Hill of beans

To come of age in the '80s and '90s was to hear constant veneration of the '60s by the baby boomers who, more than the liberals or even the Jews, controlled the nation's media. It was hard to argue with their heroes—their JFKs and MLKs, their Beatles and Dylans—but the unrelenting idolatry of that bygone era smelled fishy. Was the decade really so magnificent? Or did it just have good editors?

Regardless, such folklore gave young adults in the '90s a generational insecurity complex—a knee-jerk understanding that any achievements would pale in comparison with what had come before. This is a shame: The '90s, viewed with what limited hindsight we now have, were tremendous and underestimated years. In the White House sat a President who seemed wishy-washy at the time but, when viewed in light of the current regime, looks vaguely like Che Guevara. (And then, in 1992, Bill Clinton was elected.) Mainstream culture realized the riches of postmodernism. And popular music experienced a minor renaissance: Rock & roll briefly regained an angry vitality and roughness; hip-hop found a glorious, irate second wind; sundry underground niches flowered; and wily collage artists drew upon a century of material to renewed effect, both ironic and profound.

Barely any of this is represented on Whatever: The '90s Pop & Culture Box, a disappointing seven-disc compilation from Rhino. Like many collections released on that label, Whatever is ingeniously packaged, with a mound of actual coffee beans sealed behind its plastic cover—a cute link between the Seattle rock that launched the decade and the Starbucks explosion intrinsic to its lamentable final years. But as the boomers liked to say about the period this set seeks to embody, such glitz only masks a hollowness of content. Hardly any of the figures that made the '90s exciting are included: There's neither Nirvana nor Hole, Tupac Shakur nor the Notorious B.I.G., Beck nor Björk. The hip embracing of previously disparaged culture that was so vital to the era is represented by a single song—Urge Overkill's cover of "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon"—and, exempting tracks by the likes of Bikini Kill, Pavement and Sleater-Kinney, indie rock gets shunned.

Instead, the record is dominated by one-hit wonders and fading dorm-room memories: Jesus Jones's "Right Here, Right Now," Kris Kross's "Jump," Gin Blossoms' "Hey Jealousy," Letters to Cleo's "Here and Now." All told, it resembles the iPod mix of a mildly demented 31-year-old whose entire CD collection was ordered from Columbia House.

Rhino is not entirely to blame if the decade's biggest players chose not to contribute their work. And within the 130 songs, there are bound to be some big winners, from Salt-N-Pepa's "Whatta Man" to the Flaming Lips' "She Don't Use Jelly." (Oddly enough, Spin Doctors' "Little Miss Can't Be Wrong" has aged pretty well too.) Yet the collection does a tremendous disservice to its era, in part because at this point, it remains premature to look back with suitable wistfulness. Most disturbing is the album's prominent inclusion of corporate trash—forgotten chart toppers like Candlebox, Seven Mary Three, Deep Blue Something and Green Jelly. This is seemingly Rhino's way of reminding listeners that Collective Soul (whose song "Shine" begins the fifth disc) had a commercial presence more formidable than, say, Cornershop (whose work is absent).

Such an approach is honest but misguided: Any cultural period is only as strong as its revisionist history. Elvis Costello is fond of informing starry-eyed interviewers that the late '70s did not belong to punk, but rather to packaged pop—just as Engelbert Humperdinck beat the Beatles to the top of the charts during their psychedelic halcyon days. Of course the '90s cannot compete with the '60s, with its sweeping change, superhuman icons and dynamite hairstyles. But the '60s' greatest asset is not its heroes—it's the era's latter-day hagiographers. The 1990s was not the decade of Collective Soul, but the decade of Nirvana, Bill Clinton and other small victories. Politically, these are being gleefully chipped away by the current Bush administration. Now they seem to be getting expurgated culturally, too.

Whatever: The '90s Pop & Culture Box is out now on Rhino.