35 years since Freddie Mercury grew a moustache, three decades since the release of 'Return of The Jedi' - any excuse will do. A defining feature of 21st century media is an unbridled love of the arts retrospective. And here comes the latest: Britpop. A Stuart Maconie special on Radio 2; a Jeremy Vine phone-in; heavy coverage on 6Music, this is obviously a big deal.
Isn't it?
If we're being slightly glib, the history of British popular music can be divided roughly into eight era-defining genres: Rock and Roll, The Beatles and the swinging sixties, hippy rock and prog, Punk and the new wave, the New Romantics, Hip-Hop, indie, Acid House and dance. Some interesting side-roads (ambient, folk rock, metal) notwithstanding, they are the benchmarks by which we measure the pop timeline. By the reckoning of some folk, Britpop deserves a position on that list. It doesn't.
The mid-nineties were a bit of a transitory period for popular culture. The underground explosion in electronic dance music was now firmly overground, and being remorselessly milked by the record industry; Kurt Cobain was dead and Madchester had long since fizzled out. Musically, the biggest stories were the overarching dominance of Take That and the unexpected popularity of Oasis. Nothing wrong with that. Those eight milestones in pop history didn't slot together like Lego bricks, they dovetailed into one another, creating grey-area overlaps. However, that's quite inconvenient for radio producers and music journalists, all clamouring to be at the heart of a profoundly important 'movement'. So, in this instance, they invented one.
In 1993 Blur were struggling. Their album 'Modern Life Is Rubbish' had been reasonably well received by the critics, but they weren't exactly shifting truckloads of units. With a final roll of the dice they produced their masterwork, 'Parklife', and were suddenly elevated to the same lofty platform as Oasis. The ensuing showdown between the two bands is well documented. Releasing singles in the same week, the two band face-off even made the Ten O Clock News. All good sport and a mildly diverting spectacle. To the media movers, though, it was enough to start constructing a rock Wendy house. Something was happening and they were going to make sure they were at the leading edge. In reality, that 'something' was just a couple of pop groups racing each other to number one with, as it happens, two of the worst singles either had released. But by now, the wheels were in motion.
In and around the newly fashionable Camden Town, a clutch of willowy youths with floppy hair and Wrangler jackets formed a handful of unexceptional bands. Fortunately for them, they were in just the right spot and drinking in just the right bars. Hitherto unknown boozers like The Dublin Castle and The Good Mixer fell under the eager gaze of the NME and Vox, and any patron with a guitar was declared part of an exciting new scene. A cover of Select magazine proclaimed 'Yanks Go Home!' - rejecting their former darlings Nirvana and Pearl Jam in favour of fresh outfits with names like 'Menswear' and 'Denim'. The point is, this enthusiasm wasn't pushing up from the UK's gig-going, CD-buying citizens, it was being foisted on readers and listeners by a press pack with a mission to conjure something magically hip from a reasonably prosaic hat.
Of course, at that time, there were some fabulous bands producing some tremendous work. Suede are undoubtedly one of the finest acts of the last few decades; Elastica's debut album remains a splendidly spiky, bolshy and juddering thing. Despite retroactive hipster wisdom, even Oasis were a great outfit for a while. Just revisit 'Champagne Supernova' for some very pleasing, grandiose British rock.
This is true of any era - good bands, bad bands, excellent music, terrible music. It is not in any way an indicator of a burgeoning movement worthy of a name. Nevertheless it got one.
It's hard to identify exactly what qualifies a notional pop music trend as a fully-fledged movement. That said, we can probably assert that it needs to be new, contrasting with its immediate predecessor; initiated by a grass-roots fan base; centred on a common vision and providing a fresh perspective. Britpop did none of this. It was only 'new' because the media said it was. In fact, most of the bands simply merged a bit of indie with a bit of sixties guitar. Far from contrasting with whatever went before, this was a clear continuation of styles laid down by The Smiths, The Kinks, The Stone Roses and others. There was no accumulation of hardcore fans, as there had been with punk and acid house, no unusual looking crowds massed outside venues preparing to immerse themselves in a revolutionary happening. And Britpop had absolutely no vision or alternative perspective. If it had a mission statement, it was to drink expensive Japanese lager and appear on TFI Friday. That's not a movement.
The writer Miranda Sawyer says Britpop (of which she's an avowed enthusiast) was a completely different animal from 'Cool Britannia'. Actually, 'Cool Britannia' was nothing more than the politicisation of Britpop. 1997 may not have heralded a brave new world for pop, but it certainly ignited a new era for British government as Tony Blair and New Labour landed in a swirl of D:Ream and flashing smiles.
On a wave of optimism and goodwill, Blair seized his day, rarely missing an opportunity to press his rock credentials on the electorate. Photographed manhandling his Stratocaster into Number 10, and busily telling The Observer how much he loved The Clash, he was obviously eager to cast himself as the first rock and roll Prime Minister. Unsurprisingly, once he'd moved in, invites were issued to the luminaries of this Britpop thing (7 for 7.30, bring your own union-jack guitar).
And how they flocked to his door. If we were ever uncertain whether Britpop was anything more than a confection of Radio 1 and London media mollies, then the sight of Noel Gallagher and Alan McGee swilling bubbly with the Blairs must surely set us straight. No pop phenomenon worth its salt could ever bear scrutiny when its protagonists have broken bread at the heart of the establishment. Once you sup with The Man, you're dead in the water. There is much to dislike about Liam Gallagher, but his flat refusal to have anything to do with the Cool Britannia/Downing Street shindig, does him no end of credit.
So, what exactly was Britpop and what did it want? After the searing agony of 2008's financial crash, it's easy to forget all the other economic doldrums, but the mid-nineties was one. Encumbered by a Tory administration, up to its underpants in scandal and led by the lacklustre John Major, whatever bubble we'd been enjoying had burst and we were in recession. The situation, although not quite catastrophic, wasn't exactly fun. The perfect platform, in fact, for some kind of cultural upheaval, something brash and exhilarating to propel us into the next century. But pop life will never be that predictable, the planets refused to align and there we were, twirling in the wind with only a copy of 'It's Great When You're Straight, Yeah' to stave off the pre-millennial tension.
Hunters after the hip and the happening abhor a vacuum as much as nature, so they forced the issue. Scrabbling around for some action, high-profile hands fell on any half-competent metropolitan beat combo, threw them in a blender with every act signed to Creation, poured them into a pint pot in the kitchen of Supernova Heights and garnished the whole watery cocktail with Damon Albarn's rapidly acquired cockney accent and Chris Evans' spectacles. Served to a decidedly lukewarm nation by Jo Whiley and Steve Lamacq, this was Britpop: a manufactured stop-gap, a papering over of the cracks. Barely adequate as a 'thing', not a single act was willing to say they were part of it. For most folk, Britpop only existed in the minds of those who said it existed.
Which makes all this misty-eyed celebrating all the more unnecessary and bizarre. Because, as Britpop never really happened, it begs the question, what exactly are we recalling with such glee? Euro '96? The Bluetones only hit? Meg Matthews' parties? What?
I was living and working in London throughout this period, and I'd love to tell you every street, from Kentish Town to Colliers Wood, was leaping to the thumping beat of Lush and Echobelly. That we were frantically Britpopping away, without a care in the world, ecstatic in that very moment to be alive. But we weren't. What's more, nobody was talking in animated tones about 'that brilliant Britpop that's happening.' If all this nostalgic hoopla is making you worry you missed out on something, then relax, you didn't.
By all means, take the chance to give Pulp's magnificent 'A Different Class' another play; go ahead and warble along to 'Animal Nitrate'; never hesitate to blast out Manic Street Preachers' astonishing 'Everything Must Go' all day long - but resist the temptation to gaze at that period through wistful, moistening eyes. The mid-nineties were just the mid-nineties and Britpop was just a figment of others people's imaginations.
Isn't it?
If we're being slightly glib, the history of British popular music can be divided roughly into eight era-defining genres: Rock and Roll, The Beatles and the swinging sixties, hippy rock and prog, Punk and the new wave, the New Romantics, Hip-Hop, indie, Acid House and dance. Some interesting side-roads (ambient, folk rock, metal) notwithstanding, they are the benchmarks by which we measure the pop timeline. By the reckoning of some folk, Britpop deserves a position on that list. It doesn't.
The mid-nineties were a bit of a transitory period for popular culture. The underground explosion in electronic dance music was now firmly overground, and being remorselessly milked by the record industry; Kurt Cobain was dead and Madchester had long since fizzled out. Musically, the biggest stories were the overarching dominance of Take That and the unexpected popularity of Oasis. Nothing wrong with that. Those eight milestones in pop history didn't slot together like Lego bricks, they dovetailed into one another, creating grey-area overlaps. However, that's quite inconvenient for radio producers and music journalists, all clamouring to be at the heart of a profoundly important 'movement'. So, in this instance, they invented one.
In 1993 Blur were struggling. Their album 'Modern Life Is Rubbish' had been reasonably well received by the critics, but they weren't exactly shifting truckloads of units. With a final roll of the dice they produced their masterwork, 'Parklife', and were suddenly elevated to the same lofty platform as Oasis. The ensuing showdown between the two bands is well documented. Releasing singles in the same week, the two band face-off even made the Ten O Clock News. All good sport and a mildly diverting spectacle. To the media movers, though, it was enough to start constructing a rock Wendy house. Something was happening and they were going to make sure they were at the leading edge. In reality, that 'something' was just a couple of pop groups racing each other to number one with, as it happens, two of the worst singles either had released. But by now, the wheels were in motion.
In and around the newly fashionable Camden Town, a clutch of willowy youths with floppy hair and Wrangler jackets formed a handful of unexceptional bands. Fortunately for them, they were in just the right spot and drinking in just the right bars. Hitherto unknown boozers like The Dublin Castle and The Good Mixer fell under the eager gaze of the NME and Vox, and any patron with a guitar was declared part of an exciting new scene. A cover of Select magazine proclaimed 'Yanks Go Home!' - rejecting their former darlings Nirvana and Pearl Jam in favour of fresh outfits with names like 'Menswear' and 'Denim'. The point is, this enthusiasm wasn't pushing up from the UK's gig-going, CD-buying citizens, it was being foisted on readers and listeners by a press pack with a mission to conjure something magically hip from a reasonably prosaic hat.
Of course, at that time, there were some fabulous bands producing some tremendous work. Suede are undoubtedly one of the finest acts of the last few decades; Elastica's debut album remains a splendidly spiky, bolshy and juddering thing. Despite retroactive hipster wisdom, even Oasis were a great outfit for a while. Just revisit 'Champagne Supernova' for some very pleasing, grandiose British rock.
This is true of any era - good bands, bad bands, excellent music, terrible music. It is not in any way an indicator of a burgeoning movement worthy of a name. Nevertheless it got one.
It's hard to identify exactly what qualifies a notional pop music trend as a fully-fledged movement. That said, we can probably assert that it needs to be new, contrasting with its immediate predecessor; initiated by a grass-roots fan base; centred on a common vision and providing a fresh perspective. Britpop did none of this. It was only 'new' because the media said it was. In fact, most of the bands simply merged a bit of indie with a bit of sixties guitar. Far from contrasting with whatever went before, this was a clear continuation of styles laid down by The Smiths, The Kinks, The Stone Roses and others. There was no accumulation of hardcore fans, as there had been with punk and acid house, no unusual looking crowds massed outside venues preparing to immerse themselves in a revolutionary happening. And Britpop had absolutely no vision or alternative perspective. If it had a mission statement, it was to drink expensive Japanese lager and appear on TFI Friday. That's not a movement.
The writer Miranda Sawyer says Britpop (of which she's an avowed enthusiast) was a completely different animal from 'Cool Britannia'. Actually, 'Cool Britannia' was nothing more than the politicisation of Britpop. 1997 may not have heralded a brave new world for pop, but it certainly ignited a new era for British government as Tony Blair and New Labour landed in a swirl of D:Ream and flashing smiles.
On a wave of optimism and goodwill, Blair seized his day, rarely missing an opportunity to press his rock credentials on the electorate. Photographed manhandling his Stratocaster into Number 10, and busily telling The Observer how much he loved The Clash, he was obviously eager to cast himself as the first rock and roll Prime Minister. Unsurprisingly, once he'd moved in, invites were issued to the luminaries of this Britpop thing (7 for 7.30, bring your own union-jack guitar).
And how they flocked to his door. If we were ever uncertain whether Britpop was anything more than a confection of Radio 1 and London media mollies, then the sight of Noel Gallagher and Alan McGee swilling bubbly with the Blairs must surely set us straight. No pop phenomenon worth its salt could ever bear scrutiny when its protagonists have broken bread at the heart of the establishment. Once you sup with The Man, you're dead in the water. There is much to dislike about Liam Gallagher, but his flat refusal to have anything to do with the Cool Britannia/Downing Street shindig, does him no end of credit.
So, what exactly was Britpop and what did it want? After the searing agony of 2008's financial crash, it's easy to forget all the other economic doldrums, but the mid-nineties was one. Encumbered by a Tory administration, up to its underpants in scandal and led by the lacklustre John Major, whatever bubble we'd been enjoying had burst and we were in recession. The situation, although not quite catastrophic, wasn't exactly fun. The perfect platform, in fact, for some kind of cultural upheaval, something brash and exhilarating to propel us into the next century. But pop life will never be that predictable, the planets refused to align and there we were, twirling in the wind with only a copy of 'It's Great When You're Straight, Yeah' to stave off the pre-millennial tension.
Hunters after the hip and the happening abhor a vacuum as much as nature, so they forced the issue. Scrabbling around for some action, high-profile hands fell on any half-competent metropolitan beat combo, threw them in a blender with every act signed to Creation, poured them into a pint pot in the kitchen of Supernova Heights and garnished the whole watery cocktail with Damon Albarn's rapidly acquired cockney accent and Chris Evans' spectacles. Served to a decidedly lukewarm nation by Jo Whiley and Steve Lamacq, this was Britpop: a manufactured stop-gap, a papering over of the cracks. Barely adequate as a 'thing', not a single act was willing to say they were part of it. For most folk, Britpop only existed in the minds of those who said it existed.
Which makes all this misty-eyed celebrating all the more unnecessary and bizarre. Because, as Britpop never really happened, it begs the question, what exactly are we recalling with such glee? Euro '96? The Bluetones only hit? Meg Matthews' parties? What?
I was living and working in London throughout this period, and I'd love to tell you every street, from Kentish Town to Colliers Wood, was leaping to the thumping beat of Lush and Echobelly. That we were frantically Britpopping away, without a care in the world, ecstatic in that very moment to be alive. But we weren't. What's more, nobody was talking in animated tones about 'that brilliant Britpop that's happening.' If all this nostalgic hoopla is making you worry you missed out on something, then relax, you didn't.
By all means, take the chance to give Pulp's magnificent 'A Different Class' another play; go ahead and warble along to 'Animal Nitrate'; never hesitate to blast out Manic Street Preachers' astonishing 'Everything Must Go' all day long - but resist the temptation to gaze at that period through wistful, moistening eyes. The mid-nineties were just the mid-nineties and Britpop was just a figment of others people's imaginations.
