(In the years following, the only tunes that came close to that number were the Goo Goo Dolls “Iris,” “Smooth” by Carlos Santana and Rob Thomas, and that godawful Nickelback song that you couldn’t escape if you blew off your ears, stuffed socks in the resulting head wounds, and then set those socks on fire.)
Like every other not-a-girl-not-yet-a-woman at the close of the 20th century, Alanis appealed greatly to me. Her voice was rockin’, her hair was pretty, and I totally let it pass when she mistook irony for sheer bad luck. But even I, a headstrong Labatt’s lover who listened to the first track from Jagged Little Pill as if it held all the secrets of the universe, grew tired of Alanis after awhile. It wasn’t anything she did. It was just … her songs, though strong, were mercilessly overplayed. It got so bad that my friends would switch the radio station when “You Oughta Know” came on, because – really? Dave Coulier? In a theater? Cut. It. Out.
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