Legendary Ska-punk Band Goldfinger's ‘Superman’ Voted Greatest Song of All Time By Rock and Roll Hall of Fame
By The American Gadfly
A forth wave was never necessary! Let it be known, henceforth and forevermore, that the greatest song ever created by human hands, vocal cords, and God’s own trumpet section… is “Superman” by Goldfinger.
Yes, you read that right. Not “Stairway to Heaven,” not “Bohemian Rhapsody,” not even “Hey Jude” or that 47-minute Pink Floyd song about a clock having a panic attack. No. The titans of taste over at the American Rock and Roll Hall of Fame have held their ritualistic vote — complete with blood oaths and a ceremonial Jello shot off Dave Grohl’s abs — and they've emerged, bleary-eyed and skanking, with one verdict:
Ska is king. And Goldfinger is God.
Let’s Talk About It
“Superman” is not just a song. It's a trumpet-blasted sucker punch of adolescent angst wrapped in Vans checkered slip-ons. It’s the anthem of every 13-year-old who couldn’t ollie but damn sure wore a wallet chain. And now, it is — officially — the greatest song ever recorded.
Yes, even greater than “Imagine.” Although in fairness, “Superman” also encourages imagination, like imagining you could save the world with a trombone solo.
The Voting Process: A Breakdown
Each year, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s Supreme Council of Washed-Up Legends, Brand Consultants, and Two Surviving Members of Sugar Ray gathers deep within the bowels of the Cleveland institution (which, by the way, smells like mothballs and irony) to determine Greatest Song of All Time status.
This year, reportedly, the deliberation process lasted seven hours and four pitchers of Fireball. The final decision was made when someone played Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater 1 on an old PlayStation in the breakroom and someone else cried.
“Goddamn it,” sobbed an emotional Billy Corgan. “This is what music is about. Not feelings — grinding.”
Why Superman?
You mean besides the fact that it starts with horns like a ska-powered cavalry charge?
Because it’s pure. It's raw. It’s that awkward-but-unapologetic white-boy energy distilled into a sonic Red Bull. It’s:
That one friend who swears he could’ve gone pro if his ACL didn’t blow out at Woodward.
A soundtrack to a burrito-fueled existential crisis in the back of a Honda Civic.
Proof that third-wave ska didn’t die — it just went into cryogenic stasis waiting for this exact moment.
“Superman” is what plays in the waiting room of heaven for kids who wore studded belts unironically.
The Fallout
As expected, the decision has split the nation. Classic rock radio hosts are melting down live on-air, NPR issued a formal apology to Leonard Cohen’s ghost, and Bruce Springsteen is reportedly re-recording “Born to Run” with a ska breakdown to stay relevant.
Meanwhile, high schools across America are seeing an 800% increase in trumpet enrollments. Guitar Center has sold out of checkered guitar straps. And Gwen Stefani has reactivated No Doubt’s MySpace page in a quiet moment of reflection.
Even The New York Times weighed in with the headline:
“Goldfinger’s Superman: A Skankadelic Triumph or the Fall of Western Civilization?”
What It Means
America’s musical taste has officially entered its third act. The first was rebellion. The second was commodification. The third?
Skank-punk resurrection.
We’ve reached the point in our culture where irony has swallowed itself and spit out truth. “Superman” isn’t just the greatest song of all time — it’s the most honest. It doesn’t pretend to be deep. It doesn’t tug at your soul. It slaps you across the face, steals your lunch money, and offers you a Capri Sun after.
It is the soundtrack to a society that knows it’s slipping, but would rather grind a halfpipe into the void than talk about it.
Final Thoughts from The Gadfly
I once believed that rock and roll had died sometime around the moment U2 released an album that auto-downloaded to everyone’s phone like a herpes update. But no. It turns out it was just wearing Dickies and waiting in the pit.
“Superman” is our new anthem, our new national hymn — a clarion call to every misunderstood, Mountain Dew-fueled youth who ever screamed into the void and got a trumpet solo in return.
And if you don’t like it? That’s fine.
You’re just not a Superman.
