the jesus and mary chain | Through the Shattered Lens

The Crow (1994) soundtrack stands as a cornerstone of mid-90s alternative rock, capturing the gothic essence of Alex Proyas’s film through a masterful blend of original tracks, re-recordings, and covers from the era’s heaviest hitters. Released on March 29, 1994, by Atlantic Records, this 14-track album clocked in at 63:50, peaking at number one on the Billboard 200 and earning triple platinum status with over three million copies sold in the U.S. alone. Its success wasn’t just commercial; it encapsulated the raw, brooding spirit of grunge, industrial, and post-punk at their commercial zenith, turning a superhero revenge tale into a sonic monument for disaffected youth.

Opening with Burn by The Cure, the album immediately plunges listeners into the film’s shadowy heart. Written specifically for the movie, this six-minute epic pulses with Robert Smith’s haunting vocals over swirling guitars and tribal drums, evoking Eric Draven’s resurrection and transformation. It’s a high point, perfectly syncing with the scene where Brandon Lee’s character applies his iconic black-and-white makeup, the song’s fiery intensity mirroring the crow’s vengeful rebirth. The Cure, fresh off their own chart dominance, deliver a track that feels both timeless and tailor-made, its gothic romance aligning seamlessly with James O’Barr’s original comic influences—like the page devoted to their earlier song The Hanging Garden.

Stone Temple Pilots follow with Big Empty, a mellow, blues-drenched lament that didn’t appear in the film’s body but bookends the credits. Initially, the band offered Only Dying, but after Lee’s tragic on-set death, they swapped it for this brooding gem, its introspective lyrics about loss resonating deeply with the movie’s themes of grief and redemption. Scott Weiland’s vulnerable croon over swirling psychedelia captures the quiet despair of Detroit’s rain-soaked nights, making it a fan favorite that lingers long after the album spins.

The pace shifts with Slip Slide Melting by For Love Not Lisa, a grungy alternative rocker that underscores the T-Bird gang’s Devil’s Night revelry. Its sludgy riffs and anthemic chorus fit the criminals’ bullet-swallowing bravado, though the track’s mid-tempo grind can feel formulaic amid the album’s bolder moments. Similarly, Rollins Band’s Ghostrider—a cover of Suicide’s 1977 punk staple inspired by the Marvel antihero—thunders in with Henry Rollins’ barked vocals and aggressive guitars. Heard as Top Dollar learns of the pawn shop arson, it injects punk fury, but its raw energy sometimes overshadows subtler nuances.

Nine Inch Nails’ take on Joy Division’s Dead Souls elevates the covers further, Trent Reznor’s industrial edge amplifying the original’s post-punk chill. Guiding the crow to its first target, Tin Tin, the song’s droning synths and pounding rhythm evoke inescapable fate, a nod to the comic’s Joy Division obsession—chapters titled after Atmosphere and Atrocity Exhibition. It’s a standout, bridging 80s goth roots with 90s aggression, though purists might prefer Ian Curtis’s spectral delivery.

Helmet’s Milquetoast (often stylized Milktoast) brings math-rock precision, its staccato riffs and Page Hamilton’s yelps embodying mechanical rage. Less tied to a specific scene, it slots into the album’s industrial undercurrent, offering tight songcraft but lacking the emotional punch of neighbors like The Cure. Pantera’s The Badge, covering Poison Idea’s hardcore punk original, ramps up the metal as Top Dollar executes Gideon. Dimebag Darrell’s searing solos and Phil Anselmo’s snarls deliver brutality, fitting the film’s climax, yet the track’s extremity can alienate non-metal fans.

For Love Not Lisa’s inclusion feels slightly redundant after their opener, but Slip Slide Melting at least varies tempo. More intriguing is My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult’s After the Flesh, a re-recording of Nervous Xians from their nightclub cameo. Grooving with hip-hop beats, distorted samples, and sultry spoken-word, it pulses with sleazy underworld vibe, capturing the film’s seedy underbelly.

The Jesus and Mary Chain’s Snakedriver adds shoegaze haze, Jim Reid’s drawl weaving through feedback-drenched guitars. Not featured prominently in the movie, it evokes serpentine cunning, though its dreamy wash occasionally drifts into monotony. Medicine’s Time Baby III, an evolved version of their film performance with Cocteau Twins’ Elizabeth Fraser on ethereal vocals, shimmers with shoegaze bliss. The original Time Baby II plays in the club, but this iteration’s Fraser guest spot adds haunting fragility, a brief respite in the aggression.

Rage Against the Machine’s Darkness—a reworking of their B-side Darkness of Greed—fumes with Zack de la Rocha’s righteous fury over Tom Morello’s jagged riffs. Soundtracking Albrecht and Sarah’s hotdog stand chat, it critiques urban decay, aligning with the film’s anti-corruption bent, but its preachiness might grate on repeat listens.

Violent Femmes’ Color Me Once brings folk-punk twitchiness, Gordon Gano’s manic energy suiting the gothic whimsy, though it feels like an outlier amid the heavier fare. Closing with Jane Siberry’s It Can’t Rain All the Time, co-written with composer Graeme Revell from a film quote, the album ends on poignant hope. Its orchestral swell and Siberry’s tender delivery reunite Eric with Shelly’s spirit, shifting from vengeance to catharsis—an emotional anchor that ties the chaos together.

As a cohesive whole, The Crow soundtrack triumphs as a film companion, each track meticulously synced to amplify Proyas’s visuals: from the gang’s swagger to Draven’s flights of fury. Hits like Burn, Dead Souls, and Big Empty propelled it to cultural icon status, introducing casual listeners to acts like STP and NIN while honoring goth forebears. Commercially, it mirrored the era’s alt-rock boom—albums by The Cure, STP, and Pantera had topped charts—crystallizing a moment when industrial and grunge converged.

Yet balance demands critique: as a standalone album, it falters. The reliance on covers (Ghostrider, The Badge, Dead Souls) showcases reverence but rarely innovation, with some feeling like scene-setters over standalone statements. Lesser lights like Milquetoast or Snakedriver blur into a wall of distortion, lacking memorable hooks. Pacing sags mid-album, the industrial barrage overwhelming subtler gems like Time Baby III. Female voices—Fraser, Siberry—provide welcome contrast, but the male-dominated roster reflects 90s rock’s bro-ish tilt.

Thematically, it excels: rain, resurrection, and romance weave through lyrics, echoing the comic’s poetic vengeance. O’Barr’s Joy Division fandom shines, while custom tracks like Burn and It Can’t Rain All the Time feel organic. Post-Lee’s death, the album gained mythic weight, Big Empty‘s swap a somber tribute.

In 2026, with vinyl reissues etched with crow motifs, it endures as a time capsule—flawed, ferocious, unforgettable. For fans of the film, it’s essential; for alt-rock purists, a thrilling if uneven ride. Its legacy? Proving soundtracks could outshine the screen, raining darkness and light in equal measure.

Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation left a strange impression on me. In a way I can only really compare to Casablanca, it burrowed into my memory like an actual personal experience. I don’t review movies, and I am ill equipped to explain what made it such a special film for me, but the bond that Bob Harris (Bill Murray) and Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson) forge over a few days in Tokyo is something I’ll always carry with me and look back on fondly. That’s pretty weird, but I’m not complaining.

Music was essential to Lost in Translation, embedded into scenes as a part of what Bob and Charlotte actually experience. The hotel lounge has a live jazz band. “The State We’re In” by The Chemical Brothers plays in the club they visit. Phoenix’s “Too Young” pumps over the stereo when they go to a friend’s apartment. A woman dances to Peaches’ “Fuck the Pain Away” at the strip club. The actors aren’t just seen singing karaoke; they perform it at length. Coppola was pretty clever about extending this integration to the more traditionally situated background music. Happy End’s “Kaze wo Atsumete” enhances the feeling that Bob and Charlotte are winding down from an exhausting night, but it drifts faintly into the hallway, as if playing from the karaoke room. Charlotte is wearing headphones when we first hear Air’s “Alone in Kyoto”. The Jesus and Mary Chain’s “Just Like Honey” kicks off as Bob enters his cab. The encore of “Kaze wo Atsumete” in the credits could easily be playing in Bob’s head. Almost every song in the movie functions within the environment, not just as a peripheral enhancement.

Garden State tried something like this a year later, though I don’t recall the extent of it beyond the awkward Shins sequence. The effect was a sort of garish, in-your-face endorsement of director Zach Braff’s favorite tunes. It didn’t really cut it for me, in spite of the soundtrack’s impressive cast. In Lost in Translation, Coppola was a lot more attentive to creating continuity between songs and bringing musicians on board with the film’s atmosphere. She didn’t stop at using “Sometimes” by My Bloody Valentine; she dug founder Kevin Shields out of relative obscurity to compose four original pieces. A lot of the other artists formed a pre-existing community of sorts, suited to engage the project as art rather than a quick paycheck. Soundtrack supervisor Brian Reitzell performed drums for Air on their 2001 album 10 000 Hz Legend. Both Air and Roger Joseph Manning Jr, a fellow studio musician on that album, contribute original music to Lost in Translation. Phoenix previously performed with Air, and Sofia Coppola ultimately married their singer. While their contribution was recycled (“Too Young” appears in the context of young adults who would have been familiar with obscure but up and coming artists; using Phoenix’s first single made sense), the band was still involved in Coppola’s social sphere of musicians.

“Alone in Kyoto” plays as Charlotte travels through the classic side of Japan, visiting shrines and observing ancient customs. While that could possibly put it at odds with my theme, Air’s approach keeps the feeling modern, casting tradition as a subtle, delicate element of the present rather than as a form of escapism. It also occurs in a sequence without character interaction, permitting a pure sense of exploration. Within Lost in Translation‘s soundtrack, “Alone in Kyoto” reaches closest to that Japanese dream that still permeated a lot of American subcultures in 2003. The movie itself brought many of us the closest we would ever come to actually living that dream.