The Lookouts - “That Girl’s from Outer Space”

The Lookouts weren’t the most successful band to come out of the Bay Area scene of the late 80’s/early 90’s, but they were one of the best - their raw, uninhibited tunes were prime examples of second wave punk.

This cut, the first track on their 1989 album Spy Rock Road, exemplifies that. It benefits from its low production values - it’s got this endearingly unpolished, recorded-in-a-day quality. In the same way that hearing early Beatles cuts likely conjures up the image of Ed Sullivan’s stage in one’s mind, this song evokes vivid imagery of dilapidated practice spaces, of backyard stages, basement shows, and local firehouse fundraisers.

The Clash - “(In the) Pouring Rain”

Most people familiar with the only band that mattered know how the story goes. After 1982’s new wavey Combat Rock, Joe Strummer and Mick Jones had a falling out and the group split into two camps - Mick and drummer Topper Headon left the band while Joe and bassist Paul Simonon recruited three new, unseasoned musicians for a new lineup.

This pseudo-Clash’s sole album, 1985’s Cut the Crap, is widely and rightfully regarded as a worthless piece of shit passing as punk (kind of like John Lydon). It’s common practice, then, to stop at Combat Rock and pretend everything credited to “The Clash” post-’82 doesn’t exist.

Those who do that, though, miss this gem, “(In the) Pouring Rain.” It’s hard to find information about it - it’s never been officially released (until recently), and it’s barely talked about. Lurking through Clash fansites, you get shreds of details. It was written and rehearsed in 1983 and performed at a number of live shows in 1984.

Three versions exist. The first is a power-poppy burst of start-stop dynamics and Knack-esque guitars - decent, but pales in comparison to the second version. (The third version of the song was recorded in 1993 during Joe Strummer’s brief tenure with toothless Celtic band The Pogues. It’s interesting but not worth more than a few listens - I’m not gonna get into it.) The second version was the one released on the soundtrack for The Future is Unwritten, an excellent documentary about Joe Strummer.

If it was meant to highlight his skills as a songwriter, it succeeded. Like the punchy swagger of “Spanish Bombs,” one of the prime cuts from London Calling, the song features big, bright, beautiful chords and lyrics obviously influenced by Hemingway recalling days of Hispanic skirmishes past.

Plastic Bertrand - “Ça plane pour moi”

Closer to new wave than it is to punk, Plastic Bertrand’s French-language slacker anthem still deserves a spot on this list. With its effortlessly catchy ooh-wee-oohs and freewheeling spirit, it remains a feelgood classic. Just as good is its music video, in which a pink jacket-clad Bertrand flails around in front of snazzy super-80’s early green screen effects, singing along to the song’s hedonistic devil-may-care lyrics with a big toothy grin on his face.

Best line: “I am the king of the divan.”

Richard Hell and the Voidoids - “Blank Generation”

Taking a few musical cues from old-timey comedian Bob McFadden’s 1959 novelty record “The Beat Generation,” New York punk Richard Hell’s 1977 masterpiece is artsier and more graceful than its contemporaries, sounding like an advancement of punk before post-punk was even really a thing. It’s bluesy, straying far from the animalistic 4/4 thrash of the Sex Pistols and the Ramones - but the anger’s still there.

The verses, full of sharp prose and poetry, wax self-loathing: “The doctor grabbed my throat and yelled ‘God’s consolation prize!’”

Dead Kennedys - “Jock-o-Rama (Invasion of the Beef Patrol)”

Jello Biafra has never been the most subtle lyricist, to say the very least. His songs with the Dead Kennedys, when not comically over-the-top and transgressive, were angry polemics, like the satire of neoliberalism in “Kill the Poor” and the condemnation of the music industry in the infamous “Pull My Strings”. “Jock-o-Rama (Invasion of the Beef Patrol)”, a track on the group’s 1985 release Frankenchrist, continues this tradition.

While the stakes are lower (high school douchery in lieu of political evil), Jello’s as heated as ever, assuming the persona of a shitheaded football player and likening games to religious cults.

In the song’s hilarious climax, the star quarterback suffers a debilitating injury on the field, and the ensuing slow-tempo melodrama gives way to a resounding “Who cares? Game’s over! Let’s go get wasted, man!” and the debauchery peaks with tire skid noises and drunken chanting. It might not be nuanced, but it sure as hell is timeless.