Fugees, The Score — When an Album Comes Back to Life
By Rafi Mercer
Some albums burn bright in their moment.
They arrive exactly when the world is ready for them, say what needs saying, then quietly step back as culture moves on. We remember them fondly, respectfully, almost historically.
And then there are rarer records.
The kind you return to years later — not out of nostalgia, but curiosity — and realise they haven’t aged at all. In fact, they’ve grown. What once felt timely now feels foundational. What once felt important now feels enormous.
Fugees, The Score is one of those records.
I didn’t come back to it looking for answers. I came back because the noise of the present made me crave something steady. Something measured. Something that didn’t need to shout to carry weight. And somewhere between the first bars and the last fade-out, I realised this wasn’t a re-listen.
It was a rebirth.
This album doesn’t rush you. It doesn’t chase relevance. It sits in the room like someone who knows exactly who they are — and has nothing to prove. The beats land with patience. The basslines breathe. The spaces between words feel intentional, almost architectural. This is hip-hop that understands silence as part of its vocabulary.
What strikes me now is how complete it sounds.
Not perfect — complete.
It holds joy and warning, confidence and humility, global awareness and local truth in the same hand. You hear New York streets and Caribbean memory woven together without friction. Nothing is forced. Nothing is ornamental. Everything belongs.
Lauryn Hill doesn’t dominate this record — she centres it. Her voice feels less like a feature and more like gravity. She sings, yes, but more importantly she listens. There’s restraint in her delivery that modern music often forgets: the understanding that impact comes from choosing when not to speak. When she enters, the room shifts. When she leaves space, the space matters.
Wyclef and Pras play a longer game than I remembered. Their verses don’t posture; they place. Each line feels situated in a wider story — personal, political, cultural — without ever turning declarative. There’s an ease here that only comes from deep confidence. They trust the listener. They assume attention. They don’t spoon-feed meaning.
And then there’s the flow of the record itself.
Songs don’t arrive as singles. They arrive as rooms. You move through them. You linger. You notice details you missed before — a background phrase, a rhythmic hesitation, a melodic turn that only reveals itself when you stop multitasking.
This album was never designed for shuffle. It was designed for presence.
Listening now, in a world of endless output and constant demand, The Score feels quietly radical. It reminds you that music doesn’t need to chase the future. It needs to hold time. It needs to give you somewhere to stand.
This is not a record you put on to relive the 90s.
It’s a record you put on when you want to remember how large music can feel when it’s allowed to breathe.
Some albums belong to their moment.
Others outgrow it.
Fugees, The Score is still expanding.
Quick Questions
Is The Score a classic because of its era or its sound?
Its sound. The era gave it context, but the restraint, balance, and depth are what keep it alive.
Does it still reward slow listening today?
More than ever. This is an album built for attention, not distraction.
Why does it feel bigger now than it did then?
Because the world has grown louder — and this record knows the power of calm.
Rafi Mercer writes about the spaces where music matters.
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