‘60 Songs That Explain the ’90s’: Nate Dogg, Warren G, and the Apex of the G-Funk Era

Grunge. Wu-Tang Clan. Radiohead. “Wonderwall.” The music of the ’90s was as exciting as it was diverse. But what does it say about the era—and why does it still matter? 60 Songs That Explain the ’90s is back for 30 final episodes (and a brand-new book!) to try to answer those questions. Join Ringer music writer and ’90s survivor Rob Harvilla as he treks through the soundtrack of his youth, one song (and embarrassing anecdote) at a time. Follow and listen for free on Spotify. In Episode 98 of 60 Songs That Explain the ’90s—yep, you read that right—we’re covering Warren G, Nate Dogg, and “Regulate.” Below is an excerpt of this episode’s transcript.

Warren G’s album Regulate… G Funk Era debuted and peaked at no. 2 on the Billboard album chart, beaten out only by Purple by Stone Temple Pilots. That’s funny. I think that’s funny. I’m very concerned that the CD copy of Purple that I bought might’ve been the single copy of Purple that kept Warren G’s album from debuting at no. 1. I feel bad about that. The Above the Rim soundtrack, also featuring SWV, Tupac, Lady of Rage, and the Dogg Pound, also peaked at no. 2 on the Billboard album chart, beaten out only by The Division Bell by Pink Floyd. Slightly less funny but still funny. I didn’t buy a copy of The Division Bell. That one’s not my fault. “Regulate,” the Warren G and Nate Dogg song, peaked at, you guessed it, no. 2 on the Billboard Hot 100, beaten out only by “I Swear” by All-4-One. Huh. Wow. At least it wasn’t Pink Floyd, I guess.

I had nothing to do with “I Swear” keeping “Regulate” from going no. 1. Yes, “Regulate” as a hit song and a hit-album seller achieved the ultra-rare triple no. 2. There’s your pathos. That’s tough. That’s cool, though. I imagine that hitting no. 2 three times is harder than hitting no. 1 anywhere once. Yes, “Regulate,” the story of three great men brought together to achieve true greatness together. Yes, three men. Cards on the table, I am a 40-something white male who owns a lawn mower, and I am thus obligated, by our personal code, by the podcaster’s code, by the FCC, I am obligated by the Constitution to speak to you now about a truly great man named Michael McDonald.

Yes, national treasure and voice of a generation Michael McDonald, regaling us here with his tasty 1982 hit song “I Keep Forgettin’ (Every Time You’re Near),” from his 1982 album If That’s What It Takes. I go back and forth on yacht rock, right, as a genre, as an era, as an ethos. I loved this sort of extra-luxurious soft rock—your Steely Dans, your Kenny Logginses, maybe kinda your Hall & Oateses—when this music proliferated, when it dominated from the mid-’70s to the mid-’80s, or at least it dominated my experience of the late ’70s to mid-’80s, when I was literally a baby and then a slightly unruly child. And as an unruly young adult, I loved it in the early 2000s, when this music was retroactively and lovingly reclassified as yacht rock, via the Yacht Rock early web video series and via the perpetual, the permanent Steely Dan renaissance, right? There’s a great new book by Alex Pappademas and Joan LeMay about Steely Dan, of course. I am not the sort of guy who is immune to the charms of, say, Weezer covering “Africa” by Toto, even if 2018 Weezer covering the also-1982 hit song “Africa” is an almost parodically Weezer sort of thing to do.

It’s cool, it’s lovely, and it’s loving, it’s sincere, all this yacht rock talk and celebration. But there’s still the slight inherent tension, right, when a musical genre only receives its canonical name, its widely accepted cultural framework several decades later; “yacht rock” became an old, legit pop-music sensation and a new, hilarious internet meme simultaneously. That’s a little weird, but also quite wonderful. Same deal with Michael McDonald’s physical voice.

That part is not sampled on “Regulate,” and Michael McDonald’s physical singing voice does not appear on “Regulate,” but that part of “I Keep Forgettin’” still kicks ass, does it not? Me and my boys, we went to see Michael McDonald play the Blue Note, the famous West Village jazz club, in 2008—I feel like me and my boys is the exact right way to describe us in that circumstance—and it kicked ass. Michael played “I Keep Forgettin’,” of course, and his saxophone player, who looked like Wilford Brimley, the sax player threw in a little of John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme in the intro; I wrote up that show and described Michael McDonald in print as “the Akon of the ’80s.” Ahh, shut up, Rob.

I’m tapping somebody else in. The great rock critic and author Eric Harvey wrote a great appreciation of Michael McDonald for Deadspin in 2014, back when I worked there—Deadspin classic. And Eric wrote, “Michael McDonald’s voice is so unique that for more than 30 years, it has subsumed Michael McDonald the man.” He went on, “I have an impression of the dude in my own repertoire, and there’s a good chance many of you do, too. It’s not that hard. Doing a Ray Charles, an Al Green, or even a Daryl Hall requires a good deal of vocal training and genetic luck. A Michael McDonald impression, on the other hand, is 95 percent timbre—the subjective ‘color’ of a voice—which I know because I have zero singing talent and can nonetheless imitate ‘I Keep Forgettin’’ with a high degree of verisimilitude. I just find the spot in my throat where a sound that would otherwise signify ‘soul’ instead sounds like one of those uncannily human Japanese robots programmed to ‘soul.’”

Michael McDonald’s voice, and his whole sound, is so distinct—it’s precisely at the level where nobody can duplicate it but everyone can try to imitate it—that all the love for him feels ironic even if it isn’t. Loving Michael McDonald is a funny idea, but what’s really funny is that all the people who love him are absolutely serious. Last thing, and maybe you didn’t expect this to happen, but trust me, you’ll be mad at yourself, after this happens, that you didn’t expect this to happen. I never watched Family Guy, the animated TV show Family Guy. I don’t mean that in any sort of elitist way, but I only know one Family Guy joke. And it’s when Peter, the Family Guy, he hires Michael McDonald to walk around with him and sing backing vocals for all his conversations, but then Michael McDonald refuses to leave.

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Can I say that I did not expect that I would go that hard on Michael Mcdonald just now? Now I’m mad at myself for not expecting me to go that hard. Michael McDonald endures, is my point. There’s a viral TikTok going around right now where a preteen girl is extremely excited to go see Michael McDonald sing with his old band the Doobie Brothers. The kids know why I just went that hard on Michael McDonald. Warren G, the rapper and DJ and producer we were previously discussing, Warren G knows why I went that hard. Talking to Billboard about Michael McDonald in 2014, Warren G said, “I’m a fan. I’m still a fan. I really love his work, man. I think he’s one of the greatest of all time. His voice is incredible.”

And then Warren retold the story of living in the early ’90s in a dingy Long Beach Boulevard apartment with dog poop all over the floor, and he goes and gets a bunch of vinyl records from a dealer near Roscoe’s House of Chicken ’N Waffles, and one of the records is If That’s What It Takes by Michael McDonald, and Warren G hears “I Keep Forgettin’” and he knows. He knows immediately. Warren said to Billboard, “I was like, ‘Wow, this is an incredible record—plus it’s a record my stepmom and my pops used to play. It brought back feelings for me of living with my parents, when we lived in North Long Beach. They used to jam with some good music, man.” So Warren G samples the bejesus out of Michael Mcdonald. Next thing he does, he watches a movie.

Young Guns, from 1988. Starring Emilio Estevez, Kiefer Sutherland, Lou Diamond Phillips, and that guy. Casey Siemaszko. Casey was also in Back to the Future. He played 3-D, the guy wearing 3-D glasses who was one of Biff’s henchmen in Back to the Future. Regulating any stealing of Biff’s property. Casey, appearing in Young Guns in the role of the famous outlaw Charlie Bowdre, Casey most likely does not realize, as he’s saying these words, that these will be the most famous words he ever says. But then again, the vigor with which Casey says this suggests that maybe he knows?

That was a pig. So there you go. So Warren G hooks up his VCR to his Akai MPC60 sequencer, and he samples that dialogue from a VHS tape of Young Guns. I am delighted by that detail. The VCR plugged into the sequencer. Which, obviously: This is the early ’90s. How else is Warren supposed to sample that? But a physical VHS tape pushed into a physical VCR plugged into a physical sequencer, with a cord between them: I’m into it. I’m into the tangible, the tactile, the corporeal nature of this sample. Next thing Warren does, he decides this song outta be a duet, a dialogue, like what Dr. Dre and Snoop Doggy Dogg did with “Nuthin’ But a ‘G’ Thang.” And furthermore, Warren G—graciously, I have to say—will play the guy in this duet who needs rescuing.

To hear the full episode, click here. Subscribe here and check back every Wednesday for new episodes. And to preorder Rob’s new book, Songs That Explain the ’90s, visit the Hachette Book Group website.