I feel pretty lucky to have grown up in the 90s. Sure, my collection at the time admittedly had the odd bubblegum pop record, but the BRIT awards were one of the highlights of my year. We didn’t have MTV in the house, Top of the Pops was great—if not lip-synched to the point of a Milli Vanilli track—but it was no Jools and it was definitely no BRITs.
In 1994, PJ Harvey and Bjork took to a stage that was shared with Meatloaf (boring), would see Sting as a male vocalist winner (boring), and transcended a song that’s leaking with hypersexual on-the-verge-of adolescent (even though Jagger was way too old for that) lust into what I’d like to think of as a murder ballad befitting of the queens they are.
Hold your hand to your heart, look up to the sky, and proclaim with me, “YAS. Queens.”