Suede (or the London Suede for the would-be U.S. audiences that never materialized) managed a nifty trick in the '90s Britpop scene -- they were ahead of the game and behind the curve, laying the foundation for countless bands yet failing to reap the full rewards. Their first splash came with their '93 self-titled debut, before Britpop was even a twinkle in the eye of the Gallaghers, with a decidedly English glam flavor providing an alternative to the U.S.-led pathogen of grunge. And in the duo of singer Brett Anderson and guitarist Bernard Butler, Suede had the best U.K.-born creative duo since Morrissey and Marr. But like their progenitors in The Smiths, the tensions between Anderson and Butler proved to be too much, with Butler leaving Suede in '94 after their second album Dog Man Star. As most punters saw Butler as the creative genius behind Suede, it was assumed that Anderson would make his rumoured drug addiction a full-time gig, with Suede being relegated to "what if?" status.
But that's not the way it turned out. With Anderson nabbing a teenage guitar whiz named Richard Oakes to fill the unfillable void left behind from Butler's departure, the re-debut of Suede exploded in '96 with Coming Up, featuring the first track and lead single "Trash." Gone was the dark glamour of their first two albums, replaced by bright metallic pop that kept their original essence alive while adding a glittering sheen, an Ecstasy hit for a glowering artiste. And while the full flower of Britpop bloomed in '95, one year before Coming Up, the new Suede fit perfectly into the revivified British scene that they themselves helped to create.
It goes without saying that I hopped on the Suede bandwagon from the first flush, reading about them in the pre-internet British trade mags, buying the import singles to get the b-sides, playing the CD's over and over again at work despite the slights from co-workers who didn't quite see the appeal of the output of some flouncy fuckers from across the pond. And when Butler left, I was gutted; I never got to experience the phenomenon of The Smiths firsthand, and just as I finally found a Smiths for my life and times, it was pulled out from under me. So when Suede was able to conjure up Coming Up and that oh-so-perfect "Trash," I stupidly thought that this could finally break them in America, which was horribly naive and ultimately impossible. But on the radio station of my mind (and I have that station quite well-constructed in my imagination -- the call letters would be WHAT, which is pronounced "Hate Radio" with bumpers that shout "WHAT?" at the listener, and that's just for starters), "Trash" has always been on repeat, a perfect sample of teenage angst set to a glam-rock stomp and wailing chorus, as close to a burst of dopamine as I have in my musical collection. And I can't wait to hear it again.
But that's not the way it turned out. With Anderson nabbing a teenage guitar whiz named Richard Oakes to fill the unfillable void left behind from Butler's departure, the re-debut of Suede exploded in '96 with Coming Up, featuring the first track and lead single "Trash." Gone was the dark glamour of their first two albums, replaced by bright metallic pop that kept their original essence alive while adding a glittering sheen, an Ecstasy hit for a glowering artiste. And while the full flower of Britpop bloomed in '95, one year before Coming Up, the new Suede fit perfectly into the revivified British scene that they themselves helped to create.
It goes without saying that I hopped on the Suede bandwagon from the first flush, reading about them in the pre-internet British trade mags, buying the import singles to get the b-sides, playing the CD's over and over again at work despite the slights from co-workers who didn't quite see the appeal of the output of some flouncy fuckers from across the pond. And when Butler left, I was gutted; I never got to experience the phenomenon of The Smiths firsthand, and just as I finally found a Smiths for my life and times, it was pulled out from under me. So when Suede was able to conjure up Coming Up and that oh-so-perfect "Trash," I stupidly thought that this could finally break them in America, which was horribly naive and ultimately impossible. But on the radio station of my mind (and I have that station quite well-constructed in my imagination -- the call letters would be WHAT, which is pronounced "Hate Radio" with bumpers that shout "WHAT?" at the listener, and that's just for starters), "Trash" has always been on repeat, a perfect sample of teenage angst set to a glam-rock stomp and wailing chorus, as close to a burst of dopamine as I have in my musical collection. And I can't wait to hear it again.
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