LINER NOTES: THE WORLD'LL BE OK [2011-12]

1.    Licence to Confuse – Sebadoh

2.    Bad as Me – Tom Waits

3.    It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue [Version 1] – The Byrds

4.    Al Capone – Prince Buster

5.    The Vampire – The Upsetters

6.    Concorde – The Prophets

7.    Typical Girls – The Slits

8.    52 Girls – The B-52's

9.    Boredom – Buzzcocks

10.  Neat Neat Neat – The Damned

11.  Leave the Capitol – The Fall

12.  This Night Has Opened my Eyes – The Smiths

13.  Whoever You Are – The Brian Jonestown Massacre

14.  Sometimes – My Bloody Valentine

15.  Dead and Gone – TOY

16.  Any Day Now – Elbow

17.  The World’ll Be OK – Teenage Fanclub

18.  My God – Bombay Bicycle Club

19.  Lorelai – Fleet Foxes

20.  The Look – Metronomy

21.  Rock Lobster – The B-52's

Sound is analogue, consisting of continuous waveforms. The music derived from a phonograph record is also analogue and therefore a reproduction of the original sonority. Compact discs are not: they are the result of analogue-to-digital conversion, whose values are derived from a discrete set. Digital signals are snapshots of information that are converted back into an analogue waveform by way of an amplifier. By definition, the digital recording can only ever be a simulacrum of that which it purports to represent. That all said, a hi-fi system is only as good as its weakest link, regardless of the format, and there are many external factors that must be taken into consideration: the quality of the vinyl, the placement of the speakers, the acoustics of the room, the cables, and so on.

A photographic negative is the result of a chemical reaction arising from light being projected upon a plastic film coated with microscopic, light-sensitive halide crystals. The photograph itself is also born of a chemical reaction on a molecular scale: from the projection of the negative upon paper covered with a light-sensitive emulsion. As such, its optical texture is random. Digital photography does not capture light on photosensitive film but by means of an image sensor (usually a charge-coupled device, or CCD) which converts the variable attenuation of light-waves into electronic signals to convey the information that comprises the image. Thereafter, the image is printed directly onto paper using a peripheral device, such as a laser or inkjet printer. This method of printing lacks the continuity of tone associated with traditional photographic processing techniques, whereby the image is developed.

Digital music and digital imaging are analogous, then. Yet whereas vinyl is undoubtedly superior to its digital alternative, with photography it’s not so clear-cut. For one, the ear is more discerning than the eye. Or is permitted to be. You could in theory record digitally with such a high sampling rate to be almost indistinguishable from vinyl, but this would be both expensive and impractical. With digital imaging the extra level of detail doesn’t impact much on the size of the equipment or its relative cost. There’s certainly a difference between the photograph and the digital print, but it’s not – or at least not any more – much of a hierarchical discrepancy. (A bias towards saturating the colour green, to reflect the physiology of the human eye, backfires in verdant landscapes, but it’s nothing that can’t be remedied either in-camera or post-production.)

No, the catch with digital photography is that it’s ephemeral. Those of us who used to shoot on film will recall sending our rolls off to the developers or taking them into high-street chemists to get them printed. It was not an instantaneous process, and I think we paid more attention to the results because of this. Moreover, film limited the amount of shots that were available – typically 24 or 36 – and so I think we took more care and consideration over the composition of each frame. Those of us who could be bothered would also collate our prints into albums. At the very least, you’d keep them in the paper wallet they came in, along with the negatives should any of the human subjects want reprints.

Digital images live a more precarious existence. They’re lucky if they even make it onto a computer, and those that do may well end up in the recycle bin. The chances these days of an individual photograph being appreciated are about as likely as surviving an encounter with the Ebola virus. And when an image is deemed worthy of sharing, where is it normally displayed? On Flickr, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, or some other on-line vanity showcase I’m not aware of.

The practical purpose of (amateur) photography – to record specific events in one’s life, or to make something aesthetic out of it – has become secondary. The picture is no longer a representation of time and space but a symbol of time and space. It has become freelance, to be viewed when browsing through 'My Documents' whenever you’re retrospectively tagged or commented upon in somebody’s else’s on-line posts, or as an avatar, a personal logo. The idea that images should live side-by-side in an album – even a virtual album – and form part of a narrative is nearing redundancy. Photography’s primary purpose has become that of a marketing tool for the individual, a precession of simulacra intended as a primary source of self-identification.

Resistance is of course futile. I persisted with film for longer than most but it soon became clear that the industry was now calibrating their machines primarily to cater for digital imaging (this would have been around 2008, although Boots was making a mess of it as early as 2001.) There were independent businesses that still utilised traditional wet-lab technology but they’d become very expensive. So I went digital and bought a Ricoh R8.

Digital images don’t make for very good 6 x 4 inch prints. For one, the default aspect ratio for most compact cameras is different to film. This shouldn’t be a problem but service providers adhere to the standard 3:2 ratio, and so your prints are either cropped or a boarder is imposed to accommodate the whole image. For two, colours are often overly saturated and skin tones can appear unnatural. My advice would be to do away with prints altogether and instead compile A4 sized photobooks, which are more forgiving. The dilemma presented is this: holiday snaps aside, is it really worth incorporating all those random pictures of buildings, cloud formations spotted on the way home from work, abstract close-ups of road markings and street signage, shadows streaming through windows at oblique angles, and meals, into any sort of album? And if it is, would you get anything out of looking back over it?

Marrakesh

Sebadoh’s 'Licence to Confuse' reminds me hanging out with the guy with the indie tapes during my first year at university, early 1994. It does not remind me of a weekend I spent in Lyon with my partner in August 2011. 'Licence to Confuse' is taken from the album Bakesale, which was released on Sub Pop in August 1994. Ergo, I couldn’t have listened to it with the guy with the indie tapes in our halls of residence. However, I could have listened to 4 Song CD with him, which I bought on vinyl in or around June 1994. The four (proper) songs that feature on 4 Song CD all appear on Bakesale. I’ve only just worked this out, which means back in 2010, when I bought a copy of Bakesale on CD, I associated its content with something it couldn’t feasibly be associated with. The Sebadoh album that I did actually listen to with the guy with the indie tapes in our halls of residence must have in fact been Bubble and Scrape, which is a markedly different album. I’d been getting a bit misty-eyed over the alternative music scene as it was before Britpop got out of hand, and if I had to explain to somebody what this all sounded like I might play them Bakesale.

Neither does 'Bad as Me' by Tom Waits recall being in Lyon, but it does evoke the period. It might have been recorded off the lad who lent me The Sounds of the Suburbs, although it could just have easily been downloaded from iTunes. Either way, the lad is a big fan. 'Bad as Me' is as barmy as 'Big in Japan'. If you crave something milder, check out the deliciously paranoid 'What’s He Building?' off of Mule Variations.

'It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue' reminds me of the Heart & Hand in Brighton, one of my favourite pubs. It does not remind me of drinking in the hotel lobby of the Grand Hotel Tazi in Marrakesh, October 2011, one of the few places around the old town where you can buy wallop. The Byrds first recorded this Bob Dylan tune during the sessions for Turn! Turn! Turn! but it never made the cut. A slower, country-inflected iteration later materialised on the Ballad of Easy Rider in 1969, but I wanted the faster, rougher version they recorded in 1965. The Heart & Hand had it on their jukebox – still do – so I assumed that it had seen life as an early B-side. It hadn’t. It was re-released in 2004 as part of a collection of 7” singles entitled Cancelled Flytes, which is how the Heart & Hand must have got hold of it. (If you’re interested, it’s also available as a bonus track on the extended CD version of Turn! Turn! Turn! as well as the 1987 compilation Never Before.) This is not the first rendition of 'It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue' to have featured on one of my compilations. I included the 13th Floor Elevators’ much slower interpretation on 2002’s Come on Let’s Go, which lasts 5 minutes and 17 seconds. Bob Dylan’s original recording comes in at 4 minutes and 12 seconds, whereas The Byrds complete ‘Version 1’ in a little over 3 minutes, which should give you some idea of the relative cadences.

I wasn’t keen on my new job but it paid fairly well and my manager would regale me with stories about surviving avalanches, the efficiency of French town councils, and what London pubs had been like in the 1960s. This place of work was located in Brentford, which hadn’t changed much since I’d lived there ten years before. I was able to cycle there and did so most of the time. On Wednesday nights I began bouldering with Mr Wilkinson, one of the guys who used to live at The Grosvenor and a couple of their acquaintances. I was fit and working again.

Despite the two year time frame and the confused associations, I consider The World’ll Be OK to be one of my most accomplished works. This is due in part to my renewed interest in ska and rocksteady: 'Al Capone' by Prince Buster, 'The Vampire' by The Upsetters, and 'Concorde' by The Prophets. These three instrumental tracks allow the listener to rest their ear after the earlier onslaught of guitars, as well gearing up for what follows. 'Al Capone' by Prince Buster isn’t completely instrumental. He asks that we don’t call him Scarface because his name is not that, it’s Capone: 'C. A. P. O. N. E. – Capone!' The Upsetters were the house band for Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry’s record label, Upsetter Records, which he established in 1968. I don’t know much about The Prophets other than they were signed to Big Shot, a subsidiary of Island Records that was later taken over by Trojan. 'Al Capone' is certainly ska but 'The Vampire' and 'Concorde' would be described as rocksteady, which came after ska and before reggae. I don’t feel qualified to fully explain the differences between these genres, except to say that the shifts between them represented a slowing down in tempo, a diminished interest in brass and a greater focus on bass. (Legend has it that the slowing down of rocksteady occurred during a prolonged spell of hot weather unconducive to dancing.)

All this leads neatly into 'Typical Girls' by The Slits. The Slits were a punk band with an appetite for dub. In a nutshell, dub is reggae with the drum and bass turned up and the vocals taken off. Just as ska informed two-tone, dub and reggae had an effect on post-punk: The Clash, The Ruts, PIL and, dare I say it, The Police. The Slits debut album, Cut, is probably more experimental than any of that lot, its intricate rhythms reaching far beyond reggae. But, a bit like The Fall, if you can’t get on with Ari Up’s vocal inflections, it might not be for you.

The 30th birthday of the girl who was going out with the former cohabitant from Brighton was to be celebrated at Fitzherberts in Brighton, and I was invited. Such is the fallibility of memory, as has been proven, I hesitate to say whether I heard the B-52’s that night or not, but something of that type was certainly played. I cannot be sure either if it was before or after this party that I purchased their eponymous debut album. I do know, however, that the record had been on my mental to buy list ever since I’d heard 'Planet Claire' on BBC Radio 6 while working at Nikon between 2003 and 2008. In any case, I was looking for something to follow on from 'Typical Girls' by the Slits, and '52 Girls' seemed appropriate: both songs are strong rhythmically, both contain female lead vocals and harmonies, both incorporate ‘girls’ into their title. Despite The B-52’s reputation for kitsch, they could certainly rock – this is a band that cut their chops at CBGBs. Ricky Wilson’s guitar forms the backbone to many of their best songs, a guitar tuned to taste, often shorn of a string or two.

Buzzcocks Spiral Scratch EP was purchased from Really Good Records in Plymouth a few years earlier (possibly on the same visit that yielded Tom Tom Club by Tom Tom Club) in a sleeve that had seen better days. The hassle of recording vinyl onto my laptop had precluded its inclusion on any previous playlist so I decided, finally, to download it. Spiral Scratch was the third punk record ever released by a British band, the first and second being 'New Rose' by The Damned and 'Anarchy in the UK' by the Sex Pistols respectively. 'Boredom' is its lead track, as fast and frantic as 'Neat Neat Neat' by The Damned, which comes next. Both records came out in early 1977, within less than a month of each other, implying that 'Neat Neat Neat' can’t be far off being the fourth punk record ever released by a British band.

The Fall’s body of work can be categorised into four parts. The first phase spreads from the group’s first album Live at the Witch Trials, published in 1979, through to Perverted by Language, recorded in 1983. Thereafter Brix Smith joined the group, whose tenure embodies The Fall’s second phase. She departed in 1989, after the release of I Am Kurious Oranj, and the third phase then begins, probably ending around the time of 1997’s Levitate following the sacking of guitarist Craig Scanlon and the resignation a little after of bassist Stephen Hanley. (Those more familiar with their later work may wish to break the canon down even further.) I embarked on my relationship with The Fall in 1993, between The Infotainment Scan and Middle Class Revolt, after hearing Extricate – so during their third phase – and continued to work more of less backwards, reverse-chronologically. Live at the Witch Trials exempted, this fervid exploration of The Fall’s back catalogue ran out of steam after I’d reached 1984’s The Wonderful and Frightening World Of... (although I did also own Hip Priest And Kamerads, a compilation that gathers tracks from some of their earlier records). It wasn’t until The Wilkinsons gave me The Complete Peel Sessions 1978–2004 in 2005 that I was inspired to carry on where I left off.

Neither a single nor an album, 1981's Slates is an EP highly regarded among Fall followers. It’s far more upbeat (by Fall standards) than the work that proceeded it – the LP Hex Enduction Hour – and 'Leave the Capitol' in particular. In May 2012 I saw The Fall play at The Coronet in Elephant and Castle.

And never seen again.

I wandered into The Vintage Showroom on Earlham Street off Seven Dials, as is my want. Never bought anything from there but I like the feel and smell of the place. 'This Night Has Opened my Eyes' by The Smiths was playing on this occasion, and I was entranced. Why had it not resonated with me before? Maybe because it only appears on Hatful of Hollow, a motley collection of Peel Session tracks, singles and B-sides that I'd not listened to in a long while.

The Brian Jonestown Massacre double compilation album Tepid Peppermint Wonderland does not include the song 'Whoever You Are'. This surprises me as it’s among their best work. (Could be to do with copyright.) No matter, I simply bought Give It Back! which also features Anton Newcombe wrestling with the sitar on a number of tracks.

My nostalgia for old-school indie music pushed me in the direction of shoegaze, and My Bloody Valentine in particular. The group's early records aren’t really shoegaze at all and have more in common with the alternative American indie rock. Loveless is the where the association comes from, and it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, although 'Sometimes' is probably the most accessible song on it.

I would have thought TOY like My Bloody Valentine. They display the hallmarks of shoegaze – although the noise pop of Split-era Lush might be a more accurate point of reference – and they don’t look too dissimilar to how MBV did at the start of their career: long hair, drainpipe jeans, leather jackets, not a beard in sight. After watching the video to 'Left Myself Behind' and a live performance of 'Dead and Gone' on YouTube, I bought their album. The band appear to be still active, although it looks like a case of diminishing returns.

If you’ve read my liner notes to the 2002 compilation Come On Let’s Go then you’ll know that I purchased the single 'Powder Blue' by Elbow expecting it to be their album track 'Any Day Now'. I soon realised my error but settled for 'Powder Blue' in that instance, which is also very good. Elbow had since hit pay dirt with their albums The Seldom Seen Kid in 2008 and Build a Rocket Boys! in 2011, neither of which impressed me much but may have provided the impetus to finally get hold of 'Any Day Now'.

I left my job in June 2012. It doesn't matter why, except to say that my manager was very stuck in his ways and had a bad temper (although he never directed it towards me). So I was unemployed again. Perhaps to reassure myself, I fixated on the 'The World’ll Be OK' by Teenage Fanclub, recorded especially for their greatest hits album Four Thousand Seven Hundred And Sixty-Six Seconds - A Short Cut To Teenage Fanclub. I also needed a song to jolt my compilation out the reverie of its third-quarter, which is very welcome reverie but an unsustainable one.

Bombay Bicycle Club’s album Flaws had endured, and this time I reached out for one of its moodier moments. Mumford & Sons aside, I quite like the indie-folk sound, despite lacking the chin follicles to embrace the look. Fleet Foxes suffer no such impediment. The band bring a fuller sound to bear than Bombay Bicycle Club, a wider repertoire of instruments, grander gestures, production values more akin to those of Phil Spector, and beards.

'The Look' by Metronomy reminds me of revisiting the likes of Uniqlo in Richmond. It does not remind me hobbling around Porto, having turned my ankle while bouldering three weeks prior. I suppose Metronomy was born out of that electro-pop scene that flourished in the mid-2000s, although it was their third album, 2011’s The English Riviera, that brought them to the fore. I didn’t buy it – 'The Look' was downloaded – but the song is more than a mere novelty, despite the quirkiness of the accompanying video, and I made a mental note to keep an ear out for them.

Porto

The more I think about it the surer I am that The B-52’s was played down at Fitzherberts in Brighton. But I don't think it was '52 Girls' I heard. It was more than likely 'Rock Lobster', the band's first single, and a fitting end to one my favourite playlists.

[Listen to here.]

LINER NOTES: HARMONY IN MY HEAD [2007-08]

1.     No Pussy Blues – Grinderman

2.     Big in Japan – Tom Waits

3.     The Decision – The Young Knives

4.     Evergreen – The Brian Jonestown Massacre

5.     What Have I Said Now? – The Wedding Present

6.     Wings – The Fall

7.     House of Cards – Radiohead

8.     The Rip – Portishead

9.     Sugar Mountain – Neil Young

10.   Brides of Jesus – Little Feat

11.   The Pink Room – Angelo Badalamenti / David Lynch

12.   Pânico – Mercenarios

13.   Give It Lose It Take It – Field Music

14.   Bennie and the Jets – Elton John

15.   Contact – Bridget Bardot

16.   Lucky Number – Lene Lovich

17.   Harmony in my Head – Buzzcocks

18.   On My Radio – The Selector

19.   Gangsters – The Specials

20.   Pull Up to the Bumper – Grace Jones

21.   Let’s Dance – David Bowie

Bonus Tracks:

22.   L.E.S. Artistes – Santigold

23.   Black Magic – Jarvis Cocker

24.   Prodigal Son – The Rolling Stones

25.   Bird of Beauty – Stevie Wonder

26.   Cracked Actor – David Bowie

27.   Wordy Rappinghood – Tom Tom Club

28.   The Hungry Saw – Tindersticks

In his book A New Time for Mexico, Carlos Fuentes affirms that, 'Religious temperament without religious conviction has branded some of the greatest works of the twentieth century.' He offers up Luis Buñuel, Albert Camus, Ingmar Bergman and Graham Greene as examples of artistes who have attempted to make sense of suffering in the absence of Christ, to comprehend that which might be deemed sacred when divested of doctrine. Theism is antediluvian – predates the profits – and contemporary morality is derived, consciously or otherwise, from scripture, vouchsafed by the supernatural. In other words, you can’t get shot of God all that easily.

Fuentes might also have cited Nick Cave, who is not a man of proclaimed faith but nonetheless likes to make reference to Judeo-Christian subjects in his work. But not so with Grinderman. The album Grinderman is the sound of midlife crisis conveyed with such humour that you probably shouldn’t assume that the midlife crisis in question is necessarily Cave’s – or if it is then viewed from a distance. According to Cave, the song 'No Pussy Blues' was inspired by the negative reactions his Zapata moustache received. Cookie dusters are divisive at the best of times, so the result in and of itself is no firm indicator of middle aged angst, but the fact that Nicholas grew such a thing in his late 40s/early 50s maybe is.

I hadn’t made the connection when I put this compilation together – both tracks were provided by the lad who lent me The Sound of the Suburbs, so I might have expected to – but Tom Waits was also 50 years’ old when he recorded 'Big in Japan' and also appears to be railing against his advancing years. Whereas Cave just isn’t getting any, Waits can at least console himself with the fact that he’s doing business in Asia. Despite Tom’s gruff incantations that form the spine of the song, 'Big In Japan' is a far more buoyant tune than 'No Pussy Blues' but still rough enough to perpetuate a sense of anxiety.

'The Decision' by The Young Knives ensues, a continuation of the millennial post-punk revival, which was by now on the slide. Credit to them that their album Voices of Animals and Men was nominated for the 2007 Mercury Prize in the face of this. 'The Decision' contains the lines, 'I'm your monarch, your supreme monarch. That decision was mine,' which I take to be a comment on the illusory nature of monarchy: as if to say, 'I am the Queen's subject, but might I not make the same claim for myself: that actually the Queen is in fact my subject.'

Have you seen the documentary Dig!? If you haven’t, and if you like music, which you doubtlessly do if you’re reading this, then I recommend you watch it. Its subject is the trials and tribulations of bands The Brian Jonestown Massacre and The Dandy Warhols from the mid ‘90s through to the early 2000s. I was done with The Dandy Warhols but had heard nothing by The Brian Jonestown Massacre, so I bought the double compilation album Tepid Peppermint Wonderland: A Retrospective which gathers together 38 tracks spanning a period of nine years. The Brian Jonestown’ sound is various but can be categorised roughly into three parts: melodic folk rock numbers, like 'Servo', 'Prozac v Heroin', 'Nevertheless'; tripped out psychedelia of the kind you hear on 'Anemone' or 'Whoever You Are'; and, especially early on, a kind of lo-fi take on shoegaze. 'Evergreen' is from the band’s first album, Methodrone, and sounds like Slowdive jamming with Yo La Tengo. The common thread running through their work is lead singer and multi-instrumentalist Anton Newcombe, who comes across as a sort of malevolent genius and wears his heart and influences on his sleeve. His obsession with the 1960s is not parodic; making use of 12 string guitars, tablas and sitars does not exempt ingenuity. 'The Beatles were for sale. I give it away,' Newcombe tells us 20 minutes into Dig!. You can be cynical towards that, but it’s not the sentiment of someone interested in pastiche.

I used to listen to a taped copy of The Wedding Present's Bizarro during my second year at university. I’d got rid of all my old cassettes by now and didn’t have anything to play them on anyway. Cue Bizarro, completely remastered and repackaged with seven bonus tracks and extensive sleevenotes, on compact disc. This time around it was the tune 'What Have I said Now?' that stood out – specifically the moment when, after chugging along in F (with transient forays into A#, A and C), it crashes into E after the second verse.

Cologne

It took a while to compile this compilation. The reasons might be: my continued indifference to current music; a temperamental MiniDisc player and my decision to switch over to MP3; the difficulty of converting vinyl to the MP3 format; training for the Fuller's Thames Towpath Ten (mile) run; vacations to Cologne, Istanbul, Lisbon and New York; handing in my notice in July 2008; a five week sojourn in Southeast Asia and the period of unemployment that followed; apathy. I’d also taken to making ‘best of ‘ playlists of individual artists: Best of… Stereolab, Best of… Talking Heads, Best of… The Fall, and so forth. Putting together the best of The Fall was especially rewarding for I had added the records Perverted by Language and Grotesque (After the Gramme) to my collection, as well as acquiring digital copies of The Wonderful and Frightening World of…, The Frenz Experiment, Extricate, Code: Selfish and Shift-Work to supplement what I already possessed on vinyl. Such was the weight of material that I felt it necessary to divide my anthology into two parts. (The only other artist that has bid the same approach of me is David Bowie.) I took five tracks from the album Perverted by Language alone, although two of these – 'The Man Whose Head Expanded' and 'Wings' – were singles tacked on the end of the re-issued CD in the form of bonus tracks. For the sake of this compilation, I went with 'Wings', whose tempo and monotonous groove is consistent with the tunes I’ve placed before and after. In this respect, this playlist is more calculated than many of my others, which is the benefit of working with MP3. Although MiniDisc certainly provides for a cut-and-paste approach to recording, with MP3 it's almost compulsory, and so one pays more attention to the order of things. 'House of Cards' by Radiohead does a good job of following on from 'Wings' but works even better as a precursor to 'The Rip' by Portishead. (Footage of Thom Yorke and Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead playing an acoustic version of 'The Rip' appeared on the internet shortly after.)

I received my copy of Decade by Neil Young at the end of 2006, so by rights 'Sugar Mountain' should have kicked off this compendium. It wouldn’t have worked. 'Sugar Mountain' is a lament for lost youth (written when Neil Young had freshly turned 21) and nearly six minutes’ long, and it’s not going to get any party started.

Atheism, as it is currently understood, may one day prove to have been a passing fad, if only because its antithesis – theism – might itself lapse. Such a narrow view of things is problematic, not least because the subject is rooted firmly in semantics. The scientific and the religious – and I refer to the religious in the theological sense rather than the dogmatic, which is merely the realpolitik of organised religion – are interested in the same thing and destined to converge upon ontological grounds. Whether this terrain will be defined as Cartesian or monistic remains to be seen.

Jesus has a firm hold on our collective consciousness and his presence looms large within the realm of contemporary music, through gospel, blues, country, soul, and thus rock and roll. 'You don't want to walk and talk about Jesus, you just want to see his face,' incants Mick Jagger on 'I Just Want to See His Face', and he’s not alone: The Byrds, The Flying Burrito Brothers, Big Star, The Velvet Underground, The Doors, Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash, Manassas, Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, Felt, Spaceman 3, The Vaselines, Teenage Fanclub, The Verve, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, Half Man Half Biscuit… The Nazarene turns up in the most unlikely places.

Not a moment too soon, I discovered Minus Zero/Stand Out Records off Portobello Road. What’s this they’re playing? 

'The Factory, Lowell George’s first band – you know, the guy from Little Feat.' 

I didn’t. After releasing but two singles, Lowell George joined Frank Zappa’s Mothers of Invention as rhythm guitarist and co-vocalist. His tenure was short lived and after contributing to Hot Rats, Burnt Weeny Sandwich and Weasels Ripped my Flesh he left to form his own band, called Little Feat. Not long after clarifying this chronology, I returned to Minus Zero / Stand Out Records and purchased the Little Feat and Dixie Chicken albums, paired together as part of WEA’s slightly weird ‘2 Originals’ series, which repackaged two albums by the same artist in a gatefold format. The music is reminiscent of that I heard playing in the Eiffel Bar in Copenhagen more than a year earlier, although persons I’ve played it too have tentatively asked if it might be the Rolling Stones – songs like 'Strawberry Flats' can give that impression.

The title and the lyrics to 'The Brides of Jesus' suggest the Parable of the Ten Virgins [Gospel of Matthew 25:1-13], yet the reference in the final line to ‘entertaining angels unawares’ is attributable to Hebrews [13:2]. It could be that Lowell is playing one proverb off against the other, saying that the ‘five foolish virgins’ who did not bring surplus oil for their lamps, and were denied entrance to the ‘wedding’ as punishment for being ill-prepared, should have been treated better, for they may have been actual angels. Lowell Gorge died of a heart attack in 1979, and I can find no evidence that he ever expatiated upon the song’s subject.

'The Pink Room' is from the soundtrack to the David Lynch film, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me. According to the credits, this swampy, instrumental dirge was written by Lynch himself, rather than Angelo Badalamenti who composed the film’s score. I once listened to 'The Pink Room' in a static caravan on a campsite in the New Forest, with The Wilkinsons, the guy who used to own a pager and Roz Childs, surrounded by conifers and pines.

The Sexual Life of the Savages is a compilation of São Paulo post-punk that I requisitioned from my Cornish friend. I must have kept hold of it for a while because it made more of an impact on the anthology I put together over 2009/2010. In the meantime, I recorded 'Pânico' by Mercenárias, which sounds a bit like very early The Fall fronted by The Slits, only sung in Portuguese. I wouldn’t ordinarily have followed on from something like this with anything by Field Music, but 'Give It Lose It Take It' is one of their livelier numbers. 

New Forest

Like a lot of people, I’m not too bothered about New Year’s Eve. Ideally, I’d attend someone’s house party, preferably not mine, but for three years running I spent New Year’s Eve at the Hawley Arms in Camden. It was all down to the girl who used to live with my partner on the Isle of Dogs who’d met the proprietors on a beach in Southeast Asia, kept in touch, and extended a repeated invitation to see in New Year’s at their fashionable establishment. In 2004, rolling into 2005, there had been enough room to spray a celebratory bottle of champagne around without getting in anyone's way. By the time 2007 was imminent, there was barely enough room to raise a glass. I don’t remember much else about that night but I do remember enjoying Elton John’s 'Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting' playing. Mr Wilkinson advised I buy the 1974 album Greatest Hits, which I subsequently did. Rather than go through the laborious process of recording 'Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting' from vinyl onto our laptop, in real time, I picked up a copy of Goodbye Yellow Brick Road on CD from a charity shop for a couple of quid, introducing me to the delights of 'Bennie and the Jets' in the process. 'Bennie and the Jets' is a strange song in that it’s made to sound like it was recorded live, which makes me wonder whether it sounds much different when it is played live.

I wandered into Beyond Retro in Soho and found something I hadn’t bargained for: not an item of clothing but a sound. A lot of people would have asked what was playing, but I’m not one for talking to people unnecessarily so instead memorised key components of the song and looked them up on the internet when I got home. I didn’t have much to go on: it was sung in French, sounded like it was more than likely recorded in the 1960s, and exhibited a one-word chorus that exclaimed ‘Contact!’. It was French chanteuse Brigitte Bardot, with a little help from Serge Gainsbourg.

If not French psychedelic pop then what had I expected to find in Beyond Retro? Not sure but it won’t have been jeans, because fashion had finally caught up with itself. That is to say that the slimmer profile appropriated by purveyors of the post-punk and garage rock revival had begun to permeate the mainstream. Enter the Levi’s 504/514, a comparatively slim-fitting jean with a tapered leg offering a welcome alternative to the bootcut 507/517/527. The 504 would probably be considered fairly loose by today’s standards but in the mid-to-late 2000s was about as skinny as you could get. In 2007 I purchased a light blue pair of Levi 504s, which my partner ridiculed, and then a darker pair. In 2008, we flew to New York City and I picked up a black pair of corduroy 514s for a little more than $20, on sale in Urban Outfitters, which worked out at around £12. The 514s were slightly less tapered than the 504s and I had them altered to match.

Slimmer fitting knitwear was also now easier to come by. I’d been merrily buying my jumpers from Marks and Spencer since 2005 – specifically their Collezione range – and I was fine with that, but now I could find things in any high street store I’d be comfortable wearing: Fred Perry, Farah, Uniqlo, even Gap. Peacoats were all the rage too, whereas a few years earlier I’d been sifting through army surplus stock to find them. But it wasn’t as simple as that. Men’s mainstream fashion may finally have been shedding the boyish, post-Britpop baggy-isms that had preoccupied it for the last ten years but in its place was something almost schizophrenic. Whereas American groups such as Arcade Fire, Fleet Foxes, Bon Iver, and even Kings of Leon, were moving towards a leaner, more rugged sort of look, British groups like Hot Chip, Mystery Jets and Klaxons dressed like an explosion in American Apparel – tight jeans and baggy T-shirts in dayglo colours, with crazy hair. Ultimately, the boots, brogues and beards of our American cousins would win the war, but there was a very confused period in between where some of the worst offences of the 1980s threatened to take hold.

I got wind of 'Lucky Number' by Lene Lovich somehow – in another shop maybe. It was the brevity of the chorus that caught my ear: four dissonant chords sung in rapid succession and the ostinato that comes after. I found a copy of Singles Going Steady by Buzzcocks on CD for £3 – the same album the chap who got me into Sarah Records had lent to me in 1994/95 – and so reacquainted myself with that. The guy who used to own a pager was now playing guitar in a ska/two-tone covers band. Among other things, they’d play 'On My Radio' by The Selector and 'Gangsters' by The Specials, and so I downloaded them (from iTunes). These four songs were all released in the year 1979.

NYC

The laptop I was working from was not my own: it was my partner's and a mere repository for my music which I would then transfer across to my newly acquired MP3 player. The problem with interfacing directly with a mobile device is that you have direct access to everything stored upon it. You don’t even need to make playlists: just ‘play all’ or select ‘shuffle’ and let the hits keep on coming. The shuffle function is particularly pernicious. You find yourself continuously skipping tracks until something shows up worthy of your immediate attention. Furthermore, there’s nothing random about the algorithm that drives the shuffle function. Certain groups will make remarkably frequent appearances, whereas others will be conspicuous by way of their absence.

So I stopped using the shuffle function and set about putting together a compilation. I’d have normally done this with a certain amount of pre-planning, but found it simpler to make it up as I went along: Add to > playlist, notionally entitled ‘2007’, to be renamed at a later date when I felt suitably inspired. I listened to my incomplete playlist as I was compiling it, changing the running order here and there and re-transferring it across to my MP3 player as and when I added new songs. The problem was this mutable approach did not foment the urgency required to finish it. By the time 'Pull up to the Bumper' by Grace Jones and 'Let’s Dance' by David Bowie had been appended to the running order, I’d reached what would under usual circumstances have been my limit – the 80 minutes of time available on a MiniDisc. I had no problem adding to this duration, but where would I draw the line? At what stage would I stop subsuming music gathered in 2008 to a compilation intended to reflect 2007?

As it was, I felt the playlist worked well, so I decided to defer the tracks I had left over until the year after. It was not to be. The recording of vinyl continued to be an issue: the stupid device I had bought necessitated I record in real time and use software to isolate the individual tracks that then had to be saved as individual files of questionable quality. iTunes wasn’t as comprehensive as I’d been led to believe either, so I couldn’t source as much material as I would have liked. It’s conceivable that the reason why I included 'Pull Up to the Bumper' and 'Let’s Dance' is a direct result of this – as filler.

I have identified a number of tracks that might have originally featured on Harmony in my Head in less troubled circumstances, or could have gone towards a playlist for 2008.

American singer Santigold's second single 'L.E.S. Artistes' had been getting airplay, culminating in an appearance on Jools Holland. Her album, Santogold, was voted 2008's 7th best by the NME, while Rolling Stone deemed 'L.E.S. Artistes' to be the second best single. (MGMT and Beyonce topped the magazines' respective polls.)

'Black Magic' is off of Jarvis Cocker’s debut solo album Jarvis, which I have on vinyl. I was disappointed with it, if I'm honest, but the artwork's good and the price of vinyl had yet to go through the roof.

'Prodigal Son' is taken from Beggars Banquet, the record that kicked off the Rolling Stones’ golden age. The guy who used to own a pager brought it to Exmoor with us in 2003, but it had been overshadowed by Their Satanic Majesties Request. This seems odd because I’m now of the opinion that Beggars Banquet is second only to Exile on Main Street in the Rolling Stones’ canon.

In 2008 I bought, in fairly quick succession, the Stevie Wonder albums Music of My Mind and Fulfillingness' First Finale, and was more satisfied with the latter. I recall being enamoured with 'Boogie On Reggae Woman', but nowadays I err towards 'Bird of Beauty'.

In September 2007, I went to see a David Bowie tribute band, at the Grey Horse in Kingston, called The Thin White Duke. The keyboard player resembled the actor Ian Smith, who played Harold Bishop in the Australian soap opera Neighbours. They were actually quite good and their rendition of 'Cracked Actor' motivated me to add Aladdin Sane to my collection.

Back in April 2007, I picked up a vinyl copy of Tom Tom Club by Tom Tom Club on a visit down to Plymouth (from Really Good Records?). It’s a cool record to have and a good album to put on if you have people around. The Tindersticks tune, meanwhile, was another offering from the lad lent me The Sound of the Suburbs, taken from the album of the same name – their best since Curtains and one I don't think they've bettered since.

There were other purchases, most notably records by Black Sheep, Main Source and Public Enemy (all that stuff's already covered in my 'Golden Age of Hip Hop' tetralogy). Maybe that’s why I never got around to creating a separate playlist for 2008. Not because I was unemployed, spent five weeks in Asia or couldn't be bothered, but as a result of rediscovering a taste for the music I listened to in my youth after wandering into a bar in Cologne playing old-school hip hop.

[Listen to here.]

LINER NOTES: THE SOUNDS OF BADEN PEARCE [1993-94]

1.    Ana Ng – They Might Be Giants

2.    Lenny Valentino [Album Version] – The Auteurs

3.    No. 13 Baby – Pixies

4.    Cannonball – The Breeders

5.    Rebound – Sebadoh

6.    Trigger Cut / Wounded Kite at :17 – Pavement

7.    Arms Control Poseur [Album Version] – The Fall

8.    Ghost Highway – Mazzy Star

9.    Capital Letters – Moonshake

10.  Marbles – Tindersticks

11.  Transona Five – Stereolab

12.  Tearing Apart My World – Beatnik Filmstars

13.  Water – Automatic Dlamini

14.  White Shirt – The Charlatans

15.  For Tomorrow – Blur

16.  Line Up – Elastica

17.  Columbia – Oasis

18.  His ‘n’ Hers – Pulp

19.  Red Right Hand – Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

20.  Hand in Glove – The Smiths

21.  Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve) – Buzzcocks

22.  Naked Cousin [Peel Session] – PJ Harvey

23.  Bike – Pink Floyd

24.  The Gift – The Velvet Underground

25.  Ballad of a Thin Man – Bob Dylan

26.  The Chain – Fleetwood Mac

27.  House of the King – Focus

28.  Nineteen Hundred and Eighty Five – Wings

29.  Rapture – Blondie
30.  Reflections in a Flat – Half Man Half Biscuit

The Sounds of Baden Pearce: ‘Baden Pearce’ being the name of my hall of residence at the West London Institute of Higher Education, 'The Sounds' being a collection of tunes encountered over the academic year I resided there. Baden Pearce tended to be the domicile for people who came through clearing – ‘clearing’ being the system whereby you applied anew for a place at a particular college or university after receiving your A-level results, maybe because you did better than expected and wanted to explore other opportunities, or worse and were obliged to. (I had done better.)

Our rooms were meagre cuboids. A tiled floor, a rug, a single bed, a wardrobe, a desk come chest-of-drawers, a shelf, and a large cork notice board with room enough for a couple of posters. Boys slept on the ground floor, girls on the first in what was a two-storey building. There were no en-suite bathrooms; sinks, showers and toilets were shared. My lodging overlooked portacabin-style classrooms. Ducks used to congregate outside my window some mornings. There was a television, piano and table tennis table in the common room. It was a lot of fun but there were only two washing machines and no tumble dryer to speak of. One’s radiator took on a more vital dimension.

Eager to expand my knowledge of all things ‘indie’, I made an association with a guy who was well acquainted with the genre. He had tapes of the stuff and seemed to make a new purchase almost every week, which we would listen to in his room.

Sartorially, indie music could be hard to pin down but appeared to have little to do with fashion. Footwear and jeans might be bought new but T-shirts, jumpers and coats were typically found in charity shops and weekend markets – Camden and Portobello in our case. Brands and labels were meaningless conceits. Having much money did not make you a better dressed person. Clothes were not worn to reflect status or hierarchy; indie was supposed to be beyond all that. The attitude was that anything was permissible, both with regards to music and a band’s image: alternative, lo-fi, shoegaze, grunge, baggy, dream pop, chamber pop, jangle pop, art pop, drone pop, noise pop, slowcore, sadcore, hardcore, post-hardcode, post-punk, straight edge, industrial rock, garage rock, gothic rock, experimental rock, art rock, noise rock...  The indie scene was a very broad church.

This being said, there were a number of identifiable looks. Fans of American indie generally favoured plaid shirts, Converse trainers, suede jackets, well-worn denim and long hair. Skateboarding gear would also feature – apparel for the 'slacker generation'. The British scene was more eclectic and slightly smarter. With their mop-top hairdos and roll-neck jumpers, Bob Stanley and Pete Wiggs of St. Etienne and Bobby Gillespie from Primal Scream appropriated the 1960s long before Britpop laid claim to it. In the wake of their album Modern Life is Rubbish, Blur came up with a sort of Mod/Skinhead hybrid involving Fred Perry polo shirts, blazers, Harrington jackets, desert boots and Dr. Martens. Pulp had also developed their own style, a retro, charity shop get-up comprised of nylon and corduroy. Tindersticks wore suits. V-neck jumpers were doing the rounds. I rummaged through my dad’s old clothes and found a few, as well as a brown leather ‘car coat’ that Luke Haines (of The Auteurs) might have worn.

In my room

The Sounds of Baden Pearce was the name I whimsically came up with when I began collating the music I had on cassette and transferring it onto MiniDisc in and around the year 2000. In actual fact, there was no cassette carried over from this period. I would certainly have thrown something together during that time – possibly a number of tapes pertaining to various genres – and I’m confident that many of these tunes would have appeared on one compilation or another, if only because of the strong association they still hold.

I already possessed a copy of Flood by They Might Be Giants (taped from a friend during my A-levels) but 'Ana Ng' comes from an earlier album entitled Lincoln that I borrowed from the guy who owned all the indie tapes. They Might Be Giants were by now old hat, but I was playing catch-up and did not know this.

I’d read about The Auteurs and was persuaded to buy Now I'm a Cowboy on the strength of the single 'Lenny Valentino' – the album version is even better. Unfortunately, Now I’m a Cowboy didn’t live up to the expectation that The Auteurs’ debut album, New Wave, foisted upon it, but I liked their vibe.

Every aspiring indie-kid listened to Pixies and the Breeders, most to Sebadoh and some to Pavement (as well as Dinosaur Jr., Sonic Youth, Nirvana, etc.). If any specific sound defined indie music back in the early ‘90s it was expressed via groups like these. The guy with the tapes provided Pixies, The Breeders and Pavement, while I bought Sebadoh’s 4 Song CD – on vinyl – on his advice. All the songs worth hearing on this EP later appeared on the album Bakesale, rendering it obsolete.

The Fall were at the height of their popularity after 1993’s The Infotainment Scan had entered the album charts at no. 9. I borrowed Extricate from the guy with tapes, which was the only Fall album he had, and played it to death. Come the end of the academic year, I’d own This Nation’s Saving Grace, The Wonderful and Frightening World Of..., The Frenz Experiment, Bend Sinister, Shift-Work, Code: Selfish, The Infotainment Scan and Middle Class Revolt. 'Arms Control Poseur' is my favourite track off of Extricate, although frustratingly it isn’t included on the abridged vinyl copy I picked up years later.

Tapes guy purchased the Mazzy Star LP So Tonight That I Might See as soon as it came out (October 1993). It made such an impression that I quickly bought their earlier record, She Hangs Brightly (May 1990). We journeyed to the Mean Fiddler intent on seeing them play live only to find the gig had been cancelled. If we had tried to buy tickets in advance we would have found found this out, but as it was we had no way of knowing – no internet, no mobile phone, no anything.

Moonshake utilised samples and had odd drum patterns. Tapes guy had a copy of their first album Eva Luna, and on a visit to Bristol to see family I purchased the mini-album Big Good Angel, from which 'Capital Letters' is derived. This was last release featuring the old line-up, before band member Margaret Fiedler left (or was kicked out) to form Laika. Tapes guy and I went to see them play at the Highbury Garage, I suppose to promote their third album, The Sound Your Eyes Can Follow. All I remember of it was a loud brass section, tapes guy chatting to a member of The Family Cat, and Lætitia Sadier from Stereolab asking me if I had a spare cigarette.

Tindersticks were from Nottingham and seemed older and more sophisticated than many of their peers, which they were. Their music could be described as dark chamber pop, incorporating string arrangements, woodwind instruments, horns, Spanish guitar. Tindersticks’ eponymously titled debut was nominated album of the year by the magazine Melody Maker, and deserved to be. [When it was suggested by Melody Maker (March 18 1995) that their look was contrived, Stuart Staples retorted, 'It's not that we wouldn't be able to make the music we do in jeans and T-shirts, it's that if we were the sort of people who did wear jeans and T-shirts, we wouldn't make the music that we do.']

The passage of time has tricked me into associating Stereolab with a period of my life it can’t have had much to do with. I purchased the Ping Pong EP in July 1994, which was almost as soon as I returned to Plymouth for the summer holidays, and the LP Mars Audiac Quintet in August. Regardless, this music has a strong association with that which surrounds it, lending weight to the theory that I did indeed compile something representative during this period, perhaps in Plymouth.

The Beatnik Filmstars had a hard, lo-fi sound more akin to American indie-rock, but with the softer vocal inclinations of British jangle pop/shoegaze. Automatic Dlamini was John Parish's gig, but their second album, 1992's From a Diva to a Diver, included contributions from Polly Harvey. Both groups where part of a Somerset and Bristol based indie scene that the guy with the tapes was also part of, by way of his involvement with a band called The Tony Head Experience.

As well as hanging out with the guy with all the tapes, I was friendly with a Welsh lad who looked a bit like Keanu Reeves. I possessed the Charlatans 12" 'Weirdo' but nothing other than that. Welsh lad had The Charlatans’ first album, Some Friendly, on vinyl, and we both bought Up to Our Hips on tape when it was made available in March for the paltry sum of £3.99 (tapes normally retailed at around £8, give or take, while CDs would set you back about £12). 'White Shirt' is my favourite tune from Some Friendly and better than anything off of Up to Our Hips, which isn’t The Charlatans’ best work.

The Charlatans would later find themselves co-opted into the Britpop movement, but the zeitgeist that was to beget the scene had yet to be given its name. You sensed something was happening but didn’t know what it was. The term new wave of new wave (NWONW) was being bandied about, with regards to groups like Elastica, S*M*A*S*H and These Animal Men, but it never really caught on. In any case, Pulp and Oasis couldn’t have sounded more unlike each other. The scene as it was, there was plenty of room for both and no obligation to align yourself this way or that. If you stopped the clock here – 1993 running into 1994 – you might think British indie music was a wonderfully diverse and multi-faceted thing.

'For Tomorrow' by Blur correlated with my impression of London: Portobello Road on a Saturday, the Notting Hill Record and Tape Exchange, Kensington Market, all-you-can-eat buffets at Deep Pan Pizza on Leicester Square, Hammersmith flyover, HMV Megastore on Oxford Street, the District Line, Camden Town. It wasn't just their music but Blur's image, which felt more urbane than many of their contemporaries, Suede included. This impression was probably enhanced by repeated viewings of the tour documentary Starshaped, which tapes guy acquired on video. This was a very different Blur on display to the one that would trade punches with Oasis, and all the better for it: less calculated, more immediate, whimsically humorous, if somewhat jaded. For a while they were my favourite band and Modern Life is Rubbish one of my most listened to albums.

I perceived Elastica to be a more local concern. Lead singer Justine Frischmann grew up down the road, and tapes guy and I once ran into her shopping with her mother in Richmond. Tapes guy wasn't shy, so he introduced himself and informed her we were both fans, to which she responded with good grace. We then proceeded to creepily follow her back, at a distance, to her parents' house in Twickenham (not my idea).

A couple of weeks before Blur released Parklife, Oasis unleashed their debut single, 'Supersonic'. Whereas Blur’s game changer shot straight to number one in the UK album charts, Oasis’s single only made it as high as number 31 in the concomitant ranking. 'Supersonic' was a good song, but 'Columbia', which was only included on the CD iteration, was even better. The next two singles leading up to the album ('Shakermaker' and 'Live Forever') fared much better, and by the time Definitely Maybe hit the shops in August Oasis were easily as popular as Blur.

Meanwhile, Pulp’s His ‘n’ Hers had almost slipped under the radar, although it still peaked at number 9 in the charts, which was more than respectable. The title track wasn’t actually included on the album but surfaced on The Sisters EP released in late May, just in time for my 19th birthday (a present from the guy with tapes). I could have just as easily have included 'Staks' on this compilation, the B-side to the single 'Razzmatazz'. I found it on Intro – The Gift Recordings, which was as good an introduction to Pulp as anyone could've asked for.

I didn’t take to the front cover of Let Love In by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds but trusted that the guy with the tapes knew what he was buying. I don’t actually recall much of the album other than the track 'Red Right Hand', but it’s quite some track and one that Cave plays live to this day.

I picked up a copy of The Smiths’ debut in an indoor flea market in Richmond that no longer exists for about £3 (along with the 12” of 'Hey! Luciani' by The Fall). The tapes guy had Hatful of Hollow on tape so this purchase was by no means out of the blue, but having a vinyl copy of that album felt significant somehow.

Another one of my university chums owned a compilation entitled The Sound of the Suburbs, all about punk and new wave. This is where the Buzzcocks tune came from, and it also put me in touch with The Jam, The Undertones, The Stranglers and Blondie. Actually, I was already getting into Blondie on account of a girl who was a massive fan, with whom I had a bit if a thing. (She would go on to provide me with a copy of Definitely Maybe on the day of its release.)

As well as lending me his cassettes, the guy with the indie tapes introduced me to a number of other things, such as the NME and Melody Maker, suede as a viable material, the films of Woody Allen and John Peel’s Festive 50. I must concede to having never listened to John Peel up until this point in my life, and although I didn’t suddenly start tuning in religiously I did make a point of recording that year’s Festive 50. This allowed me to obtain a copy of 'Naked Cousin' by PJ Harvey, which hadn’t featured on any of her records and was only made commercially available in 2006 when she collated her Peel Sessions onto an album.

College Grounds

It became evident that to fully appreciate indie music you had to know a bit about the history of alternative music in general and some of the acts that comprise the cannon: The Beatles, The Velvet Underground, The Byrds, Syd  Barrett, Bowie, the Stones, and so on. The Welsh lad who looked a bit like Keanu Reeves was very into The Beatles, and many evenings were spent listening to Abbey Road and ‘The White Album’, as well as Paul McCartney and Wings. My parents used to play these records when I was younger, but it was revelatory listening to it now as a teenager, earnestly in a darkened room. I was also introduced to what might be called progressive psychedelic rock: bands like Gong, Caravan, Camel, Focus. I never really liked this music enough to bother recording any of it, although I did enjoy Angel’s Egg by Gong. The same cannot be said of Pink Floyd’s The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, which I obtained from the lad who lent me The Sound of the Suburbs. There are far better songs than 'Bike' on the album, but when I was putting this compilation together I felt I needed to convey some of the more humorous aspects of the music I was being introduced to (see also Half Man Half Biscuit).

Indie tapes guy obliged with the first VU album but I never gave it the attention it warranted; all I cared for was 'Venus in Furs' which had recently featured in an advert for Dunlop tyres. However, tapes guy also had a recording of 'The Gift' off of Velvet Underground’s White Light/White Heat. It tells the improbable tale of Waldo Jeffers who, lovesick, mails himself to his long distance lover, Marsha Bronson, only for her to inadvertently skewer him with a sheet-metal cutter as she struggles to open the box that transported him. The plot is not so much the thing, it’s all about the language, the phrasing and John Cale’s delightful Welsh lilt.

The Welsh lad who looked like Keanu Reeves – who didn’t have a very strong Welsh accent, come to think of it – also liked Bob Dylan and Fleetwood Mac. My old man liked Bob Dylan too, but his music had never left much of an impression. Repeated listens in Welsh lad’s room to Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde saw this right. Fleetwood Mac I was more familiar with, but again I’d never made any effort to properly engage with them. Welsh lad had Rumours, and I borrowed my father’s copy of Greatest Hits (the 1971 edition). Over the years I have included both 'The Chain' and 'Dragonfly' on this compilation, but never at the same time, so take your pick. Similarly, anything from Band on the Run by Wings will do (or Red Rose Speedway for that matter).

The calm before the storm. I’d seen The Breeders supported by Luscious Jackson at The Forum in Kentish Town, The Fall at the same venue (different night), The Fall again at The Fridge in Brixton, Moonshake at The Garage, the Moonflowers somewhere between Fulham and Hammersmith – all in the company of the guy with the indie tapes – and These Animal Men at Connections in Plymouth. The criteria for going to these gigs were just fancying it and the availability of tickets. There was never any question of being part of something, of it being a communal experience. When did it all change? When did indie music become embroiled in another scene?

Britpop’s ascendancy was gradual and by no means assured. The received wisdom is that it started with 'Popscene' by Blur in the spring of 1992. If that’s true then nobody really noticed. Besides, it was Suede who were making waves. Their debut single 'The Drowners' was voted single of the year in the NME, although it only reached number 49 in the charts, which isn’t the stuff movements are made of.

How about 1993? Did that April issue of Select Magazine – the one that’s wheeled out every time the origins of Britpop are being discussed, with the serpentine Brett Anderson on its cover – not signal the start of something? To a degree: both Suede’s eponymous debut album and Blur’s second made it into NME’s top 10 albums that year. But then so too did Black Sunday by Cypress Hill, Come on Feel the Lemonheads by the Lemonheads, Siamese Dream by Smashing Pumpkins, Star by Belly, and Bjork’s debut, Debut. (Cannonball by The Breeders was voted best single.)

What about April 1994, the month that saw the release of two of Britpop’s defining albums: His ‘n’ Hers by Pulp and Parklife by Blur? Possibly, but the effect was not as immediate as one might assume. Britpop’s prime movers were still sharing a fair proportion of airtime, the front covers of magazines and placings in polls with acts as diverse as R.E.M., Manic Street Preachers, The Stone Roses, a recently deceased Kurt Cobain, Morrissey, Primal Scream, Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, The Auteurs, The Prodigy, Jeff Buckley, Beastie Boys, NAS, Public Enemy, Johnny Cash, Pavement, Sebadoh, Pearl Jam.

You have to hand it to Oasis. It was Definitely Maybe that promulgated Britpop’s arrival as a populist movement. The lads who had been grooving away to The Stone Roses, Happy Mondays, and Inspiral Carpets just a few years earlier were not the sort to be seduced by the likes of Suede, Pulp and Blur. But know this: it took until 1995, maybe even 1996, for the aggro vested upon fans of alternative music – or towards people with alternative lifestyles in general – to finally settle down, for the jibes and the dirty looks and the threats of violence to subside, the objections towards how you wore your hair or how thin you were, or something as innocuous as a leather jacket or a roll neck sweater.

[Listen to here.]