Virgin
Pop, 1997

Flushed from the radioactive glow of Spice and entertaining offers to sponsor literally everything from bubblegum to feminine hygiene products, the Spice Girls wasted no time releasing Spiceworld a year later—because if you’re going to ride a glittery pop apocalypse wave, you better surf it before it crashes.

Let’s get one thing out of the way. This is not to be confused with Spice World, their cinematic masterpiece so legendarily terrible it makes Showgirls look like Citizen Kane. No, Spiceworld the album is a different beast: slick, sleek, and polished to a blinding sheen, like your nan’s plastic-covered sofa.

Gone are the R&B-lite experiments of Spice (farewell, Last Time Lover, you saucy relic). In their place is pure, unadulterated pop with the occasional side quest into jazz, Latin, and whatever the hell Move Over was supposed to be.

Spice Up Your Life opens things up like the confetti cannon of a sugar-fueled children’s party, a Latin-flavored anthem scientifically engineered to lodge itself in your brain’s soft tissue. It’s vapid. It’s ridiculous. It’s absolutely irresistible. A proto-TikTok dance track before the world knew it needed one.

Then comes Too Much, the glow-up sequel to 2 Become 1. Where its predecessor was a wide-eyed teenager stealing their mum’s wine coolers, Too Much is a grown woman sipping a martini while moodily staring out a rain-speckled window. It’s lush, it’s mellow, and it’s the closest the Spice Girls ever got to sounding like actual adult humans.

Stop, Do It, Never Give Up on the Good Times, and Saturday Night Divas are certified bops. They are disco-drenched, roller-rink-ready anthems with more camp than a drag queen’s funeral. The latter even commits the unthinkable: it lets Posh sing something other than background oohs. And guess what? She’s… kind of great? Victoria Beckham, international woman of mystery, holding a tune? 1997 was wild.

Meanwhile, Move Over is technically a song, but it’s actually just a glorified Pepsi commercial. It’s over in the blink of an eye, much like your self-respect after realizing you remember every word. It’s peppy, it’s plastic, and honestly, it slaps. I won’t apologize.

Now, let’s talk about Viva Forever, the crown jewel of the album. Their La Isla Bonita, but sadder, prettier, and without the threat of being remixed into a dance track by Pitbull. It’s wistful, melancholic, and the girls sound genuinely fantastic. The harmonies are so tight you’d think they actually liked each other, and the whole thing leaves a ghostly shimmer in your ears.

Then—like a cold bucket of reality— The Lady Is a Vamp swans in and ruins the mood like a drunk uncle with a karaoke mic. It’s… a choice. A campy, baffling attempt at jazz that sounds about as convincing as Madonna covering Metallica.

Now, to be fair, Spiceworld has the attention span of a toddler on Pixy Stix. There’s no cohesive sound or vision here, unless you count “What if a different producer handled every track while snorting glitter?” as a concept. But you know what? Nobody expected the Spice Girls to deliver Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. They’re a high-camp, high-glam, high-sugar pop factory, and dammit, they’re good at it.

Sadly, this album was also the beginning of the end. Ginger left, Posh refused to take part in any reunion, the rest soldiered on like a girl group-themed zombie apocalypse, but at least we were all spared the agony of watching them shake to Wannabe well into their 50s. (Looking at you, Backstreet Boys. Sit down.)

Final verdict: Spiceworld is like eating an entire box of Froot Loops at 2 AM. It’s excessive, it’s a little artificial, and you’ll probably regret it tomorrow. But in the moment, it’s perfect.