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(25/35)   THE TWENTY SONGS I WISH I WROTE

(1.) Mack the Knife  —  Bobby Darin
A slinky, big-band arrangement snaps to attention as Darin’s voice slides in like a gambler who just pulled an ace — effortless, grinning, and hiding something sharp. The brass punches on the offbeats, the bass walks a tightrope, and Darin barely seems to try, stretching syllables into a shrug. That vocal ease is the whole trick: he sounds like he’s ordering a drink while describing a corpse. The song is a 1928 Brecht/Weill stage ballad from The Threepenny Opera, transformed into a 1959 pop vehicle about Macheath, a murderer who knocks off a man in the first lines and keeps moving through a city that never stops smiling.

Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear
And it shows them pearly white
Just a jack knife has old MacHeath, babe
And he keeps it, ah, out of sight
You know when that shark bites with his teeth, babe
Scarlet billows start to spread
Fancy gloves, oh, wears old MacHeath, babe
So there’s never, never a trace of red
Darin’s intent was to prove he could handle dark material without losing mainstream charm, and he succeeded so completely that the violence became almost subliminal. Critics then hailed his versatility, and the record shot to No. 1; today it’s a standard, though modern ears often catch the irony that 1959 audiences somehow missed. It remains a masterclass in how a cheerful delivery can smuggle a knife right past the velvet rope.

(2.) Masters of War  —  Bob Dylan
A lone acoustic guitar, fingerpicked in a minor key that feels like a held breath, and a vocal that sounds like gravel wrapped in a cold stare — Dylan doesn’t sing so much as testify. He holds notes flat, lets phrases hang in the air like a verdict, and never raises his voice above a controlled fury. That restraint is the weapon. The 1963 song directly addresses war profiteers, arms dealers, and the men who build bombs while sleeping in clean sheets, and there is no story here — only accusation.

You fasten all the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you sit back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
While the young people’s blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud
Dylan’s intent was to strip away every patriotic veil and make the listener feel complicit, not through poetry but through a finger pointed straight at the chest. Upon release, it was called “vicious” and “un-American” by some radio stations, but it became a cornerstone of the anti-war movement; half a century later, its anger still sounds freshly poured over each new conflict. It’s not a song you hum — it’s a song you endure.

(3.) Sympathy for the Devil  —  The Rolling Stones
A hypnotic samba groove, congas and shakers building like a ritual, and Mick Jagger’s voice sliding between purr and snarl as if he’s tasting each syllable. The rhythm never breaks, never speeds up, just rolls forward like history itself — unstoppable and slightly drunk on its own confidence. That steady pulse turns catastrophe into a dance. The 1968 track casts Lucifer as a first-person narrator who casually ticks off atrocities from the crucifixion to the Kennedy assassination, never claiming responsibility but always showing up.

Please allow me to introduce myself
I’m a man of wealth and taste
I’ve been around for a long, long year
Stole many a man’s soul and faith

I was ’round when Jesus Christ
Had his moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure that Pilate
Washed his hands and sealed his fate

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
The Stones’ intent was to provoke, to suggest that evil is a human habit rather than a supernatural force, and they succeeded so well that early radio bans and protests only amplified the legend. Reception was scandalized at first, then reverent; today it’s recognized as one of rock’s most audacious philosophical statements, still chilling and danceable all at once. It’s the only protest song that makes you shake your hips while questioning your soul.

(4.) The Relay  —  The Who
Layered guitars that crash and overlap like waves hitting a faulty transmitter, and a vocal delivery that feels less like singing and more like shouting into a broken radio. Roger Daltrey’s voice is doubled, tripled, sometimes lost in the static, and the rhythm section pushes forward with a mechanical urgency that never quite resolves. The whole track sounds like information under siege. Released in 1972, it describes coded messages passed through a hidden network of resisters, each person grabbing a fragment before the signal is intercepted.

You can hear it in the street,
see it in the dragging feet,
the word is getting out about control,
spies they’re come and gone,
the story travels on,
the only quiet place is inside your soul.
Townshend’s intent was to capture the paranoia and fragile hope of underground communication during the Nixon era, and the music mirrors that tension perfectly. It never cracked the top 40, but fans and live audiences turned it into a cult treasure; now it’s remembered as one of The Who’s most inventive experiments — a song that feels less performed than transmitted.

(5.) Tangled Up in Blue  —  Bob Dylan
A rolling, folk-rock shuffle anchored by a simple acoustic guitar and a vocal that sounds like a man reading old letters in a dim kitchen. Dylan’s phrasing is conversational, almost mumbled, as if he’s thinking out loud rather than reciting lyrics, and the melody circles back on itself like a memory that refuses to stay straight. That understatement is the whole point. The 1975 song follows a relationship that splits, reforms, changes names, changes cities, and never tells the same version twice — one verse she’s reading poems by the sea, the next she’s working in a topless bar.

I lived with them on Montague Street
In a basement down the stairs
There was music in the cafes at night
And revolution in the air
Then he started into dealing with slaves
And something inside of him died
She had to sell everything she owned
And she froze up inside
Dylan’s intent was to show that emotional truth doesn’t follow chronology; it revises and loops and contradicts itself. Critics hailed it as one of his greatest narrative achievements, and decades later it remains a masterclass in non-linear storytelling — a song that proves you can lose someone and keep rewriting them into your life forever.

(6.) Don’t Stop Believin’  —  Journey
A lone piano playing a four-note riff that feels like a countdown, then a bass pulse, then Steve Perry’s voice entering like a lighthouse beam cutting through fog — clean, soaring, and holding back the full power until the very last second. The arrangement builds with surgical patience, adding layers without rushing, so that when the chorus finally detonates, it feels like a stadium roof lifting off. That delayed gratification is the engine of the whole thing. The 1981 song follows a small-town girl and a city boy chasing something larger than themselves, crossing paths on a midnight train, and the lyrics never tell you if they make it — only that they keep moving.

Just a small town girl
Livin’ in a lonely world
She took the midnight train going anywhere
Just a city boy
Born and raised in South Detroit
He took the midnight train going anywhere
Journey’s intent was to capture the ache of aspiration without guarantee, and they accidentally wrote a universal anthem. It was only a modest hit at first, but over decades it metastasized into a global singalong — the last song played at weddings, funerals, and karaoke bars, proof that hope can hold a note forever.

(7.) Hallelujah  —  Leonard Cohen
A sparse, almost skeletal arrangement: just a voice, a piano or acoustic guitar, and chords that move like a slow confession. Cohen’s vocal is weathered, low in the mix, and delivered with the weariness of a man who has tried every version of faith and found all of them wanting. That fatigue is the beauty. The 1984 song cycles through biblical imagery — David, Bathsheba, Samson — but each sacred scene collapses into a broken love affair, so that “hallelujah” comes to mean praise, despair, irony, and surrender all at once. Cohen’s intent was to explore how the same word can hold opposite meanings depending on the breath behind it.

There was a time when you let me know
What’s really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
It barely registered upon release, but through hundreds of covers it grew into a modern hymn; now it’s impossible to imagine a world without its weary, beautiful ambiguity. It’s a song that has been played at weddings and funerals, sometimes for the same couple.

(8.) Welcome to the Jungle  —  Guns N’ Roses
A guitar riff that slithers out of the speakers like a warning, then another, then a drum fill that sounds like someone kicking down a door. Axl Rose’s vocal enters with a half-spoken snarl and then immediately climbs into a shriek that could strip paint. That escalation is the entire narrative. The 1987 song drops a naive newcomer into Los Angeles, where temptation and threat are indistinguishable, and every verse adds another layer of sensory overload.

And when you’re high, you never, never wanna come down
Down, down, down, down
Welcome to the jungle, it gets worse here every day
You learn to live like an animal in the jungle where we play
If you got hunger for what you see, you’ll take it eventually
You can have everything you want but you better not take it from me
The band’s intent was to strip away any romantic notion of rock-star excess and reveal the predator beneath the glitter. It became an instant breakout hit, defining Guns N’ Roses’ dangerous image; today it still sounds like the first five minutes of a nightmare you walked into on purpose. It’s the only song that makes surviving the city feel like a contact sport.

(9.) We Didn’t Start the Fire  —  Billy Joel
A relentless, new-wave piano pound that never lets up, and a vocal delivered at auctioneer speed — Billy Joel barely breathing as he spits out names, dates, and crises in a rapid-fire list. The melody is almost an afterthought, a simple chant that serves only as a conveyor belt for information. That breathlessness is the design. The 1989 song begins in 1949, the year Joel was born, and marches forward through four decades of postwar history, dropping references like a machine gun: Korea, Elvis, Kennedy, Vietnam, Lennon, Reagan, each one landing and disappearing.

Einstein, James Dean, Brooklyn’s got a winning team
Davy Crockett, Peter Pan, Elvis Presley, Disneyland
Bardot, Budapest, Alabama, Khrushchev
Princess Grace, Peyton Place, trouble in the Suez

We didn’t start the fire
It was always burning since the world’s been turning
We didn’t start the fire
No, we didn’t light it, but we tried to fight it
Joel’s intent was to show that every generation inherits a world already on fire, so stop blaming the kids for the match. Critics called it a gimmick, but the public made it a No. 1 hit; over time, it’s become a time capsule that history teachers secretly love and rock purists still grumble about. It’s the only song that works as both a pop hit and a pop quiz.

(10.) We Had to Tear This Mothafucka Up  —  Ice Cube
The track opens with sampled broadcast audio — news reports, public-order warnings, and the repeated courtroom verdict “Not guilty, not guilty” — before a heavy, stripped-down beat drops like a cinder block. Ice Cube’s voice enters calm, measured, and absolutely lethal, delivering verses that escalate from anger to street-level retaliation without ever raising his volume. That calm is the terror. The 1992 song is a direct reaction to the Simi Valley trial of the LAPD officers who beat Rodney King, whose acquittal triggered the Los Angeles riots, and Cube embeds those broadcast fragments directly into the rhythm.

Not guilty, the filthy, devils tried to kill me
When the news get to the hood the niggas will be
Hotter than cayenne pepper, cuss, bust
Kickin up dust is a must
I can’t trust, a cracker in a blue uniform
Stick a nigga like a unicorn
Born, wicked, Laurence Powell, foul
Cut his fuckin throat and I smile
Go to Simi Valley and surely
Somebody knows the address of the jury
Pay a little visit, “Who is it?” (Ohh it’s Ice Cube)
“Can I talk to the grand wizard,” then boom!!
Make him eat the barrel, modern day feral
Now he’s zipped up like Leather Tuscadero
His intent was to turn courtroom betrayal into a call for action, not as abstract protest but as lived, breathing rage. Hardcore hip-hop audiences embraced it immediately as a raw, unfiltered document of its moment; three decades later, it still hits like a brick through a window. It’s a song that doesn’t ask for your attention — it demands it.

(11.) What’s Up?  —  4 Non Blondes
A single, clean guitar strum and then Linda Perry’s voice — raw, huge, and already cracking at the edges — launches into a melody that sounds like a question mark made of sound. She holds notes until they nearly break, pushes into a shout, then pulls back to a whisper, all in the span of one verse. That vocal performance is the entire architecture of the song. The 1992 track follows a narrator waking up confused, questioning her life, her purpose, and why nothing feels resolved, and the lyrics never offer an answer — only the repeated, shouted chorus of “what’s going on?”

25 years and my life is still
Tryin’ to get up that great big hill of hope
For a destination
I realized quickly when I knew I should
That the world was made up of this brotherhood of man
For whatever that means
And so I cry sometimes when I’m lying in bed
Just to get it all out what’s in my head
And I, I am feeling a little peculiar
And so I wake in the morning and I step outside
And I take a deep breath and I get real high
And I scream from the top of my lungs
What’s going on?
Perry’s intent was to turn private frustration into a communal release, and she succeeded so completely that the song became an anthem for anyone who ever felt stuck. It was a massive global hit, defining early-’90s alternative radio; today it’s often dismissed by critics as over-the-top, but audiences still scream every word when it plays. It’s a song that proves sincerity, even at its messiest, can outlive cynicism.

(12.) Gangsta’s Paradise  —  Coolio
A haunting, slowed-down sample from Stevie Wonder’s “Pastime Paradise” — strings and choir pads that feel like a funeral procession — and Coolio’s voice enters with a weary, almost spoken gravitas. He doesn’t rap so much as reflect, letting each line land with the weight of someone who has already seen the ending. That somber tone is the song’s entire identity. The 1995 track follows a man trapped in a cycle of crime and consequence, looking back at choices that felt inevitable and forward to a future that looks the same.

As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I take a look at my life and realize there’s nothin’ left
’Cause I’ve been blastin’ and laughin’ so long that
Even my momma thinks that my mind is gone
But I ain’t never crossed a man that didn’t deserve it
Me be treated like a punk, you know that’s unheard of
You better watch how you talkin’ and where you walkin’
Or you and your homies might be lined in chalk
I really hate to trip, but I gotta loc
As they croak, I see myself in the pistol smoke
Fool, I’m the kinda G the little homies wanna be like
On my knees in the night, sayin’ prayers in the streetlight
Been spendin’ most their lives
Livin’ in a gangsta’s paradise
Coolio’s intent was to show how environment and circumstance can lock a person into repeating patterns, without moralizing or offering easy escape. It became a massive crossover hit, topping charts worldwide and earning critical recognition for its unflinching honesty; today it remains one of hip-hop’s most iconic narrative tracks. It’s a song that makes you feel the weight of the world without ever raising its voice.

(13.) The Hanukkah Song  —  Adam Sandler
A bouncy, lo-fi keyboard riff that sounds like it was borrowed from a children’s TV show, and Sandler’s voice — half-spoken, half-sung, with the timing of a stand-up comedian rather than a singer. He delivers names like punchlines, stacking Jewish celebrities in a rapid list that builds absurdity through repetition. That comedic rhythm is the whole trick. The 1996 song addresses the lack of Hanukkah representation in mainstream holiday music by simply naming famous Jews — from Kirk Douglas to Dinah Shore — and treating inclusion as a joke that also happens to be true.

When you feel like the only kid in town
Without a Christmas tree
Here’s a list of people who are Jewish
Just like you and me
David Lee Roth lights the Menorah
So does James Caan, Kirk Douglas and the late Dinah Shore-ah
Guess who eats together at the Carnegie Deli?
Bowser from Sha na na and Arthur Fonzarelli
Paul Newman’s half Jewish, Goldie Hawn half too
Put them together, what a fine looking Jew!
Sandler’s intent was to create visibility through laughter, and he succeeded so well that the song became a seasonal staple. It was never a chart hit but became a cult phenomenon, played every December on radio and in living rooms; today it’s recognized as one of the most enduring comedy songs of its era. It’s a song that proves you can fight erasure with a punchline.

(14.) Santeria  —  Sublime
A sun-drenched, reggae-inflected guitar groove that sounds like a beach day, complete with a bouncy bassline and laid-back percussion. Bradley Nowell’s vocal is relaxed, almost sleepy, as if he’s telling a secret between sips of a drink. That easy-going surface is a complete lie. The 1996 song follows a man who has lost his girlfriend to a rival, and he spends the verses imagining violent revenge — buying a gun, confronting the other man — while never actually following through.

I don’t practice Santeria
I ain’t got no crystal ball
Well, I had a million dollars
But I, I’d spend it all
If I could find that Heina
And that Sancho that she’s found
Well, I’d pop a cap in Sancho
And I’d slap her down
What I really wanna know
Ah, baby, mhmm
What I really wanna say
I can’t define
Well, it’s love that I need, oh
Nowell’s intent was to frame destructive jealousy inside a deceptively calm atmosphere, creating a tension that never resolves. It became one of Sublime’s most enduring hits, a defining track of late-’90s alternative radio; today it’s remembered for that exact contradiction — a song about rage that sounds like vacation. It’s the only revenge fantasy you can dance to.

(15.) Still D.R.E.  —  Dr. Dre featuring Snoop Dogg
A minimalist piano riff — just four notes, repeated like a mantra — that cuts through the mix with crystalline clarity, followed by a drum beat so sparse it feels like negative space. Dr. Dre’s voice enters flat, confident, almost bored, as if reasserting dominance requires no effort at all. That restraint is the power move. The 1999 track marks Dre’s return after a long hiatus, and the lyrics are a simple declaration: he’s still here, still influential, still in control.

Since the last time you heard from me, I lost some friends
Well, hell, me and Snoop, we dippin’ again
Kept my ear to the streets, signed Eminem
He’s triple platinum, doing 50 a week
Still, I stay close to the heat
And even when I was close to defeat, I rose to my feet
My life’s like a soundtrack I wrote to the beat
I’m still at it, after-mathematics
I’m representing for them gangstas all across the world
Still hitting them corners in them low-lows, girl
Still taking my time to perfect the beat
And I still got love for the streets, it’s the D-R-E
Dre’s intent was to reestablish his place in hip-hop without overexplaining, and the minimalist production became the statement. It was received as a triumphant comeback, a cultural reset that influenced a decade of West Coast rap; today it’s a standard, still instantly recognizable from those first four piano notes. It’s a song that proves less is almost always more.

(16.) Rolling in the Deep  —  Adele
A stomping, percussive intro — foot stomps, handclaps, a bass pulse that feels like a heartbeat under pressure — and then Adele’s voice enters, controlled but trembling at the edges. She holds back at first, letting the tension build, and then the chorus releases a flood of power that seems to come from somewhere below the ribs. That escalation is the entire emotional arc. The 2011 song follows a woman betrayed in love, turning her hurt into direct confrontation rather than quiet suffering, and the music rises with her anger.

There’s a fire starting in my heart
Reaching a fever pitch, it’s bringing me out the dark
Finally I can see you crystal clear
Go ’head and sell me out and I’ll lay your shit bare
See how I leave with every piece of you
Don’t underestimate the things that I will do
The scars of your love remind me of us
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all
We could have had it all
Rolling in the deep
You had my heart inside of your hand
And you played it, to the beat
Adele’s intent was to capture the moment when heartbreak becomes strength, and she succeeded so completely that the song became a global phenomenon. Critics hailed it as a masterpiece of production and performance, and it swept awards shows; today it remains a defining track of the 2010s, a song that made the world stop and listen. It’s the rare breakup anthem that doesn’t wallow — it rallies.

(17.) Ex’s & Oh’s  —  Elle King
A swampy, blues-rock guitar riff that sounds like it was recorded in a Louisiana bar at 2 a.m., and Elle King’s voice — gritty, playful, and full of swagger — slides over the top like a dare. She stretches syllables, drops into a growl, then pulls back to a smirk, all while the rhythm section keeps a steady, stomping beat. That vocal personality is the song’s secret weapon. The 2015 track follows a narrator who cycles through relationships with unstable men, each one ending the same way, and she treats the pattern not as tragedy but as identity.

One, two, three, they gonna run back to me
’Cause I’m the best baby that they never gotta keep
One, two, three, they gonna run back to me
They always wanna come, but they never wanna leave
Ex’s and the oh, oh, oh’s they haunt me
Like gho-o-osts they want me to make ’em all
They won’t let go
Ex’s and oh’s
I had a summer lover down in New Orleans
Kept him warm in the winter, left him frozen in the spring
My, my, how the seasons go by
King’s intent was to present chaotic romantic history with humor and confidence, refusing to play the victim. It became a breakout hit, earning Grammy nominations and radio ubiquity; today it’s remembered as a debut that announced a distinctive new voice in rock-pop. It’s a song that makes getting dumped sound like winning.

(18.) I’m Not Good at This Adult Shit  —  Trevor Moore
A simple, almost throwaway acoustic guitar strum, and Trevor Moore’s voice — conversational, dry, and slightly exasperated — sounds like a guy complaining to his friend at a bar. There’s no vocal heroics, no melodic reach; just a comedian who happens to play guitar, stacking everyday failures into a growing pile of relatable misery. That low-stakes delivery makes the humor hit harder. The 2018 song follows an adult struggling with basic responsibilities — work, bills, social expectations — and each verse adds another failure until the whole thing collapses into absurdity.

Holla at ya boy
I’m at the 7-11 parking lot, Patron and La Croix
Well into my 30s and still permanently lit
Yeah, I’m not good at this adult shit
I’ve been a grown-up for a long time now
Can you help me tie this tie? Because I don’t know how
All of my friends have good jobs, houses, pensions, and stocks
But moving on is an achievement I can’t seem to unlock
My clothes are all arranged in a giant pile
I think my cat is dead in there ’cause I ain’t seen him a while
Wear clothes four days in a row, smoke cigarettes in the shower
When I was a kid, by now, I thought I’d work at Nintendo Power
Moore’s intent was to turn the mundane horror of modern life into structured comedy, and he succeeded so well that listeners felt seen rather than judged. It became a cult favorite within musical comedy circles, though it never cracked the mainstream; today it’s a touchstone for anyone who has ever stared at a pile of laundry and felt their soul leave their body. It’s a song that proves the best comedy is just the truth, slightly amplified.

(19.) Sweaty Dollar Bills  —  Stephen Lynch
A gentle, fingerpicked acoustic guitar that sounds almost tender, and Stephen Lynch’s voice — clean, earnest, and completely straight-faced — tells a story that starts in a dimly lit club where the floor is sticky and the spotlight is unforgiving. The narrator is an aging male exotic dancer, his body no longer snapping to attention like it used to, the tips getting lighter, the younger guys getting all the hollers. Lynch’s delivery never wavers from that polite, almost sad sincerity, which makes the absurdity land even harder. The song follows him through one last humiliating night — a birthday party where the guests are more interested in their phones than his gyrating hips, a bachelorette where the bride asks if he has a “real job.” Then, magically, in the final lines, he reveals his new hustle: he’s become a high-end dog walker for the very same women who used to tip him, now paying him twice as much to scoop poop while wearing a sensible windbreaker.

It’s time to hang up my G-String
It’s time to throw those chaps away
My skin is saggy my tan is fading
My stuff is old and grey
Exotic dancing was my calling
Bionic hips and thunder dick
But father time he bought a private dance
And it was over quick
Goodbye bachelorette shows
Goodbye soccer moms dirty thrills
Goodbye monthly gay nights
And goodbye crank and pills
Bought with sweaty dollar bills
Lynch’s intent was to satirize the desperate reinventions of middle age, where dignity is a luxury and survival is a punchline. The song remained a niche favorite among comedy music audiences, never breaking the mainstream but earning cult devotion for its unexpected tenderness; today it’s remembered as one of Lynch’s most human and weirdly uplifting tracks. It’s a song that proves you can lose your abs and still find your footing — even if that footing is on a grassy median with a plastic bag.

(20.) Big Energy  —  Latto
An instantly recognizable sample — Tom Tom Club’s “Genius of Love” — provides a bouncy, retro-funk groove that feels like a party starting, and Latto’s voice enters with a confident, almost conversational flow that never raises its temperature. She rides the beat like it was built for her, stretching syllables and dropping punchlines without breaking a sweat, her tone shifting between playful and commanding in the same bar. That effortless cool is the whole vibe. The 2021 track lays out a simple power dynamic: she could play the side bitch if she wanted to — low-maintenance, available, no strings — but she’s a boss bitch, and when she decides to be the only bitch, that’s exactly what she becomes. The lyrics make it clear she’s got the face and body every man dreams of, and if they want to play, they’d better show up with money and Henny, because her time isn’t free and her loyalty isn’t automatic.

On the count of three, bad bitches get money
Broke niggas to the left, we ’on’t want it
I’m the one these bitches hate, but they can’t get past
Pretty face, no waist, and a big ol’ ass
Bad bitch, I could be your fantasy
I can tell you got big dick energy
It ain’t too many niggas that can handle me
But I might let you try it off the Hennessy
Make ’em sing to this pussy like a melody
And if your bitch ain’t right, I got the remedy
Bad bitch, I could be your fantasy
It became a major commercial hit, peaking at the top of the charts and significantly elevating her mainstream profile; critics praised its sample craft and Latto’s commanding delivery. Today it’s recognized as a breakthrough that blended old-school sample magic with contemporary swagger, and it cemented Latto as a voice who knows exactly what she’s worth — and won’t settle for less. It’s a song that doesn’t ask for permission — it sets the terms.

Quick Reference & Songwriter Credits
#	Year	Title	Artist	Songwriters	Album
1.	1959	Mack the Knife	Bobby Darin	Bertolt Brecht, Kurt Weill, Marc Blitzstein (English lyrics)	That’s All
2.	1963	Masters of War	Bob Dylan	Bob Dylan	The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan
3.	1968	Sympathy for the Devil	The Rolling Stones	Mick Jagger, Keith Richards	Beggars Banquet
4.	1972	The Relay	The Who	Pete Townshend	Non-album single*
5.	1975	Tangled Up in Blue	Bob Dylan	Bob Dylan	Blood on the Tracks
6.	1981	Don’t Stop Believin’	Journey	Steve Perry, Neal Schon, Jonathan Cain	Escape
7.	1984	Hallelujah	Leonard Cohen	Leonard Cohen	Various Positions
8.	1987	Welcome to the Jungle	Guns N’ Roses	Axl Rose, Slash, Duff McKagan, Izzy Stradlin, Steven Adler	Appetite for Destruction
9.	1989	We Didn’t Start the Fire	Billy Joel	Billy Joel	Storm Front
10.	1992	We Had to Tear This Mothafucka Up	Ice Cube	O’Shea Jackson, DJ Pooh	The Predator
11.	1992	What’s Up?	4 Non Blondes	Linda Perry	Bigger, Better, Faster, More!
12.	1995	Gangsta’s Paradise	Coolio ft. L.V.	Artis Ivey Jr. (Coolio), Larry Sanders; sample: Stevie Wonder	Dangerous Minds (Soundtrack)
13.	1996	The Hanukkah Song	Adam Sandler	Adam Sandler	What the Hell Happened to Me?
14.	1996	Santeria	Sublime	Bradley Nowell, Eric Wilson, Floyd Gaugh	Sublime
15.	1999	Still D.R.E.	Dr. Dre ft. Snoop Dogg	Andre Young (Dr. Dre), Calvin Broadus (Snoop Dogg), Scott Storch	2001
16.	2011	Rolling in the Deep	Adele	Adele Adkins, Paul Epworth	21
17.	2015	Ex’s & Oh’s	Elle King	Elle King, Dave Bassett	Love Stuff
18.	2018	I’m Not Good at This Adult Shit	Trevor Moore	Trevor Moore	My Big Balls
19.	—	Sweaty Dollar Bills	Stephen Lynch	Stephen Lynch	Comedy album
20.	2021	Big Energy	Latto	Latto, A1 LaFlare, Jaucquez Lowe, Randall Hammers, Theron Thomas, Dr. Luke, Vaughn Oliver; sample: Tom Tom Club (“Genius of Love”)	777
* The Relay was released as a non-album single in 1972. First album appearance: Hooligans (MCA, 1981).

(25/35) — The Twenty Songs I Wish I Wrote  |  collabtunes.com