Ah, lists, the original brainrot before brainrot was known as brainrot, like what The Stooges are to punk. David Letterman made many, Oskar Schindler made at least one, and as a maker of online crap, it’s time for me to contribute yet another.
As Team Dresch release their first album since the ‘90s, The Linda Lindas steer further into the realms of riot grrrl, and the mere shock value of the world in 2026 breeds new, exciting punk bands, I’m here finding new excuses to write about Sleater-Kinney. My name is Ben, you might not know me, but if you do, you’ll likely be aware that Sleater-Kinney is one of my favourite bands – and I only include the words “one of” because I struggle to commit to my own passion.
It is essential for a band like Sleater-Kinney to exist, if not Sleater-Kinner itself. Prepared to stand up for what’s right within a space crowded by isms and phobias, whilst being intensely unashamed by a deep love of musical exploration, the Olympia-to-Portland trio – these days a duo – has created art that epitomised the new anarchism of the ‘90s and the independent sound-searching of the ‘00s. The band’s importance is immeasurable, and at Rainy Day Music, we continue to celebrate.
Let’s celebrate with the sort of slop we always had before our current day indulgence on slop. I can’t doomscroll through Facebook without assuming that all online media is just people ranking things on the spot, or better yet, AI. There’s something warm and homely about a good old-fashioned top ten list. But today, we’re going with a top eleven, that’s Top Eleven Sleater-Kinney Songs! Why eleven? Call it a compromise; I couldn’t decide on just ten, but I cut down on the excess by going one over and about a dozen under what I could’ve.
A few notes: this list includes a few typical choices, but also a few atypical choices (it’s my list, get your own!). Also, the songs are not ranked, only ordered chronologically, and I have limited the allowance of each Sleater-Kinney album to two songs, for the challenge…?
Be Yr Mama
Because Sleater-Kinney’s eponymous debut album deserves representation, no matter how far removed from the canon one may deem it. Be Yr Mama epitomises the record with a consistent, abradant energy steeped in rock n’ roll fun and pissed-off-ness, before eroding to make way for a sentimental crust. The beaten innards of the yeller are spotlit once yeller is done yelling.
Anonymous
Because no song encapsulates the musical-social stance of ‘90s Sleater-Kinney quite like it. Anonymous is about the expectations society has of women – sort of, classic ‘make the babies’ type stuff whilst waving the contentment of a ‘safe life’ in her face like she’s a pet snake and contentment is a dead mouse. Its chorus is the sudden blast of emotion one often salutes the band for.
Good Things
Because riot grrrl has enough room for a good breakup song, especially one that rives in the same sweaty human misery as any of Sleater-Kinney’s more volatile songs. Good Things lurks on the same album as Heart Attack, but exchanges lung-gurgling screams for heartbreak that flows through pointy guitar leads, and a ‘who are you kidding?’ bridge surrounded by post-breakup grief.
Dig Me Out
Because, if we’re being honest, you can’t have a Sleater-Kinney songs list without it – there’s a voice whispering in my ear “or Jumpers, or Modern Girl”. Dig Me Out is, if nothing else, a riff factory, firstly containing Sleater-Kinney’s greatest earworm guitar riff that thrashes before tumbling down the stairs. What people seldom mention is the comforting guitar lick that concludes each line of the hook.
One More Hour
Because it is one of the greatest LGBT breakup songs ever written. It is best not to badger around the meaning of One More Hour, as several media outlets did that enough back when the song was released in 1997, but its candour will clue you in. Two devastated voices mourn the same relationship, that they are no longer in, together. Corin and Carrie’s uneven harmonies mean most.
Get Up
Because an out-of-body experience is the best centrepiece an album as uncertain as The Hot Rock could possibly have. No matter how implosive, Get Up is the connective tissue of The Hot Rock, that forms a branch between its screaming punk stuff and down-and-out ballads. The song is lost and yearning, but also uplifting, containing a momentous, yelled climax, with those beggars and dogs.
The Size of Our Love
Because the thick of fear is poeticised beautifully by Carrie Brownstein. The Size of Our Love is not a song of mourning, but uncertainty that plagues love in the form of terminal illness. She sings “our love is the size of these tumours inside us”, initially passively, before the song swells like a malignant growth, and the pain of each word and short-lived guitar lick becomes more and more realistic.
Male Model
Because Corin Tucker’s falsetto vocal is that good! Seriously, Male Model is already excellent. One of Sleater-Kinney’s best explored themes is, obviously, sexism within the music industry, and how closely male higher-ups feel the need to monitor women. But when Corin hits those notes at the end of the chorus (“take the staaaage”), that’s all you need to assassinate a creepy bigwig.
Oh!
Because it has…what might be…Sleater-Kinney’s best chorus. Fair enough, I’ve sung the praises of Anonymous – and while I didn’t go into much detail, Dig Me Out’s chorus is iconic – but Oh is OH-so satisfying. From the lone, rubbery synthesiser that slides into view at a time when nobody expected a synth in a Sleater-Kinney song, to Corin’s heartfelt squeals of reciprocated love, it’s a joy.
Jumpers
Because no song surveys human fragility and perseverance quite like it. Jumpers, the centrepiece of The Woods, is a song about suicide, about literally jumping, intentionally, to one’s death. Its murky verses turn into void-screaming pseudo-choruses which eventually turn into Carrie Brownstein’s famed “be still this sad day” rally cry, perhaps the greatest self-help mantra in rock history.
Modern Girl
Because a moment of reflection can be just as gut-wrenching as a song about suicide. Modern Girl follows Jumpers in a moment of calm, as Carrie Brownstein analyses, not the simple advent of societal expectation or consumerism, but how she factors into it all. The Woods is an album of sonic pulverisation, and Modern Girl, no matter how delicate, slots in with crunching drums and a distorted harmonica solo. It’s all magic, baby.
