“Patriotism is not enough”: Depictions of Englishness in Late 20th Century Fiction and ‘Cool Britannia’ Rhetoric
In 2002, English novelist Hilary Mantel opined that “The English sense of identity is beginning to fracture” (104). Following a turbulent century in which the British Empire disintegrated, widespread immigration to the UK saw a newly multicultural society rocked by racial tensions, and the British Parliament devolved powers to independent Scottish, Welsh and Northern Irish regional parliaments, a drastic shift in perceptions of national identity was inevitable. Critics, as a result, have widely agreed with Mantel.
Despite this alleged fragmentation, a cultural movement espousing a nationalist agenda emerged during the 1990s. Referred to as ‘Cool Britannia’ in the press from 1996 onwards, it celebrated homegrown successes in the arts. Several of the scenes under the ‘Cool Britannia’ banner accrued distinct genre tags prefixed with ‘Brit-’ to highlight their nationality; ‘Britpop’, the rock music scene of the time, and ‘Britart’, work by the period’s clique of artists that rose to prominence as a result of Charles Saatchi’s ‘Young British Artists’ exhibitions, are two of the most well-known examples. Such was the influence of this movement that New Labour, following their landslide General Election victory in 1997, sought to rebrand Britain on the strength of it. This initiative sought to reinvent Britain’s image overseas by rejecting outdated, heritage-based signifiers of British identity in favour of a more modern depiction of what Robin Cook, the Foreign Secretary, described as “a dynamic, self-confident, outward-looking society, proud of its place as a leading partner in Europe and a pivotal nation in the world” (Ward).
However, in spite of the movement’s support for British contributions to popular culture – almost exclusively English contributions, a confusion to be critiqued in due course – contemporary English literature was alienated from the movement. Accordingly, it has largely been overlooked in literary scholarship thus far. Yet the movement’s promotion of an Anglocentric agenda brought discussion of contemporary English identity to the fore, making it relevant to ongoing critical debates about national identity. As critics of both contemporary literature and ‘Cool Britannia’ agree on several key issues – including the aforementioned confusion of ‘Britishness’ with ‘Englishness,’ thereby reinforcing English domination of British identity, and the problem of exclusivity posed by the existence of a homogenous ‘English’ identity – there is clearly scope to fuse these debates and consider the two fields in tandem.
This paper will attempt to bridge the gap between these two areas of scholarship by examining London Fields by Martin Amis and England, England by Julian Barnes alongside key works from the ‘Cool Britannia’ era and contemporary journalism. In doing so, I will compare the ‘Cool Britannia’ depictions of England and English identity with those portrayed in late twentieth century literature. I will argue that literature was alienated from ‘Cool Britannia’ rhetoric because the latter’s proliferation of reductive forms of English identity sought to promote a coherent, reified English identity, whereas Barnes and Amis used postmodern theories and techniques to challenge both established signifiers of Englishness and the notion of national identity itself. These two ideologies were therefore not only disparate, but incompatible.
Neither author was aligned with the ‘Cool Britannia’ movement; indeed, London Fields was published in 1989, long before ‘Cool Britannia’ emerged. Nevertheless, its appropriation as a major inspiration for the Britpop band Blur’s 1994 album Parklife – the first ‘Britpop’ album to push a coherent English agenda into wider public consciousness – proved that Amis’s ideas on national identity were as relevant in the mid-1990s as they were at the tail-end of the 1980s.However, the distance maintained from these ideas allowed them to use satire to exploit and undermine flaws in the traditional English identities, such as those advocated by the movement. These flaws include the lingering taint of Imperialism, the tendency to marginalise communities outside of London, and the tendency to reduce English identity to lists of disparate signifiers.
My argument will be developed over three sections. The first section will establish the ‘Cool Britannia’ depiction of English identity using political, journalistic and musical rhetoric from the 1990s, as I believe they were the three most influential sectors to proliferate the myth of ‘Cool Britannia’. The following sections will focus on outlining the ways in which late 20th century English fiction questions the English identity projected by ‘Cool Britannia’. The second will examine how Martin Amis’s London Fields distorts established tropes of English identity, particularly class-based stereotypes and the centralisation of London, using an unreliable narrator and narrative fragmentation. In this section, Parklife is used to illustrate how the ‘Cool Britannia’ celebration of London, which endorses its centralisation, is at odds with Amis’s vision of the city. In the third section, England, England by Julian Barnes will be scrutinised in tandem with Mark Leonard’s 1997 pamphlet Britain™: Renewing Our Identity, the primary inspiration behind New Labour’s ‘rebranding of Britain’ policy. This section discusses the notion of English identity as a global brand, replication and authenticity, using Jean Baudrillard’s theory of simulacra and simulation to argue that the replication of stereotypes associated with Englishness projects a depiction of English identity with no basis in reality.
It is important to clarify my definitions of ‘Cool Britannia’ and ‘Britpop’ in advance. The Oxford English Dictionary Online defines ‘Cool Britannia’ as a cultural movement associated with the perception of “Britain… as a stylish and fashionable place, esp. (in the late 1990s) as represented by the international success of and interest in contemporary British art, popular music, film, and fashion” (‘Cool Britannia’). While I largely agree with this definition, I will challenge one detail of it. I would suggest that the time span specified be widened to include the early and mid-1990s, as the different scenes that comprised ‘Cool Britannia’ developed at different rates. ‘Britart’, for example, gained popular momentum from 1992 onwards as a result of the ‘Young British Artists’ exhibitions – the very name of which suggests a collective British identity. ‘Britpop’, on the other hand, had originated in the patriotic manifesto originally embraced by the bands Suede and Blur in 1992 as a reaction against the pervasive American ‘grunge’ culture, but did not reach mainstream public consciousness until August 1995. The early 1990s are, therefore, crucial to the accumulation of patriotic sentiment that resulted in the construction of an overarching ‘Cool Britannia’ rhetoric.
While ‘Britpop’ has sometimes been used to describe British pop music generally, it will here describe the 1990s rock music scene that, despite its name suggesting a scene encompassing Scottish, Welsh and Northern Irish artists, consisted entirely of English bands. The bands who most vociferously endorsed an Anglocentric ethos in the press and their lyrics were Suede, Pulp, and Blur, whose support for the English cause manifested itself in a trilogy of albums from 1993 to 1995 whose lyrics consistently centred on the minutiae and absurdity of English life. However, the most successful of these was Mancunian quintet Oasis, whose 1995 album (What’s The Story) Morning Glory? is, at the time of writing, the fourth biggest-selling British album in UK history (Lane).
With the exception of Pulp, preeminent Britpop bands invariably featured all-male line-ups. Yet women were not necessarily excluded from the Britpop narrative. Several successful bands, including Sleeper, Echobelly and Elastica, had line-ups that were either female-led or female-dominated. Yet ‘Cool Britannia’ became associated with ‘lad culture’ – a phenomenon fuelled by the popularity of ‘lad’ magazine Loaded magazine, launched in 1994. Sheila Whiteley suggests that:
The media focused more on the regional rivalry between Oasis and Blur, stressing a musical family tree which was rooted in territorial fraternalism. As such, its female bands, Elastica, Echobelly and Sleeper could only be relegated to second-division players if Britpop was to retain its identity. (271)
She also points out that the objectification or overlooking of women in ‘Cool Britannia’ was “partially rescued by the Spice Girls’ girl-power fun feminism” (271), although the band’s divergence from the Britpop sound – that of “guitar-led groups… drawing on specifically British influences… such as the Beatles, mod [and] glam rock” (‘Britpop’) – would arguably prevent them from being considered a Britpop band.
While Minister for Culture, Media and Sport Tessa Jowell’s dismissal of the ‘Cool Britannia’ in 2001 explicitly marked the end of New Labour’s exploitation of it (Laughlin), the movement had fizzled out long before this. John Harris suggests that Britpop had collapsed by late 1997, as Blur had abandoned their support of both New Labour and a pro-English schema, while alternative music journalism began to focus on more musically iconoclastic bands such as Radiohead and Spiritualized (Harris 347-8). Both this and the post-General Election disillusionment felt by the pop cultural press with Tony Blair by 1998 (Harris 358), whose administration had been bound up in ‘Cool Britannia’ discourse by its propaganda efforts, resulted in celebrations of nationality in the press beginning to wane. Following the failure of New Labour projects intended to help ‘rebrand’ Britain, such as the Millennium Dome, Tessa Jowell summarised that Cool Britannia “failed because it did not realise that ‘our national culture is something amorphous, something changing, and something complex’ defined by and open to external influences” (Laughlin) – a statement that, I believe, fairly reflects the limitations of attempting to comprehensively define national identity in a tumultuous period of history.
 Prior to the election, the party associated themselves with some of Britpop’s leading figureheads to appeal to younger voters. Examples of this, such as Damon Albarn of Blur meeting with Tony Blair at the Houses of Parliament in 1995 so he could be cajoled into supporting the party in the media (Harris 196-200), are outlined in more detail in John Harris’s comprehensive guide to Britpop, The Last Party: Britpop, Blair and the Demise of English Rock.
 This is not necessarily an exhaustive list. At times, national success in sport also contributed to patriotic rhetoric, particularly during the England-based UEFA European Football Championship in 1996.
 In 1995, rival Britpop bands Blur and Oasis released singles on the same day in what became known as the ‘Battle of Britpop’. The polemic potential of the bands’ disparate backgrounds, satirised by Pat Kane as “North against South, middle against working class, fops against thugs” (15), sparked a media frenzy.
. 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:
Despite sticky mud, a near-death experience at the hands of The Vaccines’ fans and missing Brian May on stage with My Chemical Romance, it was off to the arena for another hard day’s gigging. Here are the bands I saw on Saturday.
NB: * denotes that I saw their full set.
Saturday, NME/Radio 1 Stage
Due to a pub ‘festival breakfast’ offer which took an hour to materialize (and even then was only comprised of sausage and chips), I only managed to get to the NME stage for the last 20 minutes of their set despite whizzing through the still-impenetrable mud as best I could (‘whizzing’ through mud equates to marching very quickly and trying not to fall over) to the arena, thinking “Please, please, please can they not have played ‘Get Away’ yet…”. And, to my absolute joy, the first full song I heard them play was the wonderful ‘Get Away’, which is one of the best songs I’ve discovered this summer. They sounded great, though I don’t know how much the relief/joy factor inflated how good they actually were.
2. The Pigeon Detectives
Saturday, Main Stage
Got back for their last few songs, which incorporated some of their biggest singles – ‘I’m Not Sorry’ and the like. As an owner of their first two albums, I’d come to expect that their singles were good, but their album tracks were generic indie fodder; I expected their singles to be well-performed and the rest of the songs in their set immediately forgettable. Right on the latter count and wrong on the former – their lead singer’s voice just didn’t sound up to it on the Main Stage. Very disappointing.
3. Big Deal
Saturday, Festival Republic Stage
I’d never heard of them, and was really only watching them to fill the wait before Seasick Steve came on, but they were your typical boy/girl softly-softly vocals duo that we’ve been seeing so many of recently (The xx, Summer Camp, etc) – easy on the ear, wispy on the eye and totally inoffensive, but probably not going to set the world alight. They released their debut album two days after I saw them, though, so at least I can feel cutting-edge now.
4. Seasick Steve*
Saturday, Main Stage
For a 70-year-old ex-hobo, he’s done incredibly well for himself, especially considering that he’s only broken the markets in the past five years. And considering his age again, his live performance is impressive, even getting a girl from the audience to come on stage so he could serenade her. Using a broom as an instrument on stage is awesome enough, but using it effectively is several levels above… Having watched him, it comes as no surprise that he’s become renowned for his live performances, though he was nearly overshadowed (quite literally) by the impressive four-person-high human tower which built itself near us.
5. Two Door Cinema Club*
Saturday, Main Stage
They’ve recently hit the big time (read: started being played on Radio 1 and as a result have reached the Monday morning masses), so I expected a large and enthusiastic crowd – which was just what appeared. They were alright – decent enough, interacting with the crowd, churning out tracks from their album – but the songs themselves all sound fairly similar. This means that, when there’s only really one song by them that you know (‘What You Know’), you think that every song is that song, which is awkward when you get excited and start dancing before realising you’ve never heard this song before. That is, until you’ve given up hope of them ever playing it and then recognise the opening chords and find yourself part of a huge outdoors indie disco.
So, to summarise; they were ok, but the songs themselves lacked something.
Saturday, Main Stage
I didn’t know most of the songs in their set – that is, until the last twenty minutes, at which point it went from a fun gig to a great one. I’m still at a loss as to why they were so low down the bill when they were at least the third biggest name on Saturday’s bill (for those who are more grey around the temples, like my dad, they were probably the only recognisable name), especially considering the bumper crowd and bumper audience reaction (i.e.: tens of thousands-strong karaoke party) to pop pearls like ‘It Must Be Love’, ‘Baggy Trousers’, ‘House of Fun’ and ‘Our House’. It definitely was worth the hour-long awkward feeling of “Do I know this song? I feel like I should know this song. No, Jen, you’re not just here for ‘House of Fun’ et al, you’re also here to learn their back catalogue… though I really do wish they’d play ‘It Must Be Love’ already… BAD JEN. I’M A FAILURE” through the more anonymous ska numbers at the beginning.
7. Cloud Control
Saturday, Festival Republic Stage [3rd row, stage-right]
We were really only there to get to the front for Smith Westerns, my first ‘must-see/get-in-my-way-and-I’ll-kill-you’ band of the weekend. [The other three were Pulp, Best Coast and Muse.] But we were early enough to see nearly all of Cloud Control’s set and, although I’d never heard of them before, I was very impressed. They’re a three-piece outfit with a distressingly attractive lead singer who specialise in indie folk – unlike Mumford and Sons, who I dislike intensely, they’ve got more interesting layers to their music (think church-like harmonies, oohs and being generally less lethargic) and are the lo-fi antidote to overproduced pop, plus they don’t have that bloody annoying banjo – and I definitely made a mental note to check them out when I got home. Their album is good, but it’s far more restrained sound-wise – they’re a lot louder and a lot fuzzier live. Very good indeed.
8. Smith Westerns*
Saturday, Festival Republic Stage [1st row, stage-right]
Smith Westerns, along with Best Coast, have been the soundtrack to my summer; their eponymous first album was on repeat when I was on holiday and lead single from their new album Dye It Blonde, ‘Weekend’, currently stands at a heady 6th place in my iTunes ’25 Most Played’ playlist*. I was a little disappointed that they didn’t play more songs from their debut album, though that’s just because I know the songs better. Hopefully most of the crowd (who didn’t seem to have a clue who they were or know any of their songs) will have felt about them how I felt about Cloud Control, and made a mental note to look them up; I thought they turned in a good show for their first English festival performance, translating their fuzz-toned sound well for the stage and, intriguingly, appearing to have a bassist without a face (though maybe it was lurking underneath his hair). I can only hope that those who hadn’t heard of them enjoyed it as much as I did…
9. The National
Saturday, Main Stage [5th row, stage-left]
Another ‘band-I’m-only-here-to-see-so-I-can-push-people-out-the-way-to-see-the-next-band-who-I-WILL-kill-you-if-you-get-in-my-way-for’. I haven’t listened to them much, though I’ve quite liked what I’ve listened to online, but I didn’t find them particularly inspiring to watch. Mind you, I wasn’t focusing too much on the performance; it was more of a tactical weave through the holes in the crowd to get as close as possible to the stage for Pulp. And in any case, I was way too excited about seeing them to really focus much on The National, though I think the majority of the front portion of the crowd felt the same way.
Saturday, Main Stage [3rd row, stage-left]
Well, this was my highlight of the entire festival. Even if I hadn’t known or particularly liked Pulp, I’d have still watched them; it’s universally agreed that their live performances are spectacular, and this one somehow managed to better my expectations. You see, a band can play their songs as fantastically as possible, but that’s not a substitute for wit, charisma and general star quality. The best performances are carried out by natural performers – like, say, Jarvis Cocker. A crowd that had been muted and staid during The National suddenly became hysterical as questions and phrases were projected onto a sheet in front of the stage, each designed to kick the hysteria up a notch; one of my friends thought this went on too long – it probably did – but, for the Britpop nostalgists who had forked out £190 on a weekend ticket just for this, it was the only way of making us more excited about it before they launched into the totally reunion-apt ‘Do You Remember The First Time?’.
A setlist mostly cobbled from the track listing of Different Class, with a couple chucked in from His ‘n’ Hers (including my favourite Pulp song, ‘Babies’) and one each from penultimate and last albums This Is Hardcore (the title track) and We Love Life (‘Sunrise’) was seamlessly threaded together in an oddly effective narrative structure by Mr Cocker, who punctuated the interludes with anecdotes, witticisms and number-crunching (namely, that it had been 17 years to the day that they had first performed at Reading and first performed a little ditty about class which just went on to be their biggest hit…). But that’s not to say that this is a great set just because of his banter; he – not forgetting the rest of the band, who may be overshadowed by their magnetic vocalist, but without who he wouldn’t be here – brings songs that often sound good but slightly flat to life. I’ve always thought that ‘F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E’ (try typing that when you’re rat-arsed…) was let down because it took far, far too long to get going, but on stage, the long intro brings it a compelling atmosphere. By the time ‘Common People’ gets going, you’ve forgotten what it’s like to have any personal space whatsoever, but you couldn’t care less – Jarvis Cocker is thrusting on speaker only metres away from you, thousands of people are yelling the lyrics in unison and bouncing around like resting has gone out of fashion, and you’re as close as you can get to it being 1995 again. My idea of heaven, basically. [Though as you will soon read, it could have been even closer to being a big old Britpop party.]
11. The Strokes
Saturday, Main Stage
Someone at NME that decided that The Strokes gave a better performance than Pulp. That someone was clearly blind, deaf and crazy. That’s not to say it wasn’t a decent performance – their songs speak for themselves – but it just lacked something that Pulp come lathered in; charisma. Jarvis Cocker is, as I’ve pontificated on at length, a natural performer, whereas Julian Casablancas looks like he wants to be moping in a corner with a glass of milk instead of being on stage in front of thousands of people. There was nothing wrong with them, but they were totally outplayed by Pulp – mind you, most people would have been. That said, Jarvis ‘n’ Julian’s duet for The Cars’ ‘Just What I Needed’ was inspired. Definitely the highlight of their set.
I’m probably the only person who was disappointed that the rumour about The Strokes cancelling and being replaced by Suede was untrue. Not that I knew this rumour existed until I got home, but now I know there was a chance of this happening… well, it nearly made me shed a little tear. Ah well, they were good enough for me to not have a full on weep-fest…
A review of the Sunday coming soon. I actually mean the ‘soon’ this time, mainly because I’m beginning to forget what the bands I didn’t watch for ages were like…
*TOTALLY IRRELEVANT RAMBLE: Sandwiched between the full version of Suede’s ‘Stay Together’ (which, admittedly, is nearly three times longer than ‘Weekend’) and Laura Marling’s ‘Ghosts’, which is the only other non-90s song in my top 11. You may be surprised to learn that my #1 song is not a Britpop song. You may not be surprised to learn that the other eight songs in my top 11 are. Name them all for a prize [NB: my LastFM isn’t totally accurate in this, so don’t go consulting there].
Having ranted about something I dislike, I feel it’s time to return some cheer that is obligatory in the festive season, and therefore it’s entirely necessary to write about Britpop. Again. Because I love it so very, very much.
Ever feel like you were born in the wrong era, musically? Born in the week that ‘The Drowners’ by Suede, the first Britpop single to get noticed by the music world, was released, I was born in exactly the right era; the trouble is, babies can’t really appreciate music properly, and therefore I’ll still hand-wring that I was a case of wrong-era-conception. Thankfully, the spate of band reunions is fantastic for those of us who face this problem and spend half their lives wishing they had access to a time machine, and given the contemporary reunion-bandwagon, it’s no great surprise that Jarvis Cocker’s critically-adored outfit Pulp were the latest in a long, long line of artists who have reconciled over the course of the Noughties (along with my beloved Suede and Blur). Their defining legacy in popular consciousness is that of their fantastically camp, charismatic leading man Jarvis Cocker, his actions at the 1996 Brit awards (invading Michael Jackson’s Messiah-channelling performance of Earth Song, which he disagreed with on a moral level) and their biggest hit, ‘Common People’, especially its resonance in an age when having working class roots was the key to credibility, and an attribute which the record companies then sought to exploit. In any case, Pulp were genuine misfits; a bunch of (then) over-30s from Sheffield who had fallen out of windows whilst trying to impress girls (and people wonder why I love Jarvis Cocker…), had drum-kits fashioned from calculators, and had stuttered through the 80s making albums that were ignored or dismissed out of hand, in between sessions on John Peel. But then they got good. In fact, they got better than good… they released ‘Babies’.
‘Babies’ is the encapsulation of everything that is good about Pulp’s reunion – not that there’s anything bad about it. It narrates the story of a boy whose female best friend, who he’s always secretly fancied a bit, has a sister who has sex with boys in the room next door while they listen in; he then becomes obsessed with doing this and hides in the sister’s wardrobe and listens from there, before the sister one day opens the door, sees him in there, and has sex with him. EPIC SONG CLIMAX: the best friend hears them having sex! And why does he succumb to the slutty sister? In his own words, “I only went with her, ‘cause she looked like you!” Because he loves her, and not the sister! [weeps.] Convoluted? Extremely. But it makes for a song which has a geeky, gawky heart and soul. It’s not about brushing one’s teeth with a bottle of Jack or something equally dispensable and soulless. I can articulate less well the emotion which Cocker conveys in his impassioned cries of “Yeah! Yeah yeah yeah yeah, yeah yeah.” Therein lies the point: Pulp are both explicit and implicit. They say everything even when they’re saying nothing, but most of the time they are saying something – they’re speaking for reality and rejection, for awkward fumbles and predatory teenage boys. They’re real. They’re articulate. They’re storytelling maestros. I’ve probably moaned about lyrics in modern music before (seeing as I have bemoaned everything else about it), but even contemporarily they’re sharp. Even during their 80s nay-day they came up with gems such as “There’s a hole in your heart and one between your legs/You’ve never had to wonder which one he’s going to fill.” If he wrote novels, they would contain the sort of wittily insightful, poignantly perceptive pearls of wisdom that fill his songs. And, of course, they’d be full of affairs, sordid sex and scandal. Even the most straight-laced soul can’t deny that they obtain a sort of gossip-laden joy from reading The Sun’s more risqué elements, so why would anyone fail to enjoy the more smutty aspects of Pulp’s songs? Everyone loves a voyeur.
Lyrics aside – after all, they can only carry you so far – there’s the breathy, seductive vocals, which are full of a kind of lovable sleaze often heard in pubs and clubs that so fits the lyrical content. Image-wise, they’re riffing on a 70s-esque love for charity shop chiq and man-made fibres; they’re quirky! Joy! Back to the music, there’s the riffs and the synths and the occasional violin in the background which all work to a swooningly perfect effect – the latter in particular sounding absolutely beautiful in their Glastonbury ’95 version of ‘Underwear’. Candida Doyle’s synths help make them both indie-disco material and personal listening music; particularly with regard to ‘Disco 2000’ and ‘Do You Remember The First Time?’. But they can also do a self-loathing reminiscent of modern emo music, but without the parody; penultimate album This Is Hardcore’s opening track ‘The Fear’ is effectively music to slit wrists to. But it rises above such lowly stature by infusing a dark wit (“You can’t get anyone to come in the sack”, “So now you know the words to our song/Pretty soon, you’ll all be singing along…”) with its doom-filled rock. And then one need only look on songmeanings.com to see the other benefit to Pulp’s music: whilst not something which I myself have utilised it for, it’s apparently great music to have sex to (‘This Is Hardcore’’s title track being an apparent favourite; considering it’s a song about Cocker making his own porn movie, this hardly comes – ho, ho – as a surprise). So it has various uses, and they’ve got range.
And then there comes their apogee. Glastonbury 1995 was the moment when Pulp ‘made it’, filling in for The Stone Roses at the last moment. They had only just hit the heights of the chart with ‘Common People’, but this cemented the fact that they were, now, one of the biggest bands in Britain. I was lucky enough to see the footage on television the other evening; this marked the point when I went from wanting to see Pulp at next year’s Wireless festival to needing to see them. Jarvis Cocker’s random dance movements/gestures are quirkily endearing and strangely natural, whilst the songs sound great live (especially the aforementioned ‘Underwear’, the BBC footage at the end of which showing a sweetly wistful Cocker looking somewhat beautiful as his eyes are fixed skyward, presumably apologising to the Almighty for having unclean thoughts). The crowd’s enthusiasm is never dampened by the Roses’ no-show – they’re loving it. We were loving it at home. If Pulp can pull out similarly spirited, legendary shows at Wireless and Primavera in Spain, then there’s no worry about the audience not getting value for their money, because it truly was an astonishing performance.
So, what are we loving most of all about this reunion? We’re loving the songs, we’re loving the charisma, we’re loving the soul and the fact that Pulp are a voice for the talents of non-conformists all around the country. As they self-consciously put in the ‘Different Class’ sleeve: “Please understand. We don’t want no trouble. We just want the right to be different. That’s all.” Is there anything I don’t love about Pulp? No. So in my opinion, this reunion is a very good thing indeed. Jarvis Cocker shares the same initials with Jesus Christ for a reason.