Half term holidays! Busy doing nothing, working the whole day through.

On the radio mainly we have BBC 6 Music, which normally does OK for itself. This week Radio 6 has been celebrating the “20th anniversary of Britpop”… It had me scratching my head a bit.

Time might have been that I would have pounced on such a one-sided 7″ flexidisc single of an idea and torn it a new centre hole. Not only would I have questioned the arbitrariness of the timing, and the wisdom of giving Damon Allbran further opportunity to wreak his adenoidal miseries upon the populace, but also given detailed Mr Agreeable-styled rebuttals for each of the artists featured:

“Gene. Gene?! F***ing dreary knock-off Smiths b*******s – and that’s taking dreary to depths unknown to the hardiest of miners. Couldn’t carry a tune in a f***ing bucket, no-good sh***hawks. Gene. Dear sweet c***ing Christ deliver us.”

Must have been terrific fun writing the Agreeable columns. But for this grand Britpoppish retrospective, I just couldn’t generate enough spleen. Seriously, My Life Story?

Still, something made me want to contribute my experience in some way. “Maybe I could knock out a list of British artists that I was also listening to in 1994 that weren’t really Britpop.” I thought.

“It would have had The Divine Comedy (Promenade album) on it (despite a later Neil Hannon work managing to squeak an entry on the 6 Music countdown), or Portishead, Dummy… Therapy?…? Er…”

I kind of ran out of ideas. Bands I wasn’t listening to in 1994? Spend holiday time writing about M People? Gah!

Well, OK, “Britpop”, then. Seriously, how hard can this be?

I really liked Suede. Metal Mickey in particular. I saw them live at Leeds T&C… the musical shark was sighted when Bernard Butler left, but look, listen (as politicians and footballers often begin their sentences):

Oh dad, she’s driving me mad!

Oasis… I remember very well the day I chose to wade through the hype and buy the Live Forever CD single (from Fopp in Byres Road, Glasgow). Me and me bezzer Jack sat listening to it, roundly unimpressed with the first three tracks, and then just falling instantly for the live version of Supersonic.

Mind you, it was easy to officially lose interest shortly after hearing the perfection of ‘Acquiesce’. What else can a band say? “Roll with it”? Get off.

Supergrass were awesome. If you do not know Caught by the Fuzz, why, reader, you must.


But weren’t they supposed to be part of the New Wave of New Wave or something? Was 1994 simply the year someone thought up “Britpop” to describe everything made by a guitar band in Britain? There were all sorts of things that seemed quite acceptable at the time, that with hindsight look tarnished, horribly insincere. Echobelly. Why, even Parklife, which accompanies some happy memories of driving round Glasgow in a friend’s knackered car, singing along with ‘To The End’. That record had been interesting in sequence, because Blur seemed like a band getting better with each album, constantly prompting the question “wherever next”? The answer to that, of course, was “to a very big house in the c**try and Fat f***ing Les.”

See, that’s how it starts. One could go on. The terrible rest of it, the Sleeper, the Menswe@r… It was actually starting to give me a headache trying to remember them.

There’s that old saying that if you can remember the sixties, you weren’t there. This morning, as we breakfasted with the strains of poll-topping track (and a bona fide classic “Well done, listeners of Britain!” moment of delight hearing it) Common People by Pulp playing in the background – a song I saw Jarvis Cocker introduce at the inaugural T in the Park, 1994, as “A national anthem for the Netto generation.” – I suggested to J that perhaps we need an equivalent phrase for the 1990s. “Such as ‘If you feel like celebrating Britpop then you weren’t really listening to it.'”
J said “That’s… a bit contrived.”

Contrived! Of course! I seized on the notion. Contrivance seemed to sum up both the original Britpop tag – and, in fact, much of the music, which was sloppy second-hand shop versions of better bands or styles – and the need to celebrate any anniversary for it. And certainly this meta-response.

THEN I remembered that Kieron Gillen, Jamie McElvie and Matt Wilson have already inked the definitive look back, not-in-anger-but-a-bit, on Britpop, in 2006, in fact.


It is an excellent comic. If you are of A Certain Age, or interested in pursuing research on this matter, I urge you to the publication. Phonogram Vol.1, “Rue Britannia”. It’s equal parts tender-hearted and unsympathetic, and right. Except about Kenickie. They were f***ing s***-awful.

To my considerable delight, a day off just coincided with a giant book sale beginning at York Library Explore.

We got there just after 11.00am and it was rammed with browsing bibliophiles, many heaping teetering piles of tomes into cardboard boxes. Librarians with belted satchels marshalled a brisk trade. What we might have missed, I groaned inwardly, although without much vehemence. There were still some great volumes on offer.

One shelf unit catching a number of bargain hunters’ eyes held an extensive collection of Loeb Classical Library editions of your big name Greeks and Latins, at an astonishing 50p each. I started chatting in a jocular manner with one guy about needing some sort of wheelbarrow, and we both had a mutter about the mark-up applied by second-hand booksellers to items in the same condition. The jocularity was partly a function of me having mistaken his ‘mine’ pile for still-available books, eagerly snatching the Juvenal out of it. He saw my crestfallen expression and offered me a choice if there was anything I really particularly wanted, magnanimously, which I wasn’t about to start disputing. He staggered off eventually with as much of a cheery wave as he could manage under the weight of 14 volumes of Livy plus the same again of assorted others.

I managed to restrain myself to the Juvenal and another of my favourite dirty dog Latins, Petronius, plus an Herodotus:


…and an entertaining history of the British beat pop groups of 1962-67, which I was tickled to pick up having spent the morning reading about Robbie Williams’ intemperate musings on the Britpop beat-ish groups of 1990-1999. Ride indeed, Williams, you fanny. The set is made up with two “Oh, looky here!” last-minute Huxley spots. I do like a bit of Aldous…

An appealing little selection, I am sure you will concede. £4.00 the lot – you can’t say fairer than that.

I am a bit sad that no room in the library can be made to keep the books, when it is clear there is plenty of room for a cafe selling giant milky coffees and burning cheese toasties, but, yeah, at least it’s still open. Many localities are not so fortunate.

Here’s the York Library bookplate from the front of the Juvenal:


…which is kind of completely sexy.

The Giant Booksale continues Saturday and Sunday, finishing on Monday 25th.

Previously, in The Mortal Bath: a post about The Stone Roses, in which I wrote of the pleasures to be found in driving out of cities on sunny days, blasting out music with great depths, emotionally and sonically. Sometimes you have to stop and enjoy the Roses, basically.

In getting that Stone Roses urge my psychic tendrils must have been twitching. For whodathunk, it was but three weeks later that The Stone Roses would announce their resurrection. The announcement was made to moderate surprise, and the crunch of teeth gnashing, through glee, through rage, perhaps through the use of powdered preparations. Moderate surprise, because John Squire had previously been unequivocal about the chances of a reunion tour taking place:

“I have no desire whatsoever to desecrate the grave of seminal Manchester pop group The Stone Roses” – John Squire, 2009

The words are often cited with a yaah-boo tone, by commentators in the happy position of never having changed their minds about anything. As Sean Connery, and Lani Hall, would tell you, to get mixed up with a man who says never may be big trouble. Life is too short. And, “in the current economic climate”, who among us can turn down a pay day doing something we love with people we work well with? Thuz: while I agree with Ten Minutes Hate – they are just a band, and nostalgia alone is a foolish malady – I echo also the Manchester music writer/maker/event John Robb’s personal responses to the news. The Stone Roses matter.

That John Robb also makes music is worthy of note in understanding his enthusiasm. The continuing slow demise/re-ordering of “the music business”, the biz called show full of radio Joes, through the ongoing and closer embrace of self-organisation, the use of mass communication tools from the dreams of pamphleteers and artists, is bringing with it the punky/rave overthrow of established order that JCG at 10MH alludes to. It’s not going to be a Revolution Day to be enshrined in the calendar, perhaps, although 15 seats for the Pirate Party in the Berlin State Parliament election this year is pretty momentous, for a movement that grew out of a bunch of (music) filesharers. However, we see and continue to see a slow and certain slide away from centrally-imposed models of culture.

What Robb identifies as the crucial point to be got about The Stone Roses is that they facilitated this for a lot of people, back in the day. The subtext I get from Robb is a hope that The Stone Roses may once again awaken a slumbering generation. They were a homegrown joy, with all the horticultural connotations that phrase may evoke. They struck a (12 string guitar) chord: mouthy lads from the North saying things in their own voice, that actually sounded pretty inspiring and uplifting too. Fade to technicolor:

‘For a lot of people, this is the band that changed everything in their lives and was their portal into another world.’

– John Robb in the NME 29.10.2011

Their influence was beyond musical, and whether these Heaton Park gigs succeed or just suck is beside the point to an extent. No one who ever loved The Stone Roses was ever in any illusion on the point that live, The Stone Roses were sometimes to be found wanting. A superb review of a Stone Roses Live in Blackpool video from Select, I think it was, magazine, written by, I think, either David Stubbs or Quantick, held a phrase so perfect that I have remembered it ever since:

‘On record, Ian Brown sounds like a choirboy. Live, he sounds like Shaun Ryder falling downstairs.’

I never got to see them in the flesh, so can only base my judgements on footage. They were great on record. However, friends who saw them (at Glasgow Green and elsewhere) are quite clear on the transcendent properties of the occasion. Friends who were 16, 17… come on, life. Gigs that succeed are often nothing to do with the actual sounds occurring.

The Stone Roses also represented something lemon fresh in the air at the close of the 1980s and the early 1990s. It is crucial to see them in this context. As well as signing a portal into a world of dance music I and guitar-fan pals might never have opened otherwise, at the same time they provided another refraction of the light that seemed to be emerging from the cracks in the walls, off the bits of ice calving off the Cold War. The Berlin Wall fell, Nelson Mandela was freed. The Stone Roses were not the only guitar band to straddle and attack musical barriers, not the first nor last, but they were and remain quite open about, and undervalued for, their political influence.

Their first album cover art is called ‘Bye Bye Badman’:

…the lyrics of which song are about chucking cobbles at the Man. The lemons are a reference to a cheap defence against tear gas. Simon and Garfunkel pastiche ‘Elizabeth My Dear’ is unabashedly republican in sentiment, and more subtle than ‘God Save The Queen’. They laughed in the face of the BBC, calling them amateurs. Red white and blue warpaint stripes speak of liberty, equality, fraternity here, now, do it now…

One might go on. Anyway, the super spangly sugar spun rush of hope and enthusiasm that their sound was, sloping into too-cool-for-schule baggy trouser funk, off for a tab, spoke a truth to many people, on a level deeper than the music itself.

To return to the music for a few lines, when Second Coming came out, it was not ‘almost universally loathed’, as JCG puts it. Universally understood as disappointingly anti-climactic is perhaps more accurate, from me and the pals who were also waiting to hear it, anyway. Contextually, we’d had the First Gulf War, enmiring the sweet bird of freedom in thick, crude oil. Fools’ Black Gold. we were becoming used to disappointment. There were enough good, by which I mean exciting, not-heard-this-before, songs on it to rescue it from catastrophe – Begging You, Breaking into Heaven, Ten Storey Love Song. However, there were also lots of John-Squire-as-Jimmy-Page slide guitar blues licks that were not required. ‘Twas neither nowt nor summat, as we say on our side of the Pennines. Not dancey enough. A bit heavy on its feet. Fat second album, even the title a lazy joke at their own expense. The Stone Roses’ well-chronicled demise at Reading was to be honest actually a bit of a relief, when it came. We were ready to move on.

The reunion gigs might be awful, they might not. I’m not that bothered – I know what they done for me with the records. Listening to Paint It Black, I don’t think of Mick Jagger on the Steel Wheels tour. But, and it is riffing on various articles what has sparked off most of this consideration, there seems to be an idea that The Stone Roses are tainting their own discography and, more widely, culture in general by succumbing to the same nostalgia that has pickled their twisted lemons. That they should be giving up the space for other, younger bands. Why are we even writing about this bunch of old timers?

"...tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today."

I think the problem here, if there is any problem, if ‘here’ can be understood, briefly, as a specific point in a specific cultural field that is forever northern England, and full of music obsessives, the problem is not The Stone Roses. It is one of, in the British media, critical poverty. There is the intrusion, or sustaining, of a kind of glib, unrigorous academic what-to-say mentality, that the hapless Sam Wolfson refers to when he writes of legacy journalism. Lists, articles and hagiographies written by single-idea people to fill magazine inches, increasingly desperate measures to retain the kind of consumers they think read magazines, who they think think in inches.

And it affects all the other writers clamouring for inclusion in that sphere. It turns them into the kinds of writers that complain glibly of unwanted Revolution In The Head-style detail yet offer no counterblast. The kind of writers who neglect to offer the bands with which their g-g-generation will short the nostalgia circuits: will it be titans such as Bloc Party, Franz Ferdinand, The Ting Tings? The kind of writers so culturally conservative that even their oppositional rhetoric of change and variety is based in a cement of cosy assumptions: that the Reading festival, or equivalent, will continue long into the future, that they will sire children to go to it, that their offspring will be ‘post-GCSE’ educated, that they will be educated at all…

The kind of view set out by Sam Wolfson represents a real decay of critical inspiration, replaced by digital facsimile. In one obvious sense, the article is a decoy duck deployed by the Graun to suck in comment and links, but it denotes also a wider malaise in writing about music, in the presentation of music. In the press, on the BBC, Channel 4, More music, Sky Arts 10,500, everywhere, one sees alongside dusty, Rock Family Tree received wisdom, pin-through-the-abdomen criticism, an unthinking acceptance of horribly vague models of musical history, from people who have just not read or listened widely or deeply enough.

Linear narratives nailed haphazardly across spindly struts. Supported only by scant attention paid to hundreds of iTunes folders full of one track. It’s irritating to listen to or read people who are clearly basing their opinions on such a shallow exploration. Wolfson, the DJs bringing you The Glastonbury Experience… it is nothing less than the near complete cultural dominance of people who know only what they’re supposed to say about stuff. People with almost precisely no understanding of what it is they’re talking about.

Quick pop quiz: If someone suggests a band references the 1960s in their music, which bits do they mean? 12 string guitars or 13th Floor Elevators? Sly and the Family Stone, Funkadelic? “Northern Soul”? The British Invasion? Bert Kaempfert, Long John Baldry, Engelbert Humperdinck? Albert Ayler? Woodstock, punk rock, disco, boogie, pop? When it ‘sounds like the Beach Boys’, does this mean surf guitar, theremin, vocal harmonies, orchestration or the crunching of vegetables? Name more than 10 bands from the 1960s that aren’t The Beatles or The Rolling Stones. Do you even MEAN music from the 1960s? Likewise music from the 1970s, 1980s, 1990s. Be specific! Stop using cultural shorthand! And, incidentally, by ‘seminal’ do you mean original and influential, or dripping with spunk?

A fascinating article linked to by 10MH is to be found at the Collapse Board. Wallace Wylie dreams of a day when a proper history of the 1990s will expunge Britpop from the minds of the people. There already have been attempts. For one example, Ben Thompson gave it a go back in 1998 with Seven Years of Plenty. As well as Goldie, Aphex Twin and Portishead, and Blur and Pulp, he discusses Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci, Super Furry Animals and other bands that ploughed furroughs in fields quite different to those now being used for housing developments by halfwit journalists.

I’ll come back to Those Other 1990s bands, perhaps. It’s already there to be discovered, other narratives written, different dubs plated. One has to maintain abandon to a sense of wonder and exploration. Ian Brown, at another much-discussed gig, said:

‘The time, the time is now, do it now, do it now.’

Everett True’s review wants to know what to do. ‘Do exactly what?’ he wonders. Here, exactly, is the nub of the crux, the problem with a certain type of criticism. Brown was not saying what ‘it’ is, nor should he. He might have meant get drunk, get high, dance, sit down, buy our records, make your own records. Take up triathlons. It doesn’t matter what he meant, it’s what he did. That’s what he was saying: You know. It’s your thing. Get on with it. Immerse me in your splendour.

THAT is what I got from The Stone Roses, why they matter. Now, come on – we’re wasting our time.