The Reservoir Dogs soundtrack made everything a little cooler

There are exactly two pop culture moments that changed me in adolescence—neither of them unique, both clichés. The first was hearing Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” at some marching band event in 1991, a song that instantly (if temporarily) wiped away all the mopey new wave and Danny Elfman scores I was into and sent me on the same, decade-long dive into grunge, alt-rock, and punk so many others experienced. The second came three years later, when I watched a VHS of Reservoir Dogs with my best friend in his grandfather’s den, both of us silent and barely breathing in the lingering cigar fumes as it slowly dawned on us that we were watching our new favorite film. If you were making a retro TV show about a teen boy coming of age in the ’90s, you’d probably include both scenes, right alongside him and his hornball pal debating who was hotter, Daisy Fuentes or Karen Duffy. (Karen Duffy.) But especially in the nascent, barely there internet days of 1993, and just before Pulp Fiction made Quentin Tarantino a household name, to us Reservoir Dogs was the kind of personal discovery that quickly spirals into fixation during those teen years where you cling to what you like as a means of defining yourself. And we spent our last two years of high school being as obnoxious about it as possible.
For a cult movie that (for better or worse) ushered in a new era of independent film, there sure was a lot of Reservoir Dogs-branded crap you could buy, even shortly after its release. I snapped up just about all of it, beginning with multiple posters I wedged into my perpetually just-redecorated teenage bedroom—including a domestic and a French version, and two enormous, subway-sized character posters of Michael Madsen’s Mr. Blonde and Harvey Keitel’s Mr. White (the latter declaring, “If some guy starts to think he’s Charles Bronson, take the butt of your gun and smash their nose in”—much to my mom’s chagrin). From one of those dozen novelty companies cluttering the back pages of Spin, I ordered cheap, bootleg Reservoir Dogs keychains and stickers for my car, so everyone on the streets would know I’d seen a movie. I also ordered several Reservoir Dogs shirts, to alert those I passed in my high school hallway.
And in the nerdiest thing I have ever taken part in (outside of my eventual career), my buddy and I—along with the few other friends we’d converted—each picked our favorite Reservoir Dogs character, then used felt iron-on letters to apply that character’s name and a favorite quote to cheap white shirts of our own. (Mine was Steve Buscemi’s irascible Mr. Pink.) We then actually wore these shirts to school, proudly and in public, often on a designated day—typically on pep rally Fridays, when the athletes wore their jerseys. We were also repping our own team; ours just happened to be a group of squabbling fictional thieves who yelled at each other in a warehouse. Their macho posturing was a source of vicarious strength for boys still play-acting at being men, no different than worshipping some NFL quarterback.
But you can only watch Reservoir Dogs so many times—over and over again, at least once per week, instead of getting fresh air and exercise. For many months, my main vehicle for sustaining that intense mania was the Reservoir Dogs soundtrack, an album that—as would soon become the norm for Tarantino—faithfully replicated the feeling of watching the film, right down to the included dialogue excerpts. Tarantino’s choice of music has always been as deliberate as any of the work he borrows from any other artist, a flaunting of his record collection that finally lapsed into self-parody around the time Sydney Tamiia Portier paused to give everyone a quick lecture on Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich in Death Proof. And outside of that scene of Vincent Vega and Mia Wallace twisting to Chuck Berry, none of Tarantino’s films lean so heavily on the adopted cool of those crate-digger’s finds than Reservoir Dogs, a movie whose most iconic moments are indelibly intertwined with songs—to the point that Tarantino even programs it like a radio show.
That show—and thus the soundtrack—is hosted by comedian Steven Wright, whose deadpan, lifeless interstitials for “K-Billy’s Super Sounds Of The Seventies Weekend” form the segues in both. Wright’s hollowed-out voice is the opposite of the unctuous drive-time DJ, down to his sarcastic mispronunciation of “Big Daddy Don Bodine’s truck, The Bo-hui-muth,” and it has the same ironic detachment as Tarantino’s use of “bubblegum-pop favorite” ’70s hits throughout, something the director noted in the film’s original press kit create “a terrific counterpoint to the action.” Nowhere is that counterpoint more effective than in Reservoir Dogs’ most infamous scene, which is also its most musical one.
As Madsen’s gleefully psychopathic Mr. Blonde prepares to carve up Officer Marvin Nash purely for his own amusement, he pauses to put K-Billy on a nearby radio, telling his terrified hostage it’s his “personal favorite.” Wright’s disembodied voice flatly introduces Joe Egan and Gerry Rafferty’s duo Stealers Wheel, whose toe-tapping, “Dylanesque” folk-rock number “Stuck In The Middle With You” kicks in. Mr. Blonde begins to dance and sing along, swinging his straight razor ever closer to Marvin’s face. The effect is contagious—and polarizing. When Reservoir Dogs debuted before festival audiences, reports of walkouts during this scene cemented its reputation as hyper-violent and twisted, despite the fact that its “gore” would barely raise an eyebrow in, say, a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie. In fact, Tarantino’s camera pans away, letting the viewer’s imagination take over while we hear Marvin’s screaming, before Mr. Blonde strolls back into frame holding a severed ear. It’s not the violence those audiences were reacting to, but the uncomfortable emotion the soundtrack creates: Mr. Blonde’s cheerful sadism is set to an upbeat ditty that invites viewers to hum along and enjoy the moment in spite of themselves.
Tarantino knew what he was doing to ”Stuck In The Middle With You” before a single frame had been shot. No stranger to writing musical cues directly into his screenplays, he’d initially considered Sweet’s “Ballroom Blitz” for that scene before changing his mind (a wise move, considering it would have split its claim with Wayne’s World, released that same year). Instead, he chose a song that would become so immediately intertwined with his film, as he later explained to Rolling Stone, that even though auditioning actors were given leeway to pick any song they liked for that scene, they almost all went with “Stuck In The Middle With You.” In the double-disc edition of the Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction soundtracks, Tarantino would write of the impact his choice had—not only on the film, but on the song he’d forever, irrevocably linked to mutilation:
“Personally, I don’t know if Gerry Rafferty necessarily appreciated the connotations that I brought to ‘Stuck In The Middle With You.’ There’s a good chance he didn’t. But that’s one of the things about using music in movies that’s so cool: the fact that if you do it right, it’s about as cinematic a thing as you can do. You’re really doing what movies do better than any other art form. It works in this visceral, emotional, cinematic way that’s special. And when you do it right and you hit it right, then you can never really hear that song again without thinking about that image from the movie. That’s what comercials are counting on, but it never quite works with commercials. The thing is, once a movie has done that with a song, as far as I’m concerned that movie owns it.”