Did we really live like this? Back when everyone was mining the dark deposits of the grunge psyche, this Britpop ephemera was sold as pop’s pit canary – flighty, feather-brained, providing the dazzle and, yes, sparkle, that just doesn’t come easy in plaid. Now, hearing [a]My Life Story[/a] is like looking at morris dancers and wondering how our ancestors didn’t strangle them with their own kerchiefs.
. It’s ‘Different Class’ doctored by Lionel Bart, ‘Non Stop Erotic Cabaret’ lacking that vital third word. Tracks that attempt to be shocking revelations about supermodel exploitation! (‘Empire Line’), or America being a crazy place! (‘The New New Yorker’) condescend to nameless girls who sleep in their make-up, with Jake coming on like some creepy Victorian “philanthropist” helping lost women. Even the ambitiously attempted Elvis Costello gravitas (‘Walk/Don’t Walk’, ‘Sunday Tongue’) largely means mangling vowels through the spin cycle. Like, in a launderette. Where junkies hang out. In London.
Yes, we really lived like this. We don’t have to any more.