. There are several excellent things about becoming a fan of unknown bands. One is that they often give away songs for free, and their EPs are usually available for only a few pounds from their website (or, in many of the cases here, Band Camp websites); another is that they’re usually incredibly friendly and grateful online. Most importantly, it proves once and for all that there is good music being produced at the moment, behind the dirgey dubstep and bland ballads in the charts.
. Inspired by these factors, I’ve recently started doing a ‘Band of the Week’ feature on my Facebook page. This mainly constitutes finding brand new bands – be it through Spotify, the Guardian’s ‘New Band of the Day’ feature (though I try not to pilfer from it too much), or through gigs – and promoting them through writing a short paragraph and linking people to their music via YouTube. Here are the four bands of the week so far with the original paragraphs largely unchanged. Hopefully you’ll enjoy them as much as I do…
Band of the Week, #1: Friends.
Brought together over a bedbug infestation, this quintet started a band whose music is, in their own words, “One moment… indie-pop, the next… mutant funk, then disco”. The hype around them is such that they’ve even got their own section on acid-tongued, ttly ironik website/online bitchfest Hipster Runoff, most famous for obsessively slating Lana Del Rey before it was popular. Their first album, Manifest!, is released on June 4th by Rough Trade.
Band of the Week, #2: The Hall Of Mirrors.
Named The Guardian’s 1254th Band of the Day last month, they boast a haunting Gothic/Victorian sound by way of 60s pop production, chiming piano parts and the delicate vocals of Jessica Winter. The absolutely stunning ‘Love Child’ from their EP of the same name is available as a free download from their website.
Band of the Week, #3: Summer Heart.
Swedish pop music is never a bad thing, and Summer Heart – the alias of David Alexander – only strengthens that view. He’s currently one of the ’emerging artists’ on the We Are Hunted app on Spotify (which, if you have Spotify and like obscure music, you should definitely get). ‘Please Stay’ is my favourite example of his delightful, summery chillwave, best listened to with bass-heavy headphones and a gorgeous sunset on view.
Band of the Week, #4: Shade of Red.
Graham Coxon’s support act when he played Falmouth on April 30th, this Cornish quintet are young but already utterly assured in their craft, and wrong-footed anyone in the crowd who thought they looked like One Direction with instruments. (Guilty as charged.) Boasting an organist/melodica-ist, a drummer whose age may not have yet reached double figures, and originality beyond their years, they could be the best artists to come out of Cornwall since Aphex Twin.
. My mother asked me this question last week, squeezing a word in edgeways as I babbled on about my Britpop-related dissertation ideas. I was gobsmacked – how could she not know what Britpop was when she lived through it? (Answer: Concentrating on having and looking after children, apparently.) Seeing as it’s not the first time I’ve been asked this question, and having quite a few articles on here about it, I’ll try to explain it. Possibly in too much detail, for which I apologise; it’s difficult to condense one’s favourite topic…
. Having said that, if you’ve got a spare few days, more than a few pounds and are actually interested enough to spend both of those on enlightening yourself about Britpop, buy John Harris’s ‘The Last Party: Britpop, Blair and the Demise of English Rock’. This is the book that turned me from being interested-enough-to-write-a-novel-about-the-era-but-who-are-Suede? to I-WILL-BUY-A-PARTICULAR-ISSUE-OF-NME-FOR-FIVE-TIMES-ITS-ORIGINAL-PRICE-ON-EBAY-AND-TOUR-LONDON-LOOKING-FOR-THE-PLACE-WHERE-SUEDE-HAD-THEIR-FIRST-GIG*. It’s well-written, ceaselessly entertaining and, in many places, proof that real life is truly stranger than fiction. Honestly, who needs Dickens and his obese prose when you can have a Mercury Music Prize-winning band recruiting a 17-year-old schoolboy from Poole to replace their erstwhile guitarist? (Or you could read this very good blog article by someone who was actually around when Britpop was. I don’t count being in playschool as being around when Britpop was.)
When?: [Tl;dr rough answer: Spring 1992 – summer 1997.]
. As with any movement, there’s no concrete beginning or end. Most estimates consider the release of Blur’s ‘Popscene’ as the advent of Britpop, so technically the 30th March 1992 – but of course Britpop didn’t just spring out of the woodwork fully formed. It had been percolating in response to a lacklustre British music scene at the time, which celebrated ‘shoegaze’ bands, and as a result of the explosion of Nirvana’s Nevermind with the music press’s resultant focus on American grunge. Personally, I regard Suede’s ‘The Drowners’ [11th May 1992] as a more important release than ‘Popscene’ in terms of garnering media attention, as it began a hype-snowball around Suede which brought the focus away from Seattle and back to new homegrown talent.
. For your average Joe, who listened to the charts but didn’t read NME or Melody Maker – well, Britpop could’ve begun for him at various points. Public consciousness was originally invaded by Britpop at the 1993 Brit Awards [16th February 1993], when Suede caused a furore by performing ‘Animal Nitrate’, an ode to violent, gay sex and drugs (the name is a play on the drug ‘amyl nitrate’), then more prominently at the 1995 Brits [20th February 1995] when Blur won four awards as a result of chart-topping album Parklife. If average Joe really hadn’t been paying attention to the music scene, its most defining moment, the ‘Battle of Britpop’ [14th – 20th August 1995], took the British press (both tabloid and broadsheet) and even the po-faced TV news by storm. [The Battle of Britpop is explained here.]
. The end point, again, varies. Commonly held views are that the release of Blur’s angular, Pavement-inspired self-titled album [10th February 1997], Oasis’s plodding misfire Be Here Now [21st August 1997], Radiohead’s OK Computer [21st May 1997] and, weirdly, Labour winning the 1997 General Election [1st May 1997] can all be seen as Britpop’s denouement. If you couldn’t bear to leave the party until the last fag-end had burnt out and shrivelled up, perhaps you’d consider Pulp’s album of angst and paranoia This Is Hardcore [30th March 1998] the very end of the movement. I’d say it ended with Be Here Now, largely because it was über-hyped, misguidedly, which warranted a mass-buying session from the British public before they realised it was kind of rubbish. Oasis were no longer the template for new bands to model themselves on, the other major bands had moved onto new styles, and the minor bands were cleared from labels’ rostra to make way for either more commercial bands, or more creative ones.
. Who?: The tag of Britpop has been applied to the likes of Coldplay, Travis and Keane (though they’re more like ‘borepop’, if you ask me). In those instances, ‘Britpop’ refers to the far more vague notion of British pop music. Acts synonymous with the Britpop movement, however, are Blur and Oasis, usually seen as its main players. Other key bands of the time included Pulp, Suede, Sleeper, Echobelly, Elastica and butt-of-Britpop-jokes Menswear. Or ‘Menswe@r’, if you want to get technical about it. (You can tell it was the 90s, can’t you?) Although many of these have receded from public consciousness – including one-time ‘fastest-selling UK debut album of all time’ record holders Elastica – all enjoyed some amount of chart success and media attention, not to mention (in the cases of Blur and Menswear, anyway) a near-religious fervour from Smash Hits-reading teenage girls. As a joke from the time suggests (“What’s 40 foot long, has no pubes and goes “Aaaaaaah!”? The front row of a Blur concert”).
. On the other hand, not all British bands of the mid-90s tapped into the Britpop market. Some, like Take That, were just your generic dancing-puppet boyband troupe, the sort that makes you forget there was a time before The X Factor; others, like Radiohead, shunned the pervasive sense of ‘Britishness’ (or, it’s been asserted, Englishness masquerading as Britishness) and the prevalent nostalgia for the ‘golden age’ of the 1960s. The espousing of ‘Englishness’ resulted in British-but-not-English bands feeling alienated from the scene and developing their own sound, aspects of which opposed Britpop values – among them, Mogwai in Scotland (who sold ‘Blur are shite’ t-shirts in 1999, post-Britpop), the Manic Street Preachers in Wales and Ash in Northern Ireland.
. Other important, non-musical figures of the time included Alan McGee, founder of the Creation record label which signed Oasis, and future Prime Minister Tony Blair. Blair’s past as the lead singer in a rock band (Ugly Rumours) and fondness for rock and roll made him a VIP at various music awards, while his aides attempted to secure the support of Blur and Oasis to appeal to the younger electorate – leading to the famous ‘Noel Gallagher at 10 Downing Street’ pictures.
. What/why?: I’ve already mentioned that it was a reaction to and against grunge and, to a lesser extent, shoegazing. The Britpop rhetoric centres on the promotion of a quintessentially English ideal that defines itself in opposition to the self-loathing of grunge, combined with a sense of nostalgia for Britain’s musical progeny. It doesn’t have to be the lyrics that reflect this; some bands used regional accents to steep themselves in Anglocentrism, while others used the prevalent imagery of the Union Flag in pictures or on their guitars (Noel Gallagher, cough cough). The nostalgia’s discussed in the ‘Influences’ section below.
. There was also an espousal of the commercialisation of indie. Chart placings began to matter in the wake of the Battle of Britpop, with record companies becoming increasingly ruthless towards artists who hadn’t had a top 20 hit. In order to hit the mass market that was required for that yardstick of success, many artists compromised the experimental tendencies that would mark them out of the chart game. They instead sought ‘tunes the milkman could whistle’ (The Boo Radleys’ ‘Wake Up Boo!’ being a prime example) to ensure that Top of the Pops performance that would get them further recognition by the public.
. Britpop has often been associated with the rise of lad culture and creation of ‘the lager-eater’, a bullish young male who enjoys stereotypically masculine pursuits like drinking beer and going to the football. As such, it’s become associated with rampant misogyny, although this is not necessarily true. Elastica were three-quarters female, while Lush and Echobelly were not only half female, but Echobelly’s singer and guitarist were rare examples of black women in rock, with their guitarist Debbie Smith upping the rarity factor by also being a lesbian. Justine Frischmann, lead singer of Elastica, also championed women’s choice to appear in lad’s magazines if they wanted to, seeing potential for women to empower themselves through it rather than adopting the raging-feminists-with-pitchforks discourse that it’s misogynist pressures that drive women to become involved in the adult magazine industry. It’s also been noted that Britpop’s female lyricists (Frischmann, Sonya Madan in Echobelly, Louise Wener in Sleeper) imbued their lyrics with more wit than many of their male counterparts, a forebearer of the ‘girl power’ that the Spice Girls would promote as Britpop derailed.
Where?: London was the epicentre of Cool Britannia. Many of the places that became synonymous with Britpop were in or around Camden (The Good Mixer, The Dublin Castle), while various clubs housed Britpop’s key players at different stages of its life, from Syndrome in its gestation period to The Groucho Club as the bands and their entourages became more famous (Alex James, Damien Hirst and Keith Allen in particular became part of their furniture in 1995-6). Plenty of bands embraced Mockney accents or referenced areas of London in their lyrics.
. Obviously, not everyone was London-based. Manchester, still clinging onto its Acid House-era [see below] ‘cool’ status, of course spawned Oasis, who made no attempt to hide their origins in either interviews or vocal style. Similarly, Jarvis Cocker’s strong Sheffield accent distinguished Pulp from the legions of Laaaahndaaahn-based bands, and the band never relocated from their native city. Liverpool, whose influence held strong in the shape of quasi-music gods The Beatles, produced fringe players Cast and proto-Britpop band The La’s, best known for classic ‘There She Goes’.
Influences: The most obvious point of reference for Britpop artists was the British Invasion of the 1960s. The Beatles, Kinks, Small Faces and Rolling Stones were all mentioned time and time again by the artists and the press (The Beatles/Stones myth particularly being applied to Blur/Oasis during the Battle of Britpop). Oasis in particular pilfered from The Beatles and their respective members’ solo careers – ever noticed how much the opening of ‘Don’t Look Back In Anger’ sounds like John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’?
Closer in years to the 90s, David Bowie influenced Britpop’s forefathers, Suede, immeasurably – both in sound and style. (At 3:10 in their debut video, Brett Anderson looks exactly like Bowie.) Later, Suede’s more populist third album, Coming Up, sounded markedly more like 70s glam rock pin-ups T Rex. The Smiths were also a common port of call for influence, with most of the most important bands being inspired by Morrissey’n’Marr in their youth. This worked both ways, with Morrissey attending several early Suede gigs and including a cover of Suede B-side ‘My Insatiable One’ in his 1992 live shows.
. Britpop can in some ways be seen as a reappropriation of the ‘acid house’, or baggy, scene, spearheaded by the Happy Mondays and Stone Roses. Centred in Manchester (the movement sometimes being called ‘Madchester’) and rising at the end of the 80s before being blown away by grunge, ‘baggy’ saw, ideals-wise, a move away from the threadbare indie ideal of the early 80s and a move towards capitalist mores. Musically, it was mostly a celebration of hedonistic excess and braggadocio, though The Stone Roses were far less dance-y and more soft-spoken than the Mondays. Oasis were especially influenced by the scene, though Brett Anderson was an unlikely Mondays disciple, while Jarvis Cocker recounts a rave-gone-wrong scenario in Pulp single ‘Sorted For E’s And Whizz’. Blur, on the other hand, were latecomers to the baggy party, with their debut album Leisure being released towards the tail-end of the period and hugely indebted to its indie-dance sound.
. More obscure influences included Scott Walker, an idol for Pulp (he later went onto produce their swansong album We Love Life in 2001), while Blur’s Anglocentric ‘Life’ trilogy – Modern Life Is Rubbish, Parklife and, analogously, The Great Escape – drew on ‘quintessentially English’ music hall traditions of the late 19th and early 20th century with B-sides like ‘Daisy Bell’ and ‘Let’s All Go Down The Strand’. Elastica referenced Adam and the Ants, Wire and The Stranglers as references, settling in court with the latter two due to blatant musical plagiarism from each. Indie legends The Fall were Albarn-, Anderson- and Frischmann-beloved, with Damon Albarn revisiting his love for Mark E Smith by collaborating with him on Gorillaz track ‘Glitter Freeze’ in 2010 and one of Suede’s earliest tracks, ‘Implement Yeah’, written while Justine Frischmann was still a member, being written about him (incorporating an anecdote about Smith calling Suede’s label’s manager, Saul Galpern, a ‘Scotch homo’). Finally, Graham Coxon’s well-documented love of independent ideals meant that some of his early influences included barely-heard-of indie acts like Talulah Gosh, The Cardiacs and The Pastels.
Consequences: The aftermath of Britpop saw a move away from the ‘Oasis-by-numbers’ everyman music that 1996 had nurtured, and towards more intellectual bands like Radiohead and the Manic Street Preachers. (Not to be elitist, but can you imagine Oasis singing a lyric like “Libraries give us power”?) The commercialisation of alternative music continues to affect perceptions of success; although independent artists are flourishing in the age of the internet, you can’t read NME these days without at least one band bemoaning the ‘death of rock’ based on the lack of singles chart influence that rock bands have. Several long-running music publications, such as Select and Melody Maker, closed after Britpop’s heyday due to falling sales, and even now, indie harbinger NME is reportedly facing crisis for the same reason.
. As for its legacy, a second wave of Britpop emerged in the mid-00’s, with the Kaiser Chiefs, Franz Ferdinand and the Arctic Monkeys becoming incredibly successful. Attempted Britpop revivalists, Viva Brother, weren’t as lucky last year and ended up being reviled by, well, pretty much everyone, leading to their split earlier this month. The current trend for reunions means that many of the original Britpop bands – Suede, Blur, Pulp, Shed Seven, Dodgy – are riding high on festival line-ups again this year. Yet, even as a Britpop-lover, I’ve found myself wondering if this nostalgia is strangling opportunities for new artists to get themselves heard. How many people are going to festivals this year so they can watch The Inspiral Carpets?
That said, the finest albums from the period continue to do well in ‘Greatest Albums Ever’ lists in magazines, especially Definitely Maybe, Dog Man Star, Parklife and Different Class. Oasis’s seminal sophomore album (What’s The Story) Morning Glory, meanwhile, remains the third biggest-selling album in the UK of all time (though, given Adele’s 21’s glory, for how much longer…).
. You may not agree with the overt patriotism or the accusations of sexism within the movement. But as someone writing in the 2010s, when soulless dance tracks wind round the singles chart like poison ivy, the thought of a bygone era where people got seriously het up over which rock song would top the chart is a pleasant daydream indeed. It’s only been relived in recent memory by Rage Against The Machine’s Christmas #1 victory over Joe McElderry in 2009, and wasn’t that bloody exciting?
*Tragically, I did just that earlier this month. It involved going up to Hampstead Heath and wandering around for ages, either because Google Maps’ instructions are over-complicated or because I’m a terrible navigator. (You decide.) Incidentally, here is the place in question. It was called The Sausage Machine at the time:
Some people get over heartbreak like they get over not having enough cheese in the fridge to make a whole portion of cheese on toast. Upsetting as that is – what’s the point of cheese on toast if you can’t slather the entire slice in hot, bubbling cheddar? – it’s not the end of the world. They wake up the next day, ready to waltz back into the dating game and already unable to remember what their previous flame’s face looked like. But some people prey on it for months. Even when it’s been over for months, they’ll still find themselves name-dropping so-and-so and using ‘that total bastard’ as an epithet for said heartbreaker. Damon Albarn had a reason for being melancholy over Justine Frischmann – they’d been together for eight years, he’d stuck with her through her addictions, and then as soon as she got clean, she ditched him. But instead of sobbing over Elastica’s first album or having an uplifting pep talk from Graham Coxon, he wrote 13. 13 is an album that in its 66 minutes manages to echo every molecule of heartbreak that the more attached of us endure after Heartbreaker utters those awful words, “You’re not really my type…”.
It’s by far their least accessible album, and many critics have pejoratively labelled it “messy”. It is messy, but that’s because heartbreak is a messy feeling – it’s a patchwork of emotions, which is how I like to interpret the random riffs at the end of 13’s songs. It also sounds completely different from the laddish joviality of Parklife, the resigned eye-rolling of Modern Life Is Rubbish and the detached cool of Blur – all brilliant, with even the latter being mostly straightforward. Only its closer, ‘Essex Dogs’, hints at how thrillingly deranged 13 is going to be. But it still takes you by surprise. My first reaction to the whole album was “What the hell was that?”. But now I know it was the sound of heartbreak; something that Mogwai blasted after the album’s release in 1999. They referred to Blur using the heartbreak angle to get sales as “disgusting”* – completely bypassing the fact that a lot of artists have used heartbreak to write and sell songs, just so they could sell some t-shirts with the slogan “Blur are shite” on them. Using a feud with another band to sell some merchandise – who’s “disgusting” now?
But don’t get the impression that this is an album of Albarn sobbing about Frischmann’s lipstick marks still being on her coffee cup, a la Take That. It’s more than that – and it’s indefinitely more subtle. This isn’t merely about feeling sorry for yourself and wondering how you’ll ever trust anyone again. This album details the type of heartbreak that makes you drift through months feeling everything and nothing, by turns crazed and numb by insomnia, feeling hollow after another 3am crying session. It also follows the attempts to get out of that rut – the days where you wonder how you ever let it get to you like that, feel empowered enough to delete their messages, and go out with your friends to forget your troubles… but then find yourself feeling maudlin in a corner as you realise nothing’s changed. Don’t worry, it has a happy ending! This album is the musical equivalent of (500) Days of Summer, something you’ll realise after you’ve got over the fact that it sounds crazy on first listen.
It begins by wrong-footing you with a soundtrack to a hand-holding group therapy session, one where you’d say “Hi, I’m ___ and I’m a loveaholic!”. But ‘Tender’, with its gospel choir and self-motivating lyrics, is more sincere than hippy hugs, plus it probably smells better. The choir in particular bestows it with an evangelical quality in the best possible sense; it’s so upbeat and positive that you want to join their chirpy, ‘it’s going to be ok!’ cult that never sounds annoying. It’s a great mood booster on a bad day, or for dispelling pre-exam demons. Except it’s all a brave face. The facade is uncovered as soon as Damon croons after three minutes that “Tender is my heart, you know, for screwing up my life…”. Soon after, “Kill me” is added to the “Oh my baby…” Graham Coxon parts. He’s not really a happy hippy after all! You’ve been misled! How cruel! And it doesn’t get any simpler on the next song…
I once read that ‘Bugman’ is about child molestation. But I’m going to go with an interpretation of it being about avoiding the love ‘bug’ and going out to fill the void that a break-up has left (“I got no sense of existence”) while denying that the relationship ever had merits (“I think I was in a coma”) before the song launches into a deranged Pixies-esque guitar part which perfectly embodies the broken mind of the heartbroken wannabe-hedonist, going out to drown their sorrows. Just as you’re beginning to adjust to the wailing guitar feedback, it turns into a stoner soundtrack and Damon falsettoing “Space is the place…” over the top, and then you find yourself dragged back into more familiar Blur territory with ‘Coffee & TV’, a nice little number with an indescribably charming video which calls for your ex and you to “start over again”, imploring her to “take me away from this big bad world and agree to marry me”. Judging by the return to rocking on ‘Swamp Song’, replete with woozily hedonistic shrieks of “Stick it in my veins!”, one can only imagine this proposal didn’t materialise. And then we get onto the first truly, gut-wrenchingly emotive song on the album, ‘1992’.
‘1992’ is an unbelievably depressing song. From the quiet, wounded singing voice to the muttered fragments of betrayal (“You loved my bed/You took the other instead”), begging for an apology (“What do you owe me?/The price of your peace of mind”), to the wavering, screeching guitars that kick in around the two-minute mark, it’s impossible to remain unmoved by it – if it is possible, I’d recommend you don’t go near any magnets, because you’re clearly a robot. Just how emotive the guitars manage to be during the whole album is incredible – it takes the pressure off the lyrics, taking all the parts that would make them an angst-fest and translating them into a sound of sheer despair. In the same way that classical music and Icelandic post-rock bands can build musical landscapes and emotions without words, so these three minutes of guitar make you feel like you’re drowning under the weight of someone else’s/your own [delete where appropriate] melancholy, which is both suffocating and beautiful. Before you can go hunting in the cutlery drawers for some emotastic relief, though, you’re disarmed by the sudden energy of ‘B.L.U.R.E.M.I.’, which bops around partly to dissipate its predecessor’s misery, and partly as a representation of an ‘up’ day when you wake up feeling more real than you have in three weeks, ready to take on the workload that piled up whilst you were spending your days listlessly ploughing through multiple episodes of Peep Show, because even being Mark from Peep Show is better than being a heartbroken zombie like you.
‘Battle’ is a languid ambient piece that, to me, innately sounds like empty nights out when you’re jigging along unenthusiastically to the worst songs in history as the lights unrelentingly flicker above you, and yet you don’t leave because, even though all this is so meaningless, it’s got to be better to feel numb here than feel everything all over again in your room… though this is an incredibly subjective and personalised view. It’s followed by ‘Mellow Song’ – in my opinion the worst song on the album – with self-reflective lyrics (“Running away in my machine/Where have I been…/Is this where I’m going to?”) and, true to its title, a mellow ambience. A moment of epiphany? It’s hard to tell whether he’s miserable, detached or deadpan mad in ‘Trailerpark’. His constant refrain of “I’m a country boy/I got no soul/I don’t sleep at night/The world’s growing old/I lost my girl to The Rolling Stones/I lost my girl to The Rolling Stones” is tragicomic, not to mention the first absolutely explicit reference to Frischmann – ‘The Rolling Stones’ being a reference to how her life began to resemble the infamous Mick Jagger-starring film Performance.
The following two tracks are, along with ‘Tender’, the highlight tracks on the album, albeit for entirely different reasons. I would be entirely happy to listen to the opening 2 minutes of ‘Caramel’ on a loop forever. As the pining guitars in the intro fade out and an organ becomes the song’s sole focus, it sounds as though the song is being recorded at an evening Mass with candles. Albarn’s voice, vulnerable and quiet, sounds like he’s confessing to the guiltiest secret of all – what we knew all along; that he has “to get over” his heartbreak. The church-factor is added to by his piety towards the ex, and self-flagellation of his own flaws (“I’ve gotta stop smoking/I’ve gotta get better”). As it progresses, there are traces of ‘1992’’s guitar-misery, until it becomes explicit after four minutes, with guitars screaming as though some aching wound has been opened and lemon juice squeezed into it. As Albarn chants “Low, low, low…”, a broken-hearted listener can only feel similar despair. The motorbike sound and funky riff at the end bridges the leap from kneeling on the tiles of a church floor to a night out on the tiles; ‘Trimm Trabb’ is a cynical perspective on a night out, alcohol and fitting in with the crowd by owning the right kind of trainers (the title being a brand of trainers), and essentially, it’s unbelievably cool. No longer do we have the anaesthesia of ‘Battle’: the disparaging commentary of the other revellers is indicative of ‘waking up’ after drifting. All interpretation pontification aside, though, it just sounds incredibly cool and makes you want to walk through your hometown with sunglasses and a leather jacket on, pretending you’re James Bond.
‘No Distance Left To Run’, the penultimate track, was difficult for Albarn to record, saying that “It upset me singing it… To sing that lyric I really had to accept that that was the end of something in my life.” Listening to it, you can see why; it’s soothingly lullaby-like, but the lyrics are uncompromising – “It’s over, you don’t need to tell me/I hope you’re with someone who makes you feel safe when you’re sleeping tonight/I won’t kill myself trying to stay in your life/I’ve got no distance left to run”. He sounds so defeated and exhausted by his attempts to woo her back, party the memory of rejection away and get over her that you’ll probably feel a strange compulsion to hug him and sing ‘Tender’ to up his mood. Considering it’s such a downer (but a genuinely touching one, something that My Chemical Romance haven’t quite managed yet), you’d think that the album ends on a miserable note – but ‘Optigan 1’, the album’s weird and wonderful wordless closer, proves you wrong. Although it’s really just some weird noises and a bell tolling that together make a strangely ethereal effect, it somehow manages to convince you that everything’s ok in the end and you can float off, enlightened by the whole crappy experience of Being Rejected/Dumped™.
Laugh at my attempts to transcribe the feelings and concepts in the album all you want, but don’t rubbish them until you’ve really listened to ‘13’. Once you’ve felt Albarn-Frischmann-esque heartbreak, there’s nothing flimsy about those interpretations. If you find yourself at uni, away from the friends you’d normally use as free therapists, and discover that the ones you’ve made on campus don’t quite get why you’re still sit-in-your-room-thinking-about-what-if-I’d-done-this-differently miserable six weeks after the betrayal/rejection, this album’s the best you’re going to get as far as support is concerned. It’s one of those albums where you truly do feel like the songs apply to you. At least, that’s what I found, and I’m sure I’m not the first or last to think that. And, seeing as I’m not sure I’ve done the album justice by concentrating on just the misery and confusion aspects of it, let me say one last thing before I finally shut up; this is a bloody brilliant album. If Mogwai listened to Parklife and then listened to this, they wouldn’t come back saying “Blur are shite”. That much, I guarantee.