passionate hit ever, as she goes down on her knees in the midnight hour to experience the most divine disco rapture. She wears so many of her favorite disguises in “Like a Prayer”: sex priestess, hippie mystic, bad Italian party girl, contrite Catholic penitent, Eurotrash poseur, floor-humping bride, gospel-disco soul searcher. Yet they all sound like the same woman. Take us there, Madonna. 

Who else? Prince spent the Eighties as the most maddeningly brilliant and unpredictable genius in the game. He kept the world trying to guess his next move, while everyone was still catching up with what he was doing a few moves ago. If 1999 isn’t the decade’s best album, that’s just because it’s Sign o’ the Times—still a tough call. Prince has a couple dozen songs that could top this list, but “Kiss” is the sound of Prince showing off, his most playful and perverse hit, proving he’s 6 or 7 of the planet’s best singers. “Kiss” is deceptively minimal funk, a total surprise when it hit the radio in the spring of 1986, after the triumph of 1999 and Purple Rain, then the candy fluff of Around The World In A Day. There’s no bass at all, giving him room to peacock all over the avant-purple electro-slither. He coos “You can’t be too flirty” in the flirtiest falsetto imaginable, saving his sex-crazed screams for the end. When “Kiss” hit Number One, another Prince song was runner-up: The Bangles’ “Manic Monday.” But all over “Kiss,” he does the twirl with the future.