We are halfway through the year and the mythical "song of the summer" still eludes us. Scroll through seasonal playlists on streaming platforms and there are worthy attempts, from Lady Gaga’s winning return to electro-pop on How Bad Do You Want Me and the breezy Ordinary by Alex Warren to Charli XCX’s brooding Party 4 U.
Yet, none seem to carry the same traction as past summer anthems, whether last year’s Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter or Good Luck Babe by Chappell Roan - even Carpenter's own follow-up single, Man Child.
It raises a broader question of what exactly defines a summer anthem and why 2025 will go down as a lost year.
One reason is that summer songs are not always defined by state-of-the-art production or sonic perfection. They are the result of timing, energy and mood. Some of these songs are meticulously crafted, while others embrace novelty.
Spanish pop duo Los Del Rio scored a global hit with Macarena, which became the song of the summer in 1996. Its bubbling take on flamenco-infused dance pop seemed to override our collective reasoning through the sheer giddiness of it all.
The Baha Men achieved a similar feat in 2000 with the equally catchy and disposable Who Let the Dogs Out, while German producer Felix Jaehn's remix of Omi’s Cheerleader also topped the European charts in the summer of 2015.
So if it’s not a matter of innovation, then what is the golden formula? The summer anthem as a cultural milestone is nearly as old as the pop charts themselves. In the 1960s, the Beach Boys more or less defined the template with surf guitars, ebullient layered harmonies and a lyrical fixation on sunshine, relationships and cars. Tracks such as California Girls and Surfin’ USA did more than top charts – they helped establish a sonic aesthetic that continues to define the genre today.
The 1970s also had its share of summer staples. The Rolling Stones’s Miss You, released in 1978, proved they were adept at disco. A year later, Donna Summer’s Hot Stuff took that blend of dance floor glamour and rock attitude even further. These tracks offered a glimpse of how summer songs can map cultural tastes as they shift in real time.
By the 1980s, the idea of the summer song became an industry standard. Radio stations would broadcast chart countdown programmes tied to release calendars, while the launch of music television broadcaster MTV in 1981 provided a new visual platform to promote songs. As a result, songs could spread internationally more quickly not only through popularity, but through co-ordinated exposure. That combination of quality and industry push also allowed more unconventional songs such as the moody and minimalist When Doves Cry by Prince, which was released in May 1984 and remained at the top of US charts for five weeks.
In 2007, Rihanna’s Umbrella rode a similarly timed release to the top of the UK charts. Its global reach was cemented through its “ella, ella” refrain that Los Del Rio would be proud of.
The streaming era was also susceptible to a good dose of pop fluff. Carly Rae Jepsen scored a season hit in 2012 with the earworm Call Me Maybe. In 2017, then regionally known Puerto Rican singer Luis Fonsi became a global star with monster single Despacito – arguably reggaeton’s biggest crossover hit.
They emerged during a time when music consumption was still broadly shared – when a hit could travel across cities, countries and age groups with the help of co-ordinated media, physical gathering spaces such as CD stores, plus a relatively unified pop landscape. That environment is harder to find today.
The absence of a similar anthem in 2025 reflects the ongoing fragmentation of music-listening culture. Where the summer anthem was once a tentpole of a shared infrastructure built on terrestrial radio, music television and brick-and-mortar stores, that industry monoculture no longer exists.
We’re now mostly listening on streaming platforms, home to our personal radio stations and algorithm-driven playlists based on mood and preference. The summer anthem, once a point of consensus, has become more of an individualised experience.
Even when a song does manage to break into mass awareness, it tends to disappear just as quickly. Tyla’s Water dominated 2023 for a few months before fading, and Sabrina Carpenter’s aforementioned 2025 single Manchild enjoyed a brief burst of momentum before being overtaken by newer releases.
Which is why the absence of a summer anthem in 2025 doesn’t so much reflect an industry failure as much as the reality of today’s music landscape. Perhaps the notion that every year demands a communal hit is becoming increasingly obsolete. Instead of a defining song, the sound of summer is now more of a patchwork of tracks heard in intimate gatherings, private playlists and personal moments.
That said, artists will always try to rise to the challenge to deliver something that cuts through the noise. And when these songs come, they will serve as a reminder of pop music’s ability to capture a moment. Until then, summer tunes will still be released, only they will no longer be resonant with everyone.
