In Simon Reynolds' splendidly comprehensive discussion of pop culture's obsession with its own backstory Retromania, he states that "every generation as it ages will want to see its musical youth mythologised and memorialised." Looking at the eras currently being eagerly painted with the nostalgia brush, one decides Reynolds can only be right.
With the assistance of my publication of choice, Melody Maker, my eyes were opened to an increasingly large list of often ridiculously-named bands. The movement's zenith for me will always be the early 1990s; but time (i.e. the press) has not been kind to the memory of the indie music from this period.
A festival tour, where you're encountering different bands from all over the place day after day, is even more likely to fill your brain with the most insistent variant of demented earworms. And so, upon my return from Fink's June/July festival run, I present to you, with the assistance of Spotify, my latest Festival Trip Tunes...
Bernard Butler had a great idea- he often has them- to film a discussion with each other about The Sound of McAlmont & Butler, our 1995 album, to accompany its reissue and a short tour later this year. Instead of asking a journalist to pose questions we would just have a conversation about the album in a cafe or something.
Weather, food, wine, beer and scenery aside, the things that keep us happily heading back to the big hexagon are the loveliness of the audiences and the quality of the French rock clubs. The owners, staff and often volunteers who work on gig evenings at theses places take such immense pride in their venues...
Returning to Britain, I joined another band and hey presto, two of the members were Swedish. Perplexingly we never got round to playing a gig in their home country, but we did manage to all go to a wedding in Stockholm which is the first and only time I've ever seen a wedding cake being thrown across a dancefloor. It ended up, quite literally, in the best man's face.
Plans for Fink's production rehearsals are plunged into a skipful of turds by one of those professional rehearsal spaces turning round at the eleventh hour and calmly announcing that they don't allow use of a smoke machine. Panic! Fink's entire live show is based around a smoke machine. I'm personally lost if I can actually see the rest of my band through lack of fog.
Here's the thing though: all of the awkwardness, the distance, the coldness and initial confusion goes out of the window the second they start playing. With a rhythm section that possesses you from the waist down with all of the force of an old Motown outfit, you can't help but be mesmerised by the musicianship on show.