Is it just me or does it feel like we’ve been chiming the return of the ‘90s for what feels like a decade? Maybe you’re thoroughly over pop culture recycling itself? Wondering why editors are so intent on circling back to an era that, for many, can only be experienced through an Instagram post? Which is all to say sorry, but this summer it’s all happening. Again. Truly, madly, deeply. You can get your comeback kicks fill in the form of Britpop poster boys Blur at Wembley stadium; Pulp’s big reunion; Nick Cave’s forthcoming book release; The Strokes headlining All Points East Festival and so on it goes. Frankly, one could hardly argue the revival as unappealing. If the 2020s were a boyfriend, be sure you would have broken up with him a long time ago.
The 1990s, comparatively, sounded like a joyride. An endless gravy train of fun and frivolity. Hedonist nights out, blissfully free from the depressing glare of social media paparazzi (“up until 1998 I must have spent £1 million on drugs then I stopped because it is bad for your health, brain, life and for people around you,” according to Oasis’ Noel Gallagher). A time when home ownership under the age of 40 seemed entirely plausible. When celebrity profiles were not watered down with PR-friendly mouthpieces. Long before Gwyneth Paltrow discovered yoga.
