The British Are Coming
falling in love with transatlantic sonic waves
In the 90s, I was coming into my own as a sexual and sentimental being. Wherever I moved, grooved, or brooded, it was to music — at home, on my walkman, discman, and especially in the car, cigarette dangling. Ages 14 to 24 were when my ears were most open and hungry for intense sounds. From 1990-2000, I was surrounded by music freaks from very different genres. My gothy, shoegazy sister, gay friends with a penchant for dance and hip hop, high school punk rockers, my industrial and noise pop-loving friend Eric - the music director at our high school radio station, my indie rocker boyfriend Jason who founded Stop Smiling magazine, and so on.
I was fortunate to have spent most of the decade in Chicago, a city that was pumping out dance and rock hits like sausages. That city had such unbelievable live music. The Chicago Reader newspaper was my bible, its ‘Early Warnings’ section, the Thursday Gospel. During high school, I contented myself with shitty garage bands from my high school and prayed for odd all-ages shows at the Vic or Metro. Turning 18 meant going to 18 and over shows, but 21 was the magic number less for legally drinking than for access to any and all music venues.
Being very tall, and in the company of my older sister and her even older friends gave me entry to clubs like Crobar, Berlin, Big Chicks, Dannys, and Red Dog even when I was only 14. It was such a thrill to be out dancing underage and on a school night. I was way more interested in the music and the dance-floor crowd than the booze. As young as I was, I almost never got turned away. Maybe that’s why sometimes I still get nervous when a bouncer asks for my ID.
The gay clubs were a safe haven with silly and frilly drinks. ‘$1 blowjobs’ at midnight was a beloved ritual at Big Chicks. There especially, dancing was free of groping hands. Radio stations like WNUR and WGCI filled out the gaps in my own meager music library. Back at the height of the CD era, music was an expensive hobby: so many easy-to-scratch surfaces and fragile jewel cases. I preferred to spend money on live music and dance clubs, and only bought the CDs for rare EPs, singles, imports or albums I truly adored.
The greatest thing about the 90s Chicago music scene was that it was kinetic. Everyone was into music, everyone was in a band, everyone went dancing. It seemed like pretty much every band and DJ alive played there. And if they didn’t, they were on the radio or at a club. That’s how I came to know European bands. My senior trip to Paris rewarded me with musical souvenirs of French rap and pop that rarely made it to US airwaves. Later, as a grad student in Paris, I would spend free time at Virgin and Fnac searching for novel British and French stuff while my friends’ mixtapes kept me up on American indie rock and underground rap.
The thread that linked the varied musical styles and groups I enjoyed was lyricism. Even as a high school freshman, words mattered. That’s not to say that I didn’t care for instrumentals. But the symbolism and the sonorous quality of the lyrics and the voice that carried them were essential to my listening pleasure. Britpop bands had an uncanny way of shining a glaring light on the gaping disparity of privilege from one class to the next, and alternately crooning about despair for an immanent social zombiedom, nuclear skies, common people, and desperate attempts to escape such ugliness through dancing, fucking, getting high or low. And these bands exposed hideous social wounds with poise and charm. Pulp is unrivaled in this cheeky ironic social critique. At the time, such a picture of life was disturbingly relatable. Me and my friends were all living as a broke students, drinking and smoking to make debt and shitty jobs seem cool. This is why, despite the breadth of my musical taste (which the following 9 albums do not attempt to capture), London was the heart of my 90s musical experience.
Magazines like NME and Melody Maker, films by Mike Leigh and Danny Boyle were a constant inspiration to my listening choices. How could I resist paisley washes of honeyed vocals, droning guitars, organ chords, and most importantly, the precious faces and stylish getups of Britpop lads?
British music seduced me through superbly produced melodies and lyrics that somehow made class conflict and apocalypse hopelessly romantic.
From 1990 to 2000, I was a spotlight dancer, a pouty rocker, and closet crooner. Here is my 9 for the 90s playlist.
Down In It captures the ice-hot sultriness of dancing underage at Crobar’s industrial night
Driving endlessly down Lakeshore Drive in the Summer. Black Metallic is an 8-minute tune that led to my friend Susi to coin the term ‘rewind song’
Sassy lyrics and jaunty beats, Saint Etienne combined the best elements of Britpop cynicism and infectious dance grooves
Barefoot Richard Ashcroft managed to transform Lollapalooza and the Vic into an otherworldly hazy swirl of voice, guitars, and bass
Pulp won most acerbic lyrics but Blur rated top in looks and output. Their range included haunting ballads, dance hits, goofy experiments, and raucous rock rants
Elastica’s modulation between pop and rock was more appealing than their Riot Grrl counterparts. Justine’s bob and snarl made her an icon
Drinking at Rainbo nextdoor to Soma Studios. Stereolab was in heavy rotation in the neighborhood bars, cafes, and restaurants. Moog Magic
A lover of Chicago House, never could I have imagined anything so deep and so funky could come from Paris. I adore the sexy zipper sounds in Burnin’ and Rollin’ & Scratchin’
The decade went in like a lion and out like a lamb. American Analog Set triggered a softer, folkier side of me that carried over into Y2K
If you enjoyed this piece, please ‘recommend’ it with a quick click on the green button below. Follow the 9 for the 90s collection for forthcoming 90s musical memoirs.
