I’m not calling for a cessation of all music and dancing until WWIII ends, but I am calling for a ban on Britpop. It just seemed a bit much to be bouncing around to unofficial national anthems at a time when our nation is aiding and abetting war crimes and an emboldened far right are torching migrant homes and campaigning for office in paramilitary uniform.
That’s not to say that the clientele of this dayrave are actively racist. Most if not all persons of colour here were treated with total respect and gratitude, because most if not all were among those checking our bags and serving the free drinks. Nevertheless belting out the chorus to World in Motion by New Order (“In-ger-land!”) is for me problematic in the shadow of Gaza.
The DJ was good enough to apologise, in the name of football, to any “Irish, Welsh or Scots”, as if it was inconceivable there might be any other nationalities present. It’s not that refugees wouldn’t have been welcome here; as they should be welcome everywhere. Only it was doubtful they would be able to sing along to bands like Shed Seven.
While it had some good tunes back in the day, Britpop is uniquely tone deaf for the quarterway point of the twentyfirst century. Unlike 1960s rock, 1970s punk, and 1980s indie, It was a genre free from revolt. A chart battle between blur and Oasis was the only point of social friction. The pop was for pop’s sake. The rock ’n’ roll, ditto. Those were feelgood times. These are not.
The only political topic for this insular genre was the class system in Britain. That this system was regarded with something like affection is the inescapable conclusion: blur were to amp up their Essex roots in a bid for downward mobility, before running for parliament and hobnobbing with the Cotswold set; Oasis were to heavily trade on scally ways, even as (now-Irish) Noel co-opted the Union Jack; Pulp were to observe that the middle or upper classes will “never understand” what it means to be common.
So here I was, a middle class, middle-aged man, with a group of middle-aged, middle class friends at an event so middle class it stole the Champagne from a well known Oasis title and called their merry bash Prosecco Supernova. And so it was that, as poor relations now to any Mancuinan rock ‘n’ roll stars, we fuelled our own midlife weekend afternoon rockstar fantasies with tasteful, budget alcohol.
As you might be able to work out from the photo I took, the ostensible DJs was Tim Burgess from the Charlatans.* I say ostensible because the setlist was so obvious it had to have been programmed for him. And it irked me that the Madchester scene was folded into Britpop, along with New Order, The Housemartins, The Smiths, and Teenage Fanclub. Will I be back in December to bathe in nostalgia with Bez from the Happy Mondays? Possibly not, but I hear he’s good for a selfie.
We staggered out into the June sunlight, as naive and lightheaded as university freshers. I got the train home to Brighton, which is contender for the most pop city in the UK. I was a few hours late for the Carnival Agaisnt Fascism, where ex-Housemartin and Big Beat DJ Norman Cook aka Fat Boy Slim was spearheading sonic resistance to a delegation of thugs marching, rather than playing, ‘for England’.
*I must point out Tim was not resposnible for either the football banter or the playing of World in Motion. That was a DJ from the organisers Star Shaped who certainly seemed to enjoy fronting tings. Good luck to him, yeah!