Back in 1998, before social media and smartphones, MTV music videos remained a hugely influential cultural reflector for young folks, promoting imagery and sounds as dynamic as they were diverse. Boy bands were bigger than ever, Will Smith was getting jiggy with it, and Green Day were having the time of their life. Meanwhile, another California band with punk roots, the Offspring, were building their own fervent fanbase by turning catchy, bratty ditties into high-production clips that nobody ever flipped past on the remote.
Their biggest hit and most iconic video is arguably the McG-directed “Pretty Fly (For a White Guy),” which skewered uncool dudes who “fake it anyway” by copping hip-hop style, donning backwards baseball caps, oversized jerseys, and gold chains.
Guy Cohen, the young actor who starred in the colorful clip, personified the character in such an endearing way, he became an ironic, even mythic, figure for the band’s fans. The tune might be a commentary on cultural appropriation, but its campy video and the band’s light-hearted approach to performing it live (often bringing the actor out to dance awkwardly to the number on stage) made for many feel-good moments over the years.
With Nineties nostalgia hotter ever on social media, Cohen has been reliving his Fly Guy days once again. He joined the Offspring at their Kia Forum show last August and at the When We Were Young Festival in Las Vegas last October, followed by a triumphant appearance just this past weekend at the BeachLife festival in Redondo Beach.
Rolling Stone caught up with the pretty fly guy — yes, his name really is Guy — to talk about the video, his enduring, now-multigenerational fame, and what he’s been up to these last 28 years.
You were a bona fide video phenom during MTV’s heyday. And after all these years, people still remember the “Pretty Fly (for a White Guy)” guy.
It’s pretty amazing how lasting it has been. I think the character is one of the endearing images of the Nineties. I guess it reminds people of better times… people having fun and watching MTV with their family, before social media. It just brings joy to people, so I’m happy to embrace it, and I think it’s maybe bigger than ever.
How did you get the opportunity to be in the video?
I started pursuing acting when I turned 18, and this was about six months into my acting career. Back then, in the late Nineties, music videos were a great way to get started and get some experience because they were non-union, kind of like extra work. I had also done Alanis Morissette’s video “Thank U,” in which she stood there naked as people walked by — I was one of the blurry people. Then this video came along, and it just turned out to be one of the biggest music videos of all time. It changed my life.
How did you approach your movement in the video? Was it a joke or did you take it seriously?
I didn’t take any of it seriously. For me, the whole video, and the character, was poking fun at the time and this character of a white person trying to be down with a different culture and all that. There were a few guys like that back then. Nowadays it’s not really a thing, but back then, it was like a “try hard.” So it was all in jest. I’m not a trained dancer. But as far as the moves, I believe I came up with most of them, especially when I take my leg and jump around.
There was something called “the Molly Ringwald” back then that McG, the director of the video, who went on to do movies and television, wanted. He showed me that one. But I think I pretty much came up with all the other stuff. It was just me just being goofy and having some fun and jumping around, thrusting a lot and trying anything out.
It seems a whole new generation is discovering the song and the band, too. Have you observed that?
I’ve never seen anything like this, but we are seeing three generations of families going to concerts together — little ones, the parents, and then even the grandparents. It’s family-friendly. There’s some cursing, but, you know, they have enough hit songs that everybody’s just having a good time. And what I’ve noticed is kids and everyone dressing up like the character! If you go to an Offspring show, there’ll always be 20 to 30 people dressed up as my character.
You look almost the same as you did in the video. What are you doing to stay so youthful?
I was 18 years old. I’m 46 now. I think it’s mostly genetics, but I also don’t drink, I don’t smoke. I wear sunscreen every day with face lotion, and I stay indoors a lot. I’m a full-time livestreamer, so I spend a lot of time indoors and out of the sun.
Tell us about livestreaming under the moniker “I’m Really Important.”
I talk politics. I debate people for a couple hours on TikTok in the morning, and then in the evening, I go over stories in the news, and I try to spin things in a positive way on YouTube or Twitch. I care about all my fellow Americans, and I feel like the more you understand our government, the more optimistic you are about the future because you see opportunity and you see the limits of certain things. So that’s my goal. I try to make politics more entertaining and educate people a bit.
Do your streaming followers know that you’re the “Pretty Fly (For a White Guy)” guy?
I couldn’t put a percentage on it, but I don’t hide it. It doesn’t come up that often. But it’s kind of a little Easter egg when it does. I would argue I’m the largest Offspring livestreamer. A lot of fans come hang out in my channel just because I’m associated with the band. I get recognized more from my career now in politics, because I’ve done some high-profile stuff. But if I were to wear that outfit, I’d get stopped everywhere.
What kind of high-profile things do you do?
I’ve made a few appearances on the YouTube channel called Jubilee, which is really big for debates. I debated Ben Shapiro, and there were some viral moments from that. I’ve also been touring with another livestreamer named Destiny — going to college campuses, like Turning Point USA, but from a left perspective. CNN just did a feature on that.
Your appearance at BeachLife last weekend made a big splash. You joined the band before, too, at their Kia Forum show last year. How often does that happen?
Very rarely. Dexter [Holland] and I have stayed in touch. Once every couple years, we connect and text or something. He’s a busy guy, so I try to leave him alone, but he’s been great the whole time I’ve known him. Maybe once every 10 years, he’ll invite me to a show and I go just to hang out, say hi to the guys and maybe go onstage.
But last year, he reached out and said, “I got this crazy idea, we’re doing a big show at the Forum. We’re doing arenas. We’re bigger than ever and we’d love for you to come out. Do you have the jersey?”
I do still have the jersey, but it’s in a frame. So he said, “I will make you a custom one.” They made it and I went onstage, and it was just a lot of fun. Since then, they’re been asking me to come out to big shows. They did the biggest indoor arena in Paris, and they brought me out for that. Then in Montreal. We also did When We Were Young in Vegas last year. I did their opening stop in Bakersfield for the U.S. leg of the tour. And then, of course, BeachLife… I get to be a cheerleader for the band. They’re not as social media friendly, I guess they’re a little older than me, so we do trending clips and we film some content when I come out. It does very well on their social media platforms.
They also have those blow-up air dancer/inflatable tube man things on stage and they look like you. Are those new?
They’ve been using those for a while. My face is on them, which is funny. Years ago, I went on tour with them. I was 18, 19, and I can’t believe my parents let me go, but I went on the buses with them and the private planes, and it all peaked with Woodstock 99. So I kind of lived this life, and now it’s fun to do it again, 30 years later, at all these big arenas.
The song is making fun of a certain kind of person, but it also feels like a celebration at the same time. Being a white guy yourself, did you have any reservations? Did any white guys take offense over the years of the portrayal?
I’ve never had anybody approach me and say, “Shame on you, you’re a monster.” [Laughs.] But look, I was into hip-hop. My favorite show growing up was In Living Color, which was a predominantly Black cast. And so I understood the culture and had appreciation for it. I just recognized there were some people trying hard to present themselves as that, and we were making fun of it. I think certain communities understood that and saw the joke in it, and didn’t take offense to it as appropriation of culture or anything like that.
You seem like a positive person. Commenting on politics, you must deal with a lot of negativity. How do you handle that?
Oh, yeah. I feel like half the time on my stream, I’m doing mental health care therapy for people because it’s tough to be positive. What’s going on right now, no matter what your political thoughts are, there’s a lot of bad things happening in the world. I try to point out to people where there’s opportunity and things going well, and that good things can come out of bad situations.
Albini and Whinna in an undated Polaroid snapshotCourtesy of Heather Whinna
2nd grade Courtesy of the Albini Family
7th grade Courtesy of the Albini Family
11th grade Courtesy of the Albini Family
Big Black in 1986Gail Butensky
Albini built Electrical Audio to embody his recording philosophy in a physical space.© Monfourny Renaud/DAPR/ZUMA
Albini got seriously into poker in his later years, as seen in this photo from the 2008 All Tomorrow’s Parties festival.Roger Kisby/Getty Images
Albini and Whinna founded the Letters to Santa charity in 1996.Courtesy of Heather Whinna
Whinna (center), Kim Deal (right), and Electrical Audio staff unveil the Steve Albini Way street sign in November 2024.Althea Legaspi
Althea Legaspi
Althea Legaspi
Pop Albums Are Getting More Ambitious. Can Audiences Keep Up?
This Music May Contain Hope, the second album from British songstress Raye, makes great demands of its audience. The record nearly runs the length of a feature film and most of the 17 songs sound like they could soundtrack one. When the credits roll at the end — she thanks each and every person who helped create the record for six and a half minutes on “Fin.,” — they conclude a gloriously disorienting listening experience. For most of the album, Raye is asking you to come along as she fights and prays through despair and self-criticism to keep hope alive.
Sometimes that battle is filtered through songs that sound like show tunes or gospel hymns. In the case of “Click Clack Symphony,” they crescendo into a dizzying Hans Zimmer composition. There’s a level of patience and reciprocity the album requires from its listeners: At once confrontational and confessional, This Music May Contain Hope is not designed for detached consumption — and it’s part of a surge of recent releases that find artists creating ambitious records that encourage intentional engagement.
Last year, Hayley Williams released Ego Death at a Bachelorette Party as 17 individual singles. Fans created their own sequencing and narratives guided solely by the themes and sounds they chose. A few months later, Rosalía released Lux, a captivating 18-track record performed in 13 languages. It shares a musical complexity with This Music May Contain Hope and an interrogative spirit with The Apple Tree Under the Sea, the debut album from Hemlocke Springs released earlier this year. Each record is as all-consuming as the ideas they’re engaging with — mental anguish, faith and religion, internal and interpersonal implosion.
Raye often describes music as medicinal. Backed by the London Symphony Orchestra and Flames Collective choir on “I Know You’re Hurting,” her melodies and harmonies are bandages and sutures. When she instructs the listener to “close your eyes and let this music get to working,” she exudes the wisdom of an elder passing home remedies through generations. At a time when easier access to music often means increasingly passive listening, these albums replace momentary distraction with connection and compassion. They give the audience something to return to.
Raye included the voices of her grandparents at the start of “Life Boat.” The portion her grandfather contributes, where he says, “I’m living, not giving up,” was recorded just days before his death. More voices flood in across the next four minutes. They all repeat some variation of “I’m not giving up, yet,” some with more desperation than others. “Say it,” Raye says, stern and direct. “Say, ‘I’m not giving up, yet.’” The mantra is set against the kind of thudding club beat that defined the earliest phases of her career. Drums and synthesizers are interspersed with delicately arranged strings, but there’s something transcendent about the contours and echoes of Raye’s voice.
That kind of vocal power is something Rosalía speaks about often: Duende. The flamenco term refers to a type of enchantment delivered through an especially evocative vocal performance. It’s not necessarily about technical prowess, or precision. “There’s something so ethereal and divine about el duende,” Rosalía told The New York Times last year. “El duende is something that visits you. It’s something that comes to you.” It makes the listening experience feel targeted and personal. This funneled into Rosalía on Lux. The record unravels in a way that transcends the barrier of language.
Rosalía begins “Mundo Nuevo” in Spanish. Its translation reveals she’s searching for a hint of truth. She finishes “De Madrugá” in Ukrainian with something searching for her this time. “I’m not looking for revenge,” she sings. “Revenge is looking for me.” The London Symphony Orchestra and the Escolania de Montserrat i Cor Cambra Palau de la Música Catalana choir bolster the album, their arrangements ranging from anxious and erratic to soothing and hypnotic.
Rosalía introduced Lux with the first single “Bergain,” which splinters across German, Spanish, and English. When Yves Tumor’s voice cuts through on the song’s outro, the persistent repetition of “I’ll fuck you till you love me” is harsh and abrasive against the preceding moments. Rosalía chases that friction across Lux. Like her mix of languages, she challenges the listener with existentialism and ruminations on the afterlife. It might turn some listeners away, but the ones who stay are rewarded.
Most of the record was inspired by saints, like Teresa of Ávila or Joan of Arc. Their history adds a third layer to the depth of Lux; Hemlocke Springs similarly fixates on religious motifs on The Apple Tree Under the Sea. She weaves in medieval tales and impulsive adventures made for a storybook. Positioning herself as a character in her fantastical stories gives her audience someone to root for while creating some distance between fiction and reality.
In that sense, The Apple Tree Under the Sea shares a theatrical ease of access with This Music May Contain Hope. Raye’s cautionary tales about traitorous South London men who should be banned from WhatsApp play into the same spectacle as Springs’ “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Ankles” and “Moses.” There’s a prelude towards the end of The Apple Tree Under the Sea that features the voice of a man who sounds far away as he preaches about sin and final judgements. It gets even harder to hear him when the sounds of running horses and marching feet cut through. The suspense builds into an orchestral outro that leads into “Sense (Is),” a booming, optimistic song about making the most of a clean slate and a glass half full.
Springs’ journey is the shortest within this set of albums. It spans 10 songs in just over half an hour, but retains its complexities with winding plot twists. Where she leans into communicating through stories and allegories, Raye through a version of theater, and Rosalía essentially through multinational cathedrals, Williams’ Ego Death at a Bachelorette Party brings listeners into an excruciatingly vivid reality. The achingly haunted “True Believer” walks the streets of Nashville. It moves down Broadway and past repurposed clubs. It attends the churches and questions the rhetoric presented in them. It runs parallel to the moments across the album that brings listeners into a home with fragile glass walls.
The album’s most shattering moment arrives towards the end: “Good ‘Ol Days.” It’s not as distressing as “Negative Self Talk,” or as sobering as “Whim.” It glides along a warm groove and drops burning one-liners with pointed specificity. What fortifies it the most is an appearance from Williams’ grandfather midway through the song. “You are so tacky/I think that’s why I love you so much,” he says in a voicemail message. “I just had to call you first on my new phone/I love you, y’all have a blast, bye.” The interlude emphasizes just how interior the content of the record is, made up of real moments, people, and feelings.
There’s a false perception in pop music that the best way to connect with the masses is to keep things broad — that vague generalizations are easier for people to latch onto. But the hyper-specificity and confrontation on these albums form real connection, creating the feeling that the listener is being trusted with someone else’s secrets and struggles — and safe to embrace their own, too.
There’s bravery in how these artists are driven by conviction. They understand the reach their platforms provide, but have little interest in idolatry. They each use different formats to craft a sense of togetherness even in their most intimate moments, like it means more to show someone they aren’t alone than to tell them. They ask for patience as they remind listeners it’s commendable to try. Some people don’t come to music looking for this; it can be challenging to have an artist in your ear telling you to bring your most shattering emotions and memories to the surface. But those are the kind of records that endure over time.