Top 10 Best Blur Songs

Damon Albarn had watched his relationship with Justine Frischmann (from the band Elastica) fall apart and was in the depths of despair. What do you do then? You don't write a sad song on an acoustic guitar; you hire the London Community Gospel Choir and make a seven-minute epic about healing. "Come on, come on, get through it." The interaction between Albarn's vulnerable voice and the massive sound of the choir gives you goosebumps. Coxon adds a simple, comforting line ("Oh my baby, oh my baby"). It's grand without being bombastic, and painful without being hopeless.

Only Blur could transform the Shipping Forecast weather report into pure poetry. As a storm sweeps over the British Isles, Damon takes you on a journey along the coastlines of Dogger, Fisher and German Bight. It's atmospheric, dark and majestic. The guitar solo by Coxon halfway through might be his finest moment; it sounds like waves crashing against the rocks. For many fans, this is the absolute emotional center of the masterpiece "Parklife."

Phil Daniels, the actor from the cult film "Quadrophenia," tells with a heavy Cockney accent about feeding pigeons, morning gym classes and dustmen. It's hilarious, bizarre, and the definition of an era. Blur captures British life here with so much humor and energy that you can almost smell the fish and chips. The chorus is one of the most catchy hooks ever written.

Two minutes and two seconds. It was meant as a joke, a parody of American grunge bands (think Nirvana) who took themselves far too seriously. Damon screamed some nonsense into the microphone, Graham cranked his amp to "deaf," and the record company loved it. The irony is that this song, their least typical track, became their biggest worldwide hit. Everyone, from football stadiums to commercials, screamed "Woo-hoo!"

Sci-fi in a British pub. The clip references "A Clockwork Orange," but the music sounds like a futuristic national anthem. The strings are immense, almost overwhelming, and lift the chorus to a level that most bands would get vertigo from. "It really, really, really could happen." Albarn sings it with a grin, as if promising us a beautiful future we probably won't get (winning the lottery, or maybe just being happy).

Imagine: cheap sunscreen, too much sangria and cheesy discos in Magaluf. Blur took the 'lads holiday' culture and made a sarcastic disco-rock monster out of it. Alex James' bass line is dirty, funky and drives the whole song forward. Damon Albarn observes the mating dance of drunk tourists with a mix of disgust and fascination. The genius is that the song that ridiculed dance floor culture itself became one of the greatest dance floor smashes of the 1990s.

The guitarist picks up the microphone. Graham Coxon, normally the shy sidekick, wrote and sang this song about his struggle with alcoholism and fear of the outside world. "Sociability is hard enough for me." The contrast between the heavy lyrics and the light, almost bouncy melody is brilliant. And then that ending: a minutes-long instrumental outro where the guitars have a conversation with each other, out of tune and in tune at the same time.

Is it an ode to The Beatles? A song about heroin? Probably both. "Beetlebum" marked the end of the cheerful, bouncy Britpop years. The atmosphere is hypnotic, slow and intoxicating. Graham Coxon's guitar playing is at its best here: it whines, it squeaks and it creates a kind of hazy blanket you want to crawl under. The chorus doesn't explode, but blooms open. This is the sound of the hangover after the big party, when the lights go out and reality sets in.

Before the term 'Britpop' even existed, Blur wrote the blueprint. After a disastrous tour in America where they hated grunge and missed home, Albarn wrote this ode to the gray boredom of London. The song wanders over Primrose Hill and looks out over the city. The string section and the "la la la" choruses are pure 1960s nostalgia, but with a modern, cynical edge. This was the moment Blur decided: we're not going to try to be American, we're going to become the most British band on earth.

Graham Coxon had just been kicked out of the band (or quit, depending on who you ask), and Damon Albarn was left with a broken heart and a fascination with Moroccan music. There's no anger in this song, only a deep, resigned melancholy. The acoustic guitar and subtle strings feel like a warm desert wind, while Albarn sings about the realization that your time has simply run out.