The music of The Cure has never just been something I listened to in the background. It has been tied to different versions of my life.

It started with The Head on the Door (The Cure), then deepened with Disintegration (The Cure), expanded through Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me (The Cure), softened with Wish (The Cure), and even got reinterpreted through Mixed Up (The Cure).

Later, compilations like Staring at the Sea: The Singles (The Cure) and Greatest Hits (The Cure) brought everything into focus in a different way.

And now, with Songs of a Lost World (The Cure), it feels like the story has come full circle.
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This isn’t just about albums. It’s about how the same band can mean different things depending on where you are in life.

I bought Viva Hate the day it came out in March 1988. It’s now thirty‑eight years old, and while I could tell you how old that makes me, I’d rather not trigger an existential crisis before we even get to the music. Back then, I was a Smiths fan wandering into a post‑1987 world, trying to figure out what life looked like without the band that had shaped everything. For anyone curious, the vinyl version of Viva Hate is available here.

I was still recovering from the breakup of The Smiths, my favourite band of all time, who had fallen apart in 1987 — most say August. They’d formed in 1982, released four studio albums including the masterpiece The Queen Is Dead, and finished with Strangeways, Here We Come in September 1987. Both Morrissey and Marr have said it’s their favourite, and it’s hard to disagree.

If you ignore demos, live versions, and alternate takes, The Smiths left behind seventy original songs and four covers. Most fans can identify any track within seconds — a skill I quietly brag about, though no one seems especially impressed. Those seventy‑four songs shaped so many lives, mine included, so Morrissey’s first solo album felt like a bridge between what we’d lost and whatever was coming next.

Morrissey moved quickly after the breakup, and he carried some of The Smiths’ spirit with him. Stephen Street was the biggest link — he’d engineered several Smiths records, including The Queen Is Dead, and stepped in to help Morrissey find his footing. He co‑wrote much of Viva Hate and produced the entire album. If you hear any jangly, Smith‑adjacent DNA — not quite Marr’s genius, but definitely in the family — that’s Street.

Andrew Paresi, who played drums on some Strangeways tracks, also returned for the sessions. And the overall mood of the album — English melancholy, sharp lyrics, that familiar lyricist‑plus‑composer dynamic — feels like The Smiths’ shadow still lingering, just with Street instead of Marr.

Mike Joyce and Andy Rourke weren’t part of the album, but Andy did play on several early Morrissey singles like “Interesting Drug” and “The Last of the Famous International Playboys,” with Joyce drumming on some of those too. It was a brief moment before legal tensions took over, but having three‑quarters of The Smiths involved in Morrissey’s early solo work felt like a small miracle. Without Marr, it wasn’t the same, but it was the best we had.

I’ve been listening to Viva Hate for thirty‑eight years, and beyond the iconic singles — “Everyday Is Like Sunday” and “Suedehead” — it remains a remarkably strong debut. At the time, it was seen as a confident, emotionally rich continuation of Morrissey’s world after The Smiths. It had depth, atmosphere, and several tracks that still hold up today.

In Morrissey’s discography, it usually sits in the top three or four, which says a lot when you consider albums like Vauxhall and I, Your Arsenal, You Are the Quarry, Ringleader of the Tormentors, and even his latest work, Make up is a Lie.

Essential Morrissey Vinyl

• Bona Drag
  
• Vauxhall and I
  
• You Are the Quarry
  
• Make up is a Lie
  

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The album has a very particular mood. If you enjoy walking alone through a quiet seaside town in early spring — grey skies, a bit of cold in the air — you’ll understand the feeling immediately. “Late Night, Maudlin Street” runs seven minutes and forty seconds, and you need every one of them to let the memories unfold. The opening track, “Alsatian Cousin,” sliding into “Little Man, What Now?”, has a sharpness that pulls you in. “Break Up the Family” carries a post‑Smiths ache — not directly about the breakup, but you can feel the sense of being a little lost.

And the B‑sides from this era are incredible. Many ended up on Bona Drag: “Hairdresser on Fire,” “I Know Very Well How I Got My Name,” “Disappointed,” “Sister I’m a Poet,” “Will Never Marry,” plus extras like “Let the Right One Slip In,” “At Amber,” and “Michael’s Bones.” Some of these could have easily made Viva Hate a perfect ten.
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Over the years, the album has become a quiet companion — a walk through my own memories, youthful hopes, and the highs and lows of life. Sometimes sad, sometimes comforting, but always quietly beautiful. Thirty‑eight years on, Viva Hate still hums in the background, steady as ever.

If you liked this, check out:

• Why Hatful of Hollow Is the Best Smiths Album — a love letter to the raw, imperfect magic that made the band matter.
• Morrissey – Make Up Is a Lie: First Impressions — a look at the complicated, brilliant, frustrating artist behind the voice.​

If you’re building your setup, you can explore the full Vinyl Essentials guide covering turntables, cleaning, and accessories.

What was the first concert you ever saw?

It’s one of those deceptively simple questions that opens a door straight into memory. Ask anyone and you’ll see it happen—the pause, the flicker of recognition, the small smile. First concerts are rarely just events. Even if they felt casual or last minute at the time, they become origin stories. They settle into the emotional architecture of who we are.

For many of us, that first real show marks the moment music becomes real. It moves beyond the headphones, cassettes, and radio of the day and steps into the physical world: loud, bright, overwhelming, alive. Suddenly you’re not just listening. You’re inside it. An arena full of fans, the lights, the anticipation, the collective heartbeat. It’s a full sensory experience, and your brain knows it’s important. That’s why these memories stay accessible decades later, ready to be pulled up with total clarity.

A first concert also says something about who you were becoming. What you were drawn to. What felt big, or emotional, or necessary at that moment in your life. It’s a rite of passage, your first self‑chosen emotional experience. Even if you go alone, you’re stepping into something bigger than yourself. You’re joining the collective.

For me, the first concert that truly mattered—the one etched into memory—was INXS at Maple Leaf Gardens, with The Soup Dragons opening.

The tickets landed in my lap by chance at the last minute, and since I was already a massive INXS fan, especially obsessed with the Kick album, I didn’t hesitate. This was back when tickets were physical objects, not QR codes, so we had to chase them down across the city. We missed The Soup Dragons, a great band in their own right, but we made it in time for INXS, and that was what mattered.

I’d first fallen for the band in my teens. Once I got my hands on Kick on cassette, I was gone, fully committed to a lifelong musical journey. Released in 1987, Kick produced four U.S. Top 10 singles and went six times platinum. It’s easily their most famous and enduring album, packed with tracks like “Need You Tonight,” “Devil Inside,” “New Sensation,” “Never Tear Us Apart,” “Mystify,” and of course, “Kick.” Honestly, the whole record plays like a greatest hits collection.

Michael Hutchence (RIP) was at his absolute peak as a frontman during this era—magnetic, confident, and effortlessly commanding. The album’s sound was intentional and ahead of its time: a hybrid of rock, funk, pop hooks, and new wave sheen. Dance rock that felt modern, global, and completely theirs.

That album, and that concert, imprinted something on me. Even after I lost the original cassette over the years, the emotional connection stayed. I picked up the album again recently (so what if it took me 35 years), and it still sounds incredible. The moment it starts, I’m right back at the beginning, but now I’m layering new memories on top of the old ones, fusing these classic tracks into my life’s soundtrack all over again.
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Music has a way of doing that. It loops back, reshapes itself, and becomes part of who we are.

Keep Listening
Some records stay with us for years. Others find us much later than they probably should. Explore more stories about the albums and artists we keep coming back to.
→ Explore Deep Cuts

Find Your Next Record
​The hunt is part of collecting. Explore ways to find records locally and online, from independent record stores to trusted sources for harder-to-find releases.
→ Find Your Next Record

If you’re building your setup, you can explore the full Vinyl Essentials guide covering turntables, cleaning, and accessories.

A good friend recently suggested we each put together a Top 50 list to share over the holidays — a kind of musical adventure we could take together. We’ve both been lifelong music lovers, but our tastes often wander in different directions. That’s what makes this idea fun: slowing down, revisiting the songs that shaped us, and maybe stumbling into a few new discoveries along the way.

This list is my side of that journey. It’s made up of artists who’ve stuck with me over the years — songs I keep coming back to, tracks that carried me through changes, and a few I’m still learning from.

About the Songs: A Journey in Sound

Classical & Jazz Roots The playlist opens in a quiet space with Moonlight Sonata and closes with Bill Evans. They’re bookends — reminders that music can be both grounding and transformative.

Soul That Speaks to the Heart Sam Cooke, Aretha Franklin, Stevie Wonder, Etta James — voices that bring warmth and honesty. Songs that feel like conversations with the soul.

Rock That Defined Decades From Stairway to Heaven to Hungry Heart, these are cultural cornerstones. And tucked in here are two songs that carry a seasonal weight: Fairytale of New York, a gritty Christmas classic that captures both joy and hardship, and Mull of Kintyre, with its soaring bagpipes and pastoral nostalgia, often revived at year’s end. They remind me that holiday music isn’t just carols — it’s memory, place, and the emotions that surface when the year turns.

Alternative & Post-Punk Atmospheres The Cure, Joy Division, Radiohead, R.E.M., Morrissey, Suede — songs that shaped coming-of-age stories. Vulnerability, introspection, beauty in melancholy.

Indie & Singer-Songwriter Voices Bon Iver, Paolo Nutini, Oasis, The Smiths, Dylan & Cash — intimate, reflective, sometimes fragile. Songs that feel like letters written late at night.

Pop, New Wave & Experimental Touches Kate Bush, Talk Talk, Tears for Fears, New Order — artists who stretched pop into something stranger, more timeless.

Folk, Country & Heartland Sentiment Willie Nelson, Simon & Garfunkel, Wings — music rooted in storytelling, harmony, and lived experience.

Themes That Tie the Playlist Together:   

• Emotional pull — leaning into reflection, longing, nostalgia, hope, and sometimes melancholy.
• Timelessness over trend — songs that last, that grow with you.
• Melodic melancholy — even upbeat tracks carry introspection.
• Classic craft meets indie edge — tradition alongside exploration.
• Memory as a map — songs that stuck, artists that mattered, threads that keep weaving through life.

​This playlist isn’t meant to be definitive or exhaustive. It’s a limited snapshot — shaped by personal experience, circumstance, and the music I’ve encountered along the way. The world of music is far more expansive than any single list can capture.

What matters most is how music connects us to memory, emotion, and meaning. Whether through quiet reflection or shared celebration, the songs we carry often say more about where we’ve been than any timeline ever could.

So here’s the invitation: take this list as a starting point, not a conclusion. Explore what resonates with you. Think about the tracks that have stayed with you, the ones that shaped a season, a moment, or a mindset. What would make your own Top 50?
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Music is a journey — and yours is worth mapping.

Keep Listening
Some records stay with us for years. Others find us much later than they probably should. Explore more stories about the albums and artists we keep coming back to.
→ Explore Deep Cuts

Find Your Next Record
​The hunt is part of collecting. Explore ways to find records locally and online, from independent record stores to trusted sources for harder-to-find releases.
→ Find Your Next Record

If you’re building your setup, you can explore the full Vinyl Essentials guide covering turntables, cleaning, and accessories.

I still remember the first time I heard The Sweater Song. It came on CFNY, back when the station felt like a secret handshake for people who were into something different. The song started with a strange little spoken intro, then slowly unraveled into this hypnotic riff. It wasn’t aggressive or flashy, it was awkward, melodic, and oddly comforting. That moment stuck with me.

Weezer’s Blue Album dropped in 1994, right in the middle of a musical identity crisis. Grunge was still roaring, metal was flexing, and alternative was trying to figure out what came next. Then came this band of four guys who looked like they had just walked out of a computer lab. No leather, no eyeliner, just thrift-store shirts and a plain blue album cover. It was the opposite of glam, and somehow that made it iconic.
The songs were about heartbreak, social anxiety, and feeling out of place. In the Garage painted a picture of a personal sanctuary, Kiss posters, comic books, and the comfort of being alone with your passions. Rivers Cuomo wrote it about his actual garage, a retreat from the pressure of fitting in. That kind of emotional honesty wasn’t common in rock at the time, and it resonated deeply.

Cuomo had undergone surgery to correct a leg-length difference, and many of the songs were written during his recovery. That sense of isolation and introspection runs through the album. Say It Ain’t So hit especially hard, it’s about alcoholism in the family and the fear of inherited pain. The melody is beautiful, but the message is raw. It’s the kind of song that stays with you long after it ends.

Even Buddy Holly, which almost didn’t make the album because Cuomo thought it was too cheesy, became a defining track. Ric Ocasek from The Cars insisted it stay, and the Spike Jonze-directed video, set in the Happy Days diner, was everywhere. It was goofy, brilliant, and made it okay to be weird.

My Name Is Jonas was inspired by a friend mispronouncing “Jason,” and also by Cuomo’s brother being denied insurance after a car accident. It’s a song about frustration, systems failing, and the quiet rage that builds when life doesn’t play fair.

And then there’s Only in Dreams, the nearly eight-minute closer that builds slowly into a dreamy crescendo. It’s about longing, fantasy, and the ache of something just out of reach. It’s not just a song, it’s an experience.
What made the Blue Album special wasn’t just the music, it was the message. It told listeners that it was okay to be awkward, to feel things deeply, to not fit the mold. It was a melodic rebellion against the loudness of the era. Being uncool became the new cool.

1994 was a wild year. Kurt Cobain had passed away just weeks before the album came out. The Cranberries were haunting us with Zombie, Beck was calling himself a loser, and the Beastie Boys were sabotaging everything. Web browsers were just emerging, email was gaining traction, and streaming music was still science fiction. In that moment, Weezer’s debut felt like a quiet revolution.

Even now, the album holds up. It’s catchy, emotional, and unapologetically honest. It’s nostalgic, yes, but more than that, it’s timeless. It didn’t just soundtrack a moment, it shaped a new era of alternative music.
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And for those of us who found ourselves in its lyrics, it still feels like home.

Some albums define a genre, while others ignite it. Suede’s self-titled debut, released in March 1993, didn’t just arrive—it detonated. At a time when American grunge ruled the airwaves, Suede offered a bold British alternative: glam rock swagger fused with gritty realism, poetic angst, and provocative style.
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The Spark Before the Explosion

Suede were already legends in waiting before their debut even dropped. Melody Maker famously crowned them “The Best New Band in Britain” before they’d released a single. They graced magazine covers across the UK, with Q Magazine dubbing them “Band of the Year.” The hype was deafening, and they delivered.

Their first three singles—“The Drowners,” “Metal Mickey,” and “Animal Nitrate”—were instant hits. Each track oozed attitude, ambiguity, and raw emotion. Young listeners were drawn to the album’s themes of urban decay, sexuality, and alienation. The cover, an androgynous couple kissing, stirred controversy and curiosity in equal measure.

Brett Anderson’s Memoir: Afternoons with the Blinds Drawn

Fast forward to 2020, and Brett Anderson’s second memoir picks up right where the band’s story exploded. Afternoons with the Blinds Drawn is not your typical rock autobiography. It’s reflective, poetic, and brutally honest. Brett dives into the highs (literally), the lows, and the emotional cost of success. He writes about the volatile partnership with guitarist Bernard Butler, the chaos of fame, and the deafening whirlwind that followed their debut.

He describes the period as “the eye of the hurricane,” a time when Suede went from struggling nobodies to being everywhere. But instead of feeling triumphant, Brett felt alienated and overwhelmed. It’s a cautionary tale told with wit and flair, more Morrissey than Motley Crüe.

Why It Still Resonates

Play the album today and it still sounds daring, stylish, and emotionally charged. If you’re into Bowie, Roxy Music, The Smiths, or early Blur, Suede’s debut is essential listening. Even big names like Jarvis Cocker and Noel Gallagher have sung their praises.

My Journey with Suede

Christmas 1997 changed everything. I was gifted Sci-Fi Lullabies, Suede’s legendary B-side compilation. It’s a double album with 27 tracks from their first three records--Suede, Dog Man Star, and Coming Up. These weren’t throwaways. Like The Smiths, Suede’s B-sides often rivalled their A-sides. Personal favourites include “My Insatiable One,” “The Living Dead,” “My Dark Star,” “Modern Boys,” “Europe Is Our Playground,” “Every Monday Morning Comes,” “Another No One,” “Jumble Sale Mums”… the list goes on.
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My love affair started with Coming Up in 1996 and continued through Head Music. I drifted for a while, but their 2025 release, Antidepressants, pulled me right back in. And when I was record shopping in Dublin last year, I picked up The Best of Suede, curated by Brett himself. It’s a double album that blends hits and deep cuts from 1992 to 2002.

However, going back to the debut and its follow-up, Dog Man Star, in 1995 is pure pleasure. It’s a play-through experience with no skips.

Best Tracks on the Debut

• Animal Nitrate – captures the reckless thrill of youth and hedonism
• The Drowners – pure poetry and the track that defined Suede’s early identity
• So Young – a fan favourite with a euphoric chorus
• Pantomime Horse – a slow-burning ballad that leaves you haunted
• Metal Mickey – Bowie vibes all over it with a dash of T. Rex

Suede’s debut didn’t just light the Britpop fuse. It blew the doors wide open. And in 2025, it still burns bright.

Some records arrive at exactly the right moment. Others make more sense years later.

Suede is part of Deep Cuts — personal stories about the albums and artists we keep coming back to.

→ EXPLORE DEEP CUTS

From cleaning and sleeves to storage and listening gear, explore the Vinyl Vibes guides for looking after your collection.

→ EXPLORE VINYL ESSENTIALS

The Bends by Radiohead didn’t just show up in my life. It found me when I was drifting. I was young, stuck in a place where the future felt like something I couldn’t wrap my head around, let alone reach. There wasn’t much opportunity, and everything ahead looked distant and blurred. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing, and most days I felt like I was just going through the motions. Music was the one thing that made sense. It was my escape, my lifeline.

I didn’t go into the album expecting anything. I just hit play. “Planet Telex” started, and I leaned in. Then “The Bends” hit, and I was hooked. By the time “Fake Plastic Trees” came on, I was somewhere else entirely. That song felt like it had been written for me. I had it on repeat for weeks. It was fragile and aching and beautiful. It didn’t just sound good—it felt true.

The whole album was like that. It had the energy of grunge, but it wasn’t angry. It was thoughtful. It was alternative, but not in a way that tried too hard. It had layers. It had heart. The lyrics were full of anxiety and longing, and they matched the feeling of being young and unsure. I didn’t know where I was going, but this music made me feel like someone else understood that.

Back then, everything felt like it was changing. Grunge was fading. Britpop was rising. Bands like Green Day and Nine Inch Nails were pushing into new territory. The internet was creeping into homes. Dial-up tones, chat rooms, early websites. It was exciting and isolating at the same time. And in the middle of all that noise, The Bends felt like a quiet voice that said, “Yeah, I get it.”

Thom Yorke didn’t sound like he was singing. He sounded like he was trying to get something out of his system. That vulnerability hit me hard. It reminded me of what I loved in other artists, but it felt more personal. Arena rock with soul. Melodies that stuck with you. Lyrics that made you stop and think. It was weird and beautiful and full of feeling.

The tracks that stayed with me: “The Bends,” “Fake Plastic Trees,” “Just,” “Nice Dream,” “My Iron Lung,” “Black Star,” and “Street Spirit (Fade Out).” That last one especially. “Street Spirit” felt like it had been carved out of some dark corner of the world. It was haunting and existential and somehow comforting. It didn’t try to fix anything. It just sat with you in the mess.

Listening to The Bends now, all these years later, feels like unfolding a letter from a version of myself I rarely revisit. It’s not an album I play in passing - it demands presence. Each track stirs memories that aren’t always easy to face. Though it marked the beginning of something - my bond with music, my search for meaning - it also felt like an ending. A chapter closed, quietly, before I was ready. Some moments are best left untouched. And yet, that’s the power of true artistry: to create something so emotionally precise it speaks to you in crisis and again in reflection. Radiohead didn’t write songs to lift you from the dark - they wrote songs to sit beside you in it. And when the light finally comes on, the music is gone.
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The Bends hit me when I needed it most. It didn’t solve anything, but it saw me. And sometimes, that’s enough.

If you’ve never listened to it all the way through, do it. Not just for the music, but for the feeling. You might find a piece of yourself in there, waiting to be heard.

Keep Listening
Some records stay with us for years. Others find us much later than they probably should. Explore more stories about the albums and artists we keep coming back to.
→ Explore Deep Cuts

Find Your Next Record
​The hunt is part of collecting. Explore ways to find records locally and online, from independent record stores to trusted sources for harder-to-find releases.
→ Find Your Next Record

If you’re building your setup, you can explore the full Vinyl Essentials guide covering turntables, cleaning, and accessories.

With Morrissey playing Toronto this weekend, I’ve been thinking about how much his music has meant to me over the years. Last year, the Canadian dates sold out quickly, so we were lucky to get tickets to his show in Rochester, New York. It turned out to be one of the most memorable concerts I’ve been to. Intimate, full of energy, and genuinely moving.

The Kodak Theatre was the perfect venue, especially on a cool November Saturday night. The atmosphere was just right. Highlights included "Everyday Is Like Sunday" and The Smiths' classic "How Soon Is Now," but it was the deeper cuts that really stuck with me. His performance of "Life Is a Pigsty" was especially powerful. It was raw and emotional, and it reminded me why I’ve always connected with his music.

That show felt even more special knowing it had been five years since Morrissey last performed in Canada. His previous visit was back in 2019, after a long boycott that lasted from 2006 to 2019. So when he returned in 2024, it felt like a bit of a homecoming.

Lately, I’ve been revisiting Bona Drag, one of my favourite albums of his. I know picking a favourite Morrissey album is a bit of a minefield. He’s released 13 studio albums, 2 live albums, 12 compilations, and more than 60 singles. There is still talk of a 14th studio album, which was once expected in September 2025, although it’s unclear if it will ever be released.
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He’s made some incredible records like Viva Hate, Your Arsenal, Vauxhall and I, and You Are the Quarry, but Bona Drag continues to resonate with me in a way few albums do.

Released in October 1990, it came early in his solo career and, while technically a compilation, it feels like a complete album. The songs are thematically connected, and the production has a distinct style that bridges the gap between The Smiths and Morrissey’s solo work. I bought my copy the day it came out, and it’s been with me ever since. It’s a little worn now, but that’s part of its charm.

The 2010 reissue added six bonus tracks, including "Let the Right One Slip In", but even the original 14 tracks are all strong. From the swagger of "The Last of the Famous International Playboys" to the vulnerability of "Will Never Marry," the album explores everything from apocalypse and rebellion to subculture and anti-love. It’s no surprise it has a cult following.

Critics appreciated it too. NME gave it 8 out of 10 when it was released, and Pitchfork later gave it a near-perfect 9.8. On Rate Your Music, it still holds a 3.98 out of 5, which says a lot about its staying power, even 35 years on.

The cover, a colour-altered still from the "November Spawned a Monster" video, is memorable in its own way. And while Johnny Marr didn’t play on the album, Andy Rourke and Mike Joyce did, giving it a subtle connection to The Smiths. Seven tracks even charted on the US Modern Rock charts, including Interesting Drug and Piccadilly Palare.

Lyrically, Morrissey is in top form. His blend of wit, melancholy, and social commentary is as sharp as ever. These songs still speak to me, even after all these years. They’ve grown with me and helped me get through many good and not-so-good times.

I’m looking forward to whatever Morrissey does next. Whether he plays "Hairdresser on Fire" or "Interesting Drug", I’ll be there enjoying the moment. Bona Drag isn’t just an album. It continues to be part of my life, along with all of Morrissey’s work, both as a solo artist and as part of The Smiths.

If you liked this, check out:

• A Smiths Fan Walks Into 1988 and Finds Viva Hate — a quiet walk through the album that shaped a generation of lonely kids and late‑night thinkers.
• Why Hatful of Hollow Is the Best Smiths Album — a love letter to the raw, imperfect magic that made the band matter.
• Morrissey – Make Up Is a Lie: First Impressions — a look at the complicated, brilliant, frustrating artist behind the voice.​​

​More From The Smiths & Morrissey
​From The Smiths’ essential records to Morrissey’s solo years, explore more stories, albums and guides from across Vinyl Vibes.
→ Explore The Smiths & Morrissey Guide

Keep Listening
Some records stay with us for years. Others find us much later than they probably should. Explore more stories about the albums and artists we keep coming back to.
→ Explore Deep Cuts

Find Your Next Record
​The hunt is part of collecting. Explore ways to find records locally and online, from independent record stores to trusted sources for harder-to-find releases.
→ Find Your Next Record

If you’re building your setup, you can explore the full Vinyl Essentials guide covering turntables, cleaning, and accessories.

I inherited a CD collection from a dear friend who passed away, an unexpected gift that turned out to be a treasure trove of music, memory, and meaning. Even now, several years later I’m still working through it, discovering albums I’d never heard and rediscovering ones I thought I knew. It’s more than just a stack of discs; it’s a map of someone’s musical soul.

Tucked quietly among the shelves was The La’s self-titled debut. I paused when I saw it. If my friend had kept it, it had to be worth a listen. And I was right.

I knew “There She Goes,” of course — who didn’t? I’d first heard it back in the mid-’90s on alternative radio, and it had appeared on Truebrit, a compilation CD I’d picked up in 1996 with that very friend, the one who later passed on the collection to me. It featured 40 essential indie hits of the Britpop era. That song had always stuck with me: a perfect slice of pop. But I’d assumed The La’s were a one-hit wonder and never looked further.

Now, decades later, I was holding the full album on CD in my hands — something I’d overlooked for years. And as I pressed play, I realized I wasn’t just listening to music. I was stepping into a story I hadn’t finished, a sound I hadn’t fully understood, and a connection I hadn’t expected to deepen.

“There She Goes” is now recognized as one of the most iconic indie pop songs to come out of the UK in the late ’80s. Originally released in 1988, it predates the Britpop movement that peaked around 1994–1996. While Blur, Oasis, and Suede defined the era, The La’s paved the way with their jangly, stripped-down sound — a nostalgic echo of ’60s British pop.

They’re often seen as a precursor to Britpop, and rightly so. Noel Gallagher of Oasis has spoken glowingly about the band, calling Lee Mavers an “amazing songwriter.” He even named “There She Goes” his favourite song of the 1990s, saying it wasn’t just a track he liked — it was part of Oasis’s DNA.

But behind the brilliance was a band in turmoil. Lee Mavers, the frontman and primary songwriter, was notoriously obsessed with achieving a specific vintage sound, rejecting mix after mix, believing none captured the raw essence he envisioned. The final version of the album was released without his approval, and he felt it betrayed his artistic vision.

Mavers eventually withdrew from public life, disillusioned with the industry and battling mental health challenges. His perfectionism may have prevented more music, but what remains is a cult classic — a sonic time capsule of what could have been.

I inherited the CD, and I absolutely love it. It’s a sonic treasure, and I often wish I’d had the chance to discuss it with my friend who passed it on. I’m now on the hunt for a vinyl copy — my personal white whale. Whether it’s a reprint or a used original, I’d love to hold it in my hands and give it the place it deserves in my collection.

This is subjective, of course, but more than 30 years later, these songs still resonate deeply.​
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• Timeless Melody – Right up there with “There She Goes.” It explores the power of music and memory and reminds me of The Beatles with a modern twist. Pearl Jam and Supergrass have covered it, so I know I’m not alone.
• Looking Glass – The haunting final track. Nearly 8 minutes long, it starts softly and builds into something ambitious and emotional. Some compare it to “A Day in the Life.” Knowing Lee Mavers’ perfectionism, I imagine this track went through countless versions. It’s a personal favourite. Favourite lyric: “Tell me where I am going – Tell me why I’m bound – Tear the pages open – Turn the world around.”

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Listening to The La’s now feels like discovering a lost chapter of Britpop’s origin story. It’s more than just music — it’s memory, myth, and meaning. And for me, it’s a connection to a friend, a time, and a sound that still echoes.

Keep Listening
Some albums never really leave you. You might move on for a while, but eventually something pulls you back.

The La’s are part of Deep Cuts — personal stories about the albums and artists we keep coming back to.
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Take Care of the Records You Love
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It’s happening. This August, Oasis are storming Rogers Stadium in Toronto. With 50,000 fans packed in, it’ll feel like the Second Coming of rock 'n' roll. Even crazier? It’s the first time the Gallagher brothers will share a stage in more than 15 years. Their last Toronto performance was way back in 2008. Now, I’ll be there—surrounded by 50,000 voices singing in unison.

Sure, I can’t wait to hear Wonderwall, Champagne Supernova, and Don’t Look Back in Anger with the crowd. But for me, everything started with Definitely Maybe.

Released in 1994, that debut album was pure swagger. I’m listening to my original CD right now—the one I bought at Cheapies in downtown Hamilton. It’s been 31 years, and it still outshines most of what’s in rotation today. Rock 'n' Roll Star, Live Forever, Supersonic, Slide Away—these weren’t just tracks. They were statements. The record bottled the manic energy and raw ambition of five lads who believed they were the best band in the world—and made you believe it too.

Recording it wasn’t easy. Their first attempt was a mess, unable to capture their live edge. The result? A thin, lifeless sound—except for Slide Away. They scrapped everything and went back in with grit, no filters, and total conviction. That hunger shaped the album’s power.

Back in 1991, Oasis were still called The Rain. Liam walked in, renamed them—reportedly inspired by an Inspiral Carpets tour poster—and just like that, something clicked. Small world: Noel was actually a roadie for the Carpets. He joined Oasis on one condition—complete creative control. The rest is history. Noel’s vault of songs became the soul of Definitely Maybe.

Their rise was fast and loud. Pub gigs to stadiums in a blink. Messy, chaotic, full of attitude—it was everything rock should be.

Lately, I’ve been diving into Oasis: What’s the Story by Ian Robertson. It’s wild. Robertson was right there, trying to stop the band from self-destructing while they exploded globally. The book is raw, funny, and fearless—like Oasis themselves.

Their Live ’25 Tour spans 41 shows across five continents from July to November, and every single date is sold out. UK and Ireland dates have already set the internet on fire. And if you’ve been listening like I have, you’ll know the lads sound better than ever.

I got my ticket as a gift—something I never imagined, especially after all the years of drama. Honestly, I thought the dream was dead.

But now it’s real. And it all started with Definitely Maybe. That debut wasn’t just good—it was legendary. The fastest-selling British debut at the time. Noel’s lyrics were sharp and fearless. Liam’s voice? Unmistakable. Together, they captured a moment—and sparked a movement.

Sure, Morning Glory might be their biggest seller, with songs that lit up the world and led to that iconic Knebworth show in ’96. But Definitely Maybe is the heartbeat. The blueprint. The raw roar of five lads with nothing to lose.

This August, I’ll be one of 1.1 million fans witnessing their return live in person. And when the lights go down and the first chord hits, I won’t just be at a concert.

I’ll be back at the start—where it all began.

Keep Listening
Some records stay with us for years. Others find us much later than they probably should. Explore more stories about the albums and artists we keep coming back to.
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​The hunt is part of collecting. Explore ways to find records locally and online, from independent record stores to trusted sources for harder-to-find releases.
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If you’re building your setup, you can explore the full Vinyl Essentials guide covering turntables, cleaning, and accessories.

Growing up in Canada in the late ’80s and early ’90s, music wasn’t just entertainment—it was an emotional blueprint. We didn’t stream tracks—we hunted CDs. MuchMusic guided our discovery, college radio expanded our palette, and flipping through racks at the local record shop felt like a sacred ritual.

My foundation was post-punk and Britpop. The Stone Roses shimmered with psychedelia. The Smiths offered lyrical melancholy. The Cure and Depeche Mode bathed emotion in atmosphere. New Order pulsed with detached introspection. And Oasis? They added swagger and emotional heft—anthemic, defiant, and unafraid to feel too much. It was introspective, stylish, and deeply human.

Then Soundgarden shattered the mood.

Louder Than Love was my first dose. “Hands All Over” haunted me with its environmental warning. “Loud Love” thundered. It was sludgy and poetic, gritty and articulate—an awakening I didn’t fully grasp until Badmotorfinger arrived in October 1991.

That album didn’t just change what I listened to—it changed how I listened. From the opening riff of “Rusty Cage,” it became clear: this wasn’t background music, it was emotional demolition. Chris Cornell’s voice was a force. The soundscape was dense, raw, layered—grunge with intellectual teeth.

“Outshined” struck a personal chord. Cornell’s line, “I’m looking California and feeling Minnesota”, translated instantly in my head to “I’m looking Toronto and feeling Thunder Bay.” Outward control, inward chaos. That contradiction felt familiar.

“Jesus Christ Pose” floored me. A relentless track—furious, spiritual, confrontational. It didn’t offer escape—it demanded reckoning.

Listening now in 2025, Badmotorfinger still hits hard. It’s emotionally vast, sonically complex, and strangely comforting. Yet it remains excluded from 1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die. A glaring omission. Superunknown gets the accolades. “Jesus Christ Pose” earns a spot in 1001 Songs. But Badmotorfinger was the turning point. For Soundgarden—and for me.
​
I didn’t abandon post-punk, Britpop, or indie—I just let the noise in. I traded shimmer for sludge, melody for magnitude, and found emotional clarity somewhere between distortion and defiance. Back then, I hunted CDs like they were relics and traded tapes like currency. CFNY was my lifeline—a voice from the edge that connected suburban headphones to the underground pulse.

​And even now, Badmotorfinger remains a missing piece in my collection. I still don’t have it on vinyl, but it’s high on my wish list—because some albums aren’t just meant to be played. They’re meant to be earned.

Keep Listening
​Some records stay with us for years. Others find us much later than they probably should. Deep Cuts brings together personal stories about the albums and artists we keep coming back to.
→ Explore Deep Cuts
​
Take Care of the Records You Love
From cleaning and sleeves to storage and listening gear, explore the Vinyl Vibes guides for looking after your collection.
→ Explore Vinyl Essentials

If you’re building your setup, you can explore the full Vinyl Essentials guide covering turntables, cleaning, and accessories.

​Growing up in Canada in the '80s and '90s, before streaming and social media, British music didn’t just land on our laps—it arrived by word of mouth, radio DJs, mixtapes, and passionate friends saying, “You have to hear this.” And at the center of that discovery? Manchester. A city whose emotional honesty and working-class grit found its way into our hearts like it was speaking directly to us.

Now, in 2025-the Summer of Britpop—the sound is roaring back, and Manchester is rightfully back in the spotlight. The swagger, the introspection, the irresistible melodies—it’s all making its way into playlists, festival stages, and conversations again. But to understand this revival, you’ve got to look back at where it all began.

It started with Buzzcocks—a punk band with melody, emotion, and DIY spirit. Songs like Ever Fallen in Love lit the fuse for Manchester’s alternative explosion, influencing countless future acts. They brought catchy hooks and clever lyrics to punk’s raw edge, proving that you didn’t need London polish to make a mark.

Then came Joy Division. Their debut Unknown Pleasures (1979) turned industrial bleakness into beauty. Ian Curtis’s haunting voice, sparse rhythms, and eerie atmosphere captured the emotional weight of Manchester. It wasn’t just music—it was mood.

And next, The Smiths. Morrissey’s lyrics—witty, wistful, deeply Northern—channeled the angst of youth, while Johnny Marr’s shimmering guitar gave the pain melody. Tracks like Suffer Little Children and The Headmaster Ritual painted a vivid portrait of the city’s soul. For an even deeper look into their lyrical rawness and early evolution, explore The Smiths’ brilliance in Hatful of Hollow—a compilation that captures them in morning glory.

By the '90s, gloom gave way to swagger. Oasis roared into view, with Liam Gallagher’s sneer and Noel’s towering riffs. Definitely Maybe wasn’t just a debut—it was an anthem for a generation. Their love for The Stone Roses bled through every chord, bridging Madchester’s groove with Britpop’s bravado.

Other bands like James, The Charlatans, and Inspiral Carpets kept the scene pulsing with distinctive blends of psychedelia and indie rock. And today, a new wave of Manchester talent continues the legacy. The 1975 blend introspective lyrics with alt-pop gloss, becoming global icons while staying true to the city’s creative DNA. Meanwhile, Pale Waves deliver dark, glittery pop with emotional bite—gothic, heartfelt, and unafraid to push boundaries.

Transformation followed. New Order, rising from Joy Division’s ashes, swapped despair for synths. Power, Corruption & Lies helped pioneer electronic music. Happy Mondays mashed rave and rock, turning warehouse parties into cultural landmarks.

From grimy clubs like The Haçienda to the iconic Salford Lads Club immortalized on The Queen Is Dead, Manchester remains a symbol of musical rebellion, resilience, and reinvention.

If you're new to the scene or revisiting it, start here—with essential albums from 1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die:

• Love Bites – Buzzcocks
• Unknown Pleasures – Joy Division
• The Queen Is Dead – The Smiths
• Power, Corruption & Lies – New Order
• The Stone Roses – The Stone Roses
• Definitely Maybe – Oasis

Manchester shaped generations—and for those of us who listened, no matter how far from the UK, it still plays on.

Keep Listening
​Some records stay with us for years. Others find us much later than they probably should. Deep Cuts brings together personal stories about the albums and artists we keep coming back to.
→ Explore Deep Cuts
​
Take Care of the Records You Love
From cleaning and sleeves to storage and listening gear, explore the Vinyl Vibes guides for looking after your collection.
→ Explore Vinyl Essentials

If you’re building your setup, you can explore the full Vinyl Essentials guide covering turntables, cleaning, and accessories.