In an era rife with dark, brooding, anthemic artists such as Nirvana, Soundgarden, Radiohead, MC Hammer… Which tracks do I single out as my favourites, the rites of passage, the songs that made me the brilliant musician and general awesome individual I am today? Fake Plastic Trees? Come As You Are? Violet?
Here I stand, unabashed in my pure and consummate love for female-fronted, early 90’s pop nonsense. Apart from my lady-crushes on Lady Miss Kier, Lindy Layton and co., I’ve never quite managed to articulate my fascination with this particular brand of aural pop filth. Even during the mid 90’s (what I consider to be my formative years) I never wholly embraced this dirty little secret. I was a grubby little oik, I dressed like a boy, I was really into punk and ska. Admitting I loved The Boo would have been tantamount to sacrilege. Yet, far too many years later, I remain unfathomably ecstatic whenever I hear “How do you say, Deee-grooooovy?”
Challenged with explaining my passion, I find myself stumped. I suppose, in the basest terms, the pleasure I derive from these nuggets of cheddary-goodness is predicated on the sheer joy I experience when listening to them. I could be the most maudlin of maudlins, and still be unable to resist a foot-tap and perhaps even a head-bob upon hearing Naked Eye.
Well, no longer do I have to veil my shame. No more shall I secrete my Best of the 90’s in a stealth Spotify folder. This is me. And I am proud.
(Please don’t tell anyone).