Can a Greatest Hits album ever really be considered a band’s best album?
Is “Unplugged In New York” better than “Nevermind”? Is that billion-selling Eagles “Greatest Hits” album superior to “Hotel California”? And, in maybe my possibly favorite example that no one will get so I’ll isolate 93% of my audience, is Springsteen’s “Greatest” better than “Nebraska”?
Sure, GH albums are stacked with bangers. It’s what most people play when they want to remember how much they love the band without having to listen to the weird experimental track about a haunted lemon orchard or whatever was happening in 1983 (sound familiar, Neil Young fans???).
But is it really a record?
Is it a statement? A body of work? Or is it just a playlist in physical form?
I’ve been thinking about that a lot this week.
Not because I’m trying to win an argument with a guy in a record store (RIP Sam Goody, the Virgin Megastore, Tower Records and all my other old hangouts). But because I’ve been trying to figure out why certain workouts — certain weeks, even — feel like they mean something, and others feel like I’m just pressing play on the familiar.
And look, I get the appeal of the “greatest hits” version of training. The big lifts. The finishers. The moments you PR and walk out of the gym feeling like you just headlined the main stage.
Everyone loves the hits.
But training isn’t just about the hits.
If all you ever do is repeat your favorites — chase the pump, skip the warm-up, avoid the stuff that doesn’t feel sexy — you’re not building anything. You’re just looping.
Now, don’t get this twisted. Your training should rely on the foundational movements and the tried-and-true principles of training.
But that’s not what I’m talking about. What I am saying is that it can be very easy to go through training (and maybe more importantly, life) like you are on autopilot. And days or weeks or years go by before you realize.
And I say that because I’ve been doing a little looping myself lately.
I’ve been keeping it together, doing the work, hitting the “safe” parts of the program. I’ve been showing up. But if I’m honest, I’ve been showing up like I’m playing the same five songs on repeat.
And it’s fine. Sometimes, that’s all you can do.
But at some point, you’ve got to step back in the studio. You’ve got to make the weird tracks. The ones no one listens to at first but eventually grow into the core of your sound.
The ones that don’t go viral but change you. Quietly. Permanently.
Your best workouts, the biggest ideas and the things that move you forward — the ones that change your body, your mindset, and your life — are probably not the ones with the big hooks.
They’re the ones with the long bridge.
The ones that test your patience more than your max.
The ones that don’t make the highlight reel but move the whole damn record forward.
And that’s why I’ll always defend Nebraska.
Because Nebraska is quiet. And weird. And sad. And brilliant.
And sometimes, the quiet sessions — the ones no one sees, no one claps for — are the ones that prove you’re really doing the work.
Just like Nebraska did.