Here's a story about how a funk-rock underdog band crafted a decade-defining hit, and why its drum intro still lives in your head rent-free.
Let’s talk about 1993. What a year in music history. Nirvana’s In Utero dropped. Whitney Houston ruled the charts. And in between the grunge and glitz, four guys from New York City sneaked onto radio playlists with a song about love, money, and a drum fill you’ve air-drummed a thousand times. The Spin Doctors’ "Two Princes" was somewhat of a cultural reset button. But how did a band obsessed with jam sessions and funk riffs create a track that outlasted the decade? Let’s unpack the chaos, collaboration, and happy accidents behind the song that made khaki shorts cool.
The Band That (Almost) Wasn’t
New York’s early-90s music scene thrived on grit. Dive bars hosted bands like Blues Traveler and Phish, fusing rock with blues and jazz. The Spin Doctors were made up of Chris Barron (vocals), Eric Schenkman (guitar), Mark White (bass), and Aaron Comess (drums). They played loose, groove-heavy sets where solos stretched longer than a subway delay.
Major labels initially ignored them. Clubs paid for drink tickets. But their live energy built a cult following. Barron’s raspy charm and Schenkman’s Hendrix-meets-funk riffs turned each show into a party. By 1991, they’d signed with Epic Records. Their debut album, Pocket Full of Kryptonite, initially flopped. Then, radio stations stumbled on "Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong." The album sold 10,000 copies a day by 1993.
Why did it click? The band avoided studio polish. Tracks sounded live, raw, and urgent. Comess’s drums hit like a subway train. White’s basslines bounced. Schenkman’s guitar squealed. Barron’s lyrics? Relatable, clever, and just weird enough.
Why That Drum Intro Works
Close your eyes. Hear the snare. The kick drum. The cymbal crash. Comess’s intro lasts six seconds but feels iconic. For a crackling tone, he used a piccolo snare, a smaller, sharper drum. Brady's drums gave deeper resonance. Engineer Peter Denenberg mixed the track at NYC’s Power Station, a studio known for its "big room" sound. Comess played tight, avoiding fills until the chorus. The result? A groove that locks into your spine.
That drum intro hits hard, just like scoring free spins in a moment of pure luck. Funk and rock-driven soundtracks, especially in games and high-energy settings, rely on beats that race your pulse. The Spin Doctors’ catchy hook delivers that same adrenaline rush. Comess’s snare pulls you deep into the groove, as if time pauses for a perfect beat. Some rhythms aren’t just heard—they’re felt, right down to your fingertips, whether you’re gripping a drumstick or tapping into a rhythm that just clicks.
Fun fact: The fill wasn’t planned. “It just happened,” Comess admitted. “We did three takes. That was the one.” Sometimes perfection is an accident.
Anatomy of an Earworm
"Two Princes" opens with four snare hits. Then Comess unleashes that fill, a five-second roll that’s part marching band, part caffeine crash. But the song’s genius lies in its simplicity. Two chords. A call-and-response chorus. Lyrics about choosing love over cash.
Barron wrote it years before the band formed. Early versions dragged. Producer Frank Aversa slowed the tempo, freeing the groove. Schenkman swapped a basic chord for B minor, adding tension. John Popper of Blues Traveler improvised harmonica wails in the final chorus.
Did they know they’d made a classic? “We thought it was catchy,” Comess said later. “But magic? That’s luck.” The track peaked at No. 7 on the Billboard Hot 100. Critics called it a guilty pleasure. Fans didn’t care. It played at proms, graduations, and yes, a lot of 1993 minivans.
Lyrics That Stick (Without Trying Too Hard)
“If you want to call me baby, just go ahead now.” Barron’s opening line isn’t poetry. It’s a conversation. The verses pit two suitors against each other: one rich, one broke. The chorus picks the broke guy. Simple? Yes. Genius? Also yes.
Barron avoids metaphors. He uses slang (“dig a little deeper”), humor (“he’s got a tattoo”), and repetition. The bridge feels like a confession: "Now, I ain’t got no future or family tree." It’s now a karaoke anthem because anyone can shout along.
Could this song work today? Probably. Dating app culture loves a “choose me” narrative. Swap princes for Tinder profiles, and it’s a 2025 hit.
Legacy of a One-Hit Wonder (That Wasn’t)
Calling the Spin Doctors a one-hit wonder isn’t wrong, but it is lazy. “Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong” and “Jimmy Olsen’s Blues” also charted. But "Two Princes" overshadows everything. Why?
Timing. The grunge was dark. Hip-hop was exploding. Pop was slick. The Spin Doctors offered a middle ground: rock with funk’s looseness and pop’s hooks. MTV played the video nonstop. Radio needed something parents wouldn’t hate. The band split in 1999, reunited in 2001, and still tours. Barron’s voice rasps deeper now. The drum fill? Still note-perfect.
It's your Turn to Dig Deeper
Next time "Two Princes" plays, listen beyond the chorus. Notice Comess’s ghost notes on the snare. Hear Popper’s harmonica buried in the mix. Count how many times Barron says “baby” (spoiler: 14).
90s nostalgia thrives because the era’s music felt human, flawed, joyful, and unedited. The Spin Doctors didn’t exactly invent funk-rock. They just gave it a New York edge and a drum intro you’ll never forget. Hit repeat. Air-drum. Repeat. Some songs aren’t meant to be overthought.
