Virgin
Pop, 1996

Once upon a time in the mystical land of the mid-90s, five real-life Bratz dolls stormed the pop galaxy, bringing with them enough girl power to power a small country’s grid.

Were the Spice Girls a Frankensteinian creation of a boardroom full of men in suits? Almost certainly. But were they also an undeniable force of pop-culture nature? Abso-bloody-lutely. And let’s be honest — even the most hardened hater will, in a moment of solitude, cop to being a closet Sporty stan.

Let’s break down the ensemble, shall we? We had:

• Posh Spice, a human Gucci ad who sang approximately four notes per album but wore a lot of black, so that’s nice.
• Ginger Spice, the sassy one who spoke exclusively in suggestive double entendres and Union Jacks.
• Baby Spice, who was either twelve or thirty depending on the lighting, with a voice as sweet as a bubblegum overdose.
• Sporty Spice, the only one actually capable of singing without making your ear canal sue for damages.
• And Scary Spice, a woman so loud she made airhorns look shy.

And their debut album Spice is, against all odds and my snide cynicism, a banger. It’s a slick, well-produced pop record designed to appeal to literally everyone, including your nan.

Wannabe kicks things off, a song so annoying it should be classified as biological warfare. It’s a gimmick—a cheery sugar rush of a track with a rap verse that introduces each girl and her one personality trait. It’s the musical equivalent of being slapped in the face by a rainbow-coloured feather boa, and I dare you to avoid humming that chorus at 3 AM like it’s the cursed tape from The Ring.

But lo! The album recovers. Say You’ll Be There and 2 Become 1 are legitimately good songs. The kind you’d play at a wedding in 1997 and everyone would be too drunk on Malibu and Coke to complain. Love Thing struts in with synths that could power a Tamagotchi, and it still holds up better than half the stuff that charted last week.

Then, we arrive at the secret weapon: Mama. It’s saccharine, it’s string-drenched, it’s earnest in a way that makes you question if you’ve been too harsh on them. The harmonies here are solid, possibly because Sporty Spice does most of them, but who’s counting.

And then there’s Who Do You Think You Are, a disco fever dream of a track where the girls stop playing and start serving. It’s their magnum opus, their Bohemian Rhapsody… if Freddie Mercury had been replaced by five British girls in crop tops and platform sneakers.

Now, for the album’s urban detour: Last Time Lover and If You Can’t Dance. These are… choices. It’s Spice Girls does Salt-N-Pepa cosplay, and while it feels like something you’d find on a Now That’s What I Call Music! deep cut, it’s fascinating. Last Time Lover is outright filthy, featuring Baby Spice coyly giggling about teaching some poor bloke the ways of love, which is frankly concerning coming from someone dressed like a toddler on a sugar high. And If You Can’t Dance tries to convince you they’re rapping. They aren’t. What they’re doing is closer to what happens when you try to recite The Raven while skipping rope. But bless them for trying.

Is Spice original? No. Is it groundbreaking? Absolutely not. Does it matter? Not in the slightest. It’s catchy, fun, inoffensive, and designed to make you feel like everything is okay in the world for approximately 41 minutes—and that, my friends, is a public service.