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Originally published November 2025. Updated September 2026 with new context and links exploring the transition from Joy Division to New Order.  Back in 1987, I was hooked on Substance 1987—a compilation of New Order singles that somehow ended up in my cassette deck. I don’t remember how it got there, but I do remember how it consumed me. The 12” versions, the B-sides, the pulse—it quickly became one of my top 10 albums of all time.
But Substance wasn’t the beginning. Before New Order’s shimmering synth-pop and emotionally layered dance tracks, there was Joy Division. Their sound was heavier, darker, and stripped down—a post-punk minimalism that felt more like a descent than a celebration. Where New Order lifted you up, Joy Division pulled you inward.
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 Propaganda, captured by Anton Corbijn — four faces framed in shadow and precision. The sound of 1985 frozen in monochrome. Rob’s 1985 Discovery It started with four words in the Vinyl Vibes comment section — four words that hit with the force of a dropped needle: “ABBA from hell, mate. It came from Rob, a 67‑year‑old reader now living in the Netherlands, responding to my piece “Nobody Needs Vinyl Anymore — So Why Does It Matter So Much?” And those four words didn’t just add colour — they opened a door. Rob took me straight back to 1985, to a record shop somewhere in the UK. He was 26 then, drifting between jobs, spending whatever spare cash he had on albums that felt like they were pointing toward the future. That’s where he found Propaganda’s A Secret Wish — a stark, geometric cover sitting in a bin full of neon‑bright synthpop. He bought it on instinct. The “ABBA From Hell” MomentWhen he dropped the needle on “Dream Within a Dream,” everything shifted. The Poe monologue. The icy synths. The sense of something cinematic, European, and slightly dangerous. Rob described it better than any critic ever has: “It was like ABBA… if ABBA had been raised in a bunker. It’s the kind of line you only get from someone who lived through the moment — someone who remembers what it felt like to hear something familiar twisted into something darker, sharper, more operatic.
That’s when I knew I needed to hear this record for myself.  From King Crimson’s 1969 Hyde Park performance to the 2026 vinyl revival, analog sound remains immersive, physical, and alive. Why Vinyl Still Matters in 2026Guest Contributor: Duke — guitarist & songwriter who never stopped dropping the needle. In 1969, King Crimson stepped onto the Hyde Park stage in London and blasted 21st Century Schizoid Man into a crowd that had absolutely no idea what was coming. It wasn’t just loud — it was mind‑bending, the kind of moment that makes you wish you could time‑travel just to feel the shockwave yourself.
Fast‑forward to 2026, and that same jolt of electricity still exists — not in playlists or algorithms, but in the crackle of a needle hitting vinyl. In a world where music is everywhere and nowhere at the same time, vinyl feels different. It feels real. It slows you down in a way nothing digital ever does. Maybe that’s why so many younger listeners are getting hooked. Vinyl isn’t about nostalgia — it’s about presence. It’s about choosing to listen instead of letting music blur into the background. It’s the opposite of passive. It’s the opposite of scroll culture. It’s a vibe you can actually hold in your hands. And that’s where the story really begins. 
Today the algorithm threw something unexpected at me: “Shadowplay” by Joy Division — but covered by The Killers.
At first I didn’t even register who it was. The riff felt familiar, the mood unmistakably Joy Division, but the delivery had a different kind of swagger. Only later did it click: their version was recorded specifically for Control, the Ian Curtis biopic, and it plays over the end credits. I watched the film recently — beautifully shot, devastating, human — and somehow didn’t realize it was The Killers closing the story. Joy Division has a way of resurfacing at the right moment. I’ve written before about Unknown Pleasures, about how that record feels like a transmission from somewhere both intimate and unreachable. And now, as we approach 46 years since Ian Curtis’s death in May 1980, the music hasn’t lost any of its power. If anything, time has made it sharper, more mythic. Joy Division Vinyl Picks: Ceremony: The Bridge Between Two Worlds One of my all‑time favourite New Order songs — maybe the favourite — is “Ceremony.” There’s a video of them performing it at the CoManCHE Student Union in Manchester on February 6th, 1981, and it remains one of the most important documents of a band in transition. You can feel the weight of what they’d just lived through, and the uncertainty of what came next. Bernard Sumner’s voice is tentative but determined. Peter Hook’s bass is already carving out that melodic identity. Stephen Morris is the anchor. Together they’re carrying Ian Curtis’s final lyrics into a new sonic era. It’s the blueprint of what New Order would soon become — not quite formed, but undeniably alive. “Ceremony” was one of the final Joy Division compositions, written just weeks before Ian’s death. The surviving recordings are faint and ghostly, almost impossible to decipher. New Order had to reconstruct the lyrics from fragments. That alone gives the song a kind of sacredness — the last words of one band becoming the first breath of another. Substance 1987: My Accidental Origin Story My own introduction to New Order wasn’t curated or chronological. It was a cassette — a beat‑up copy of Substance 1987 that somehow ended up in my possession. I played it relentlessly on my boombox, probably driving my entire house insane. But for me, it was a portal. What makes Substance so special is that it’s not just a compilation. It’s a map of the band’s evolution, collecting every single from 1981 to 1987 — mostly in their 12‑inch versions — plus B‑sides, plus the then‑new single “True Faith” and its B‑side “1963.” It’s the sound of a band transforming from post‑punk survivors into architects of synth‑pop, dance music, and the club culture that would define the late ’80s and beyond. If you want to revisit Substance 1987 the way it was meant to be heard, check out these deals on the vinyl version. Even if you’re not a New Order fan, you know these songs: And honestly? Substance contains the best versions of each. These mixes weren’t afterthoughts — they were the band’s preferred language. 1987 vs. Today: Two Different Universes Listening to Substance in 1987 felt like stepping into the future of alternative music. Hearing guitars and drum machines coexist without apology was revolutionary. It was the sound of a new world forming in real time. Listening to it today feels different — deeper, more emotional, more mythic. You hear the entire lineage: Joy Division’s shadow, New Order’s reinvention, the birth of indie‑dance, the seeds of modern electronic pop. “Ceremony” hits harder when you know its origin story. “True Faith,” a monster hit in its own right, feels like the emotional center of the band’s entire arc. It’s not just nostalgia. It’s recognition — of how much music changed because these songs existed. New Order Vinyl Picks to Check Out Why This Still Matters Maybe that’s why the algorithm sending me The Killers’ “Shadowplay” felt like a full‑circle moment. Joy Division → New Order → Substance → modern bands still carrying the torch. Nearly 46 years after Ian Curtis’s death, the music hasn’t dimmed. It’s still powerful, still relevant, still capable of finding you on an ordinary day and pulling you back into the story. New Order didn’t just continue after Joy Division — they transformed grief into a new kind of beauty. If You Liked This, Check Out These Vinyl Vibes Deep Dives If this piece resonated with you, here are a few more album‑centered explorations from Vinyl Vibes — all rooted in memory, mood, and the emotional architecture of the music we return to:
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Rick Astley and Blossoms covering The Smiths at Glastonbury 2023 sounds like a joke. It wasn’t. It became one of the most unexpectedly joyful—and genuinely moving—moments of the entire festival. What could have been a gimmick turned into something far more meaningful: a reminder of why these songs still matter.
Astley’s vocals fit the material far better than anyone could have predicted. He doesn’t imitate Morrissey; he sings in his own voice, with warmth and sincerity that makes the lyrics feel newly alive. Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now — originally from Hatful of Hollow — still hits with the same emotional weight. There’s a sense of delighted reverence in his delivery, and the crowd responds instantly. The energy in the tent is electric—the kind of shared moment where people realize they’re witnessing something special. Blossoms match that energy with tight, faithful musicianship. They honour Johnny Marr’s shimmering guitar work, Andy Rourke’s melodic bass lines, and Mike Joyce’s rhythmic backbone with real precision. More importantly, they understand the architecture of these songs—how Marr’s arrangements elevate everything around them. This isn’t imitation. It’s interpretation done right. Of course, no Smiths-related moment comes without tension. Morrissey, in a rare show of generosity, praised the tribute, while Johnny Marr initially dismissed it as “funny and horrible at the same time,” later softening his stance. Fans split along familiar lines—some embracing it, others rejecting it outright. But that divide almost misses the point. Because inside that tent, the reaction told a different story. This wasn’t nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. The music didn’t feel preserved—it felt alive. The songs belonged to the moment as much as they ever did in the past. As a lifelong Smiths fan, I’ve seen my share of tributes. Some land, many don’t. Most sit somewhere in between. This one stands at the top. It’s joyful, respectful, musically sharp, and emotionally real. You can feel the connection—Astley has spoken about how much The Smiths meant to him growing up, and Blossoms carry that same Manchester-rooted DNA. That love runs through every note. The collaboration itself came together almost accidentally. Blossoms had been playing Smiths songs for fun, Astley joined in, and something clicked. What could have been a novelty ended up feeling completely natural. Some joked about it being a Rickroll moment, but the reality is much simpler: this was genuine fandom, shared on a massive stage. The crowd reaction says everything. The Woodsies tent was packed to capacity, with thousands more gathered outside, climbing whatever they could just to hear. Security eventually had to stop letting people in. Word spread quickly, and what started as curiosity turned into something closer to collective awe. The setlist didn’t hold back: Panic, This Charming Man, What Difference Does It Make?, Bigmouth Strikes Again, Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now, Ask, Girlfriend in a Coma, The Boy With the Thorn in His Side, Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want, How Soon Is Now?, There Is a Light That Never Goes Out, and more. By the time they reached There Is a Light That Never Goes Out, it felt like the entire tent was suspended in that moment. If you want to revisit the originals
Astley and Blossoms didn’t just play these songs—they honoured them. Not by preserving them, but by letting them breathe again in front of a new crowd. I only wish the performance existed on vinyl. I’d file it next to Rank—not as a replacement, but as proof that great songs never really stay in the past. If you liked this, check out:
If you’re building your setup, you can explore the full Vinyl Essentials guide covering turntables, cleaning, and accessories.
Full transparency: it only took me 52 years to finally pick up a copy of the New York Dolls’ 1973 debut.
I’d read about it in 1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die, and as a longtime Morrissey fan I already knew how deeply the Dolls shaped his musical DNA. He even covered a few of their tracks — “Trash,” “Subway Train,” and “Human Being” — which should’ve been my first clue that this band was more than just a footnote in glam punk history. But it wasn’t until I spotted a used copy at a record show for fifteen dollars that my real education began. That was the moment I stepped into their world of raw, chaotic, trashy proto punk and glam rock. A Fan’s Devotion That Became a Legacy Morrissey’s connection to the Dolls goes even deeper than admiration. In the late 1970s he famously ran their UK fan club, wrote passionately about them, and credited their live performances with shaping his own sense of what a frontman could be. Decades later he actively championed their legacy by releasing archival material, advocating for their importance, and organizing a reunion concert series that helped reintroduce the band to a new generation. It’s rare to see an artist so devoted to preserving the spark that inspired them in the first place. A Sound That Shouldn’t Work… But Absolutely Does How do you describe this music? It’s unpolished, loud, and bursting with the kind of energy that feels like it was scraped straight off the New York City sidewalks of the early 1970s. And remember: this came out half a decade before punk. The Dolls weren’t following a movement — they were accidentally inventing one. The guitars are loud and ragged, the performances theatrical and sometimes campy, and yet the melodies are undeniable. These songs are sleazy, catchy, and celebratory in a way that feels like nightlife distilled into sound. It’s addictive listening — the musical equivalent of a car crash. You know you shouldn’t stare, but you absolutely do. A Dive Bar Time Machine Listening to this album feels like stepping into a gritty New York dive bar circa 1972. Add a splash of glam — men in heels, lipstick, and attitude — and you get something that sits somewhere between T. Rex and The Rolling Stones, but with a reckless edge that clearly inspired later bands. You can hear their fingerprints on The Smiths, and Guns N’ Roses practically lifted the Dolls’ playbook for their own debut. Why Listen in 2026 With so much music out there, why bother with a band that flamed out before most people even noticed them? Because their DNA is everywhere. If you’re into The Strokes, Amyl and the Sniffers, Fontaines D.C., Idles, or any band that thrives on swagger and chaos, you’re already listening to echoes of the Dolls. Their debut captures a joyful, messy, imperfect moment in time — a reminder that art doesn’t need to be polished to matter. Failure That Became Influence Commercially, the album was a flop. Critics hated it. The band was dropped by their label. They never charted. By every traditional metric, the New York Dolls were a failure. And yet their legacy is enormous. Imagine being so bold, so ahead of your time, that the world shrugs — and you keep going anyway. That’s the spirit baked into this record. It’s a time capsule of fearless creativity. If You Want Something Messy, Loud, and Fun This is the album. It’s imperfect, rebellious, and gloriously chaotic. If you’re looking for something calm, introspective, or delicate, stay far away — the Dolls will feel like someone kicking your door down. But if you want to hear where punk, glam punk, and half of modern indie rock got their spark, drop the needle on this record. The New York Dolls made trash exciting — and somehow, fifty plus years later, it still feels dangerous in all the right ways.
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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 wasn’t looking for anything in particular—until a $5.99 Bee Gees record stopped me in my tracks. The Bee Gees Love Collection sat tucked between stacks of vinyl at my local Beat Goes On, the kind of place that feels like a treasure chest for collectors. The only song I recognized was How Can You Mend a Broken Heart, and that was enough. I had no expectations, no plan—just a quiet hope that maybe this record would surprise me.
I’ve never thought of myself as a Bee Gees fan, especially not of their disco-era dominance. Their rhythm is infectious, sure—you can’t help but imagine John Travolta strutting through New York in Saturday Night Fever. But this wasn’t about nostalgia. I wanted to hear that one song on vinyl, to feel its warmth through the crackle of a used record. What I got was something far deeper. I’ve played the album several times now, and in the process discovered it’s turning 50 years old this November. Half a century later, these songs don’t sound dated—they sound eternal. They’re a time capsule from an era when melody, lyrics, and emotional storytelling were everything. Each track pulled me in, and I began to recognize more than I expected: Massachusetts, I Started a Joke, Mr. Natural, To Love Somebody, New York Mining Disaster 1941, Let There Be Love. And then there were the hidden gems—songs I’d never heard before that stopped me in my tracks. First of May was one of them. Its holiday-like warmth felt like unwrapping a gift I didn’t know I’d been waiting for. After a few listens, I found myself thinking, Where has this song been all my life? Funny enough, I later realized the song had been sitting on an old CD I already owned—but I guess if you’re not really looking, even the best things can slip right past you. Listening closely, I realized what makes these tracks so powerful is their emotional universality. Writing one great pop song that captures love, longing, or heartbreak is hard enough—but the Bee Gees managed to do it time and time again. How Can You Mend a Broken Heart distills grief into something anyone who’s lost love can feel instantly. To Love Somebody is practically the blueprint for unrequited love, simple in structure yet immense in emotional weight. I Started a Joke turns existential reflection into melody, while Massachusetts captures homesickness with tenderness that feels both intimate and universal. Even First of May, with its seasonal imagery, becomes a meditation on change and memory. These aren’t just pop songs—they’re emotional narratives that listeners can inhabit, proof that the Bee Gees understood the human heart as well as they understood harmony. As I dug deeper into their story, I learned they were the Brothers Gibb—Barry, Robin, and Maurice—hence the name “B.G.” They started performing as children back in 1958. Originally from Manchester, they later moved to Australia. Their signature was their three-part harmonies—so rich and emotive, only brothers could pull them off with such precision. What amazed me most was that they wrote all their own songs, and even penned hits for other artists. Their career spanned from the 1960s through the 1990s, selling over 120 million records. In their early days, they were even compared to The Beatles. Though they didn’t reach the same level of acclaim, they were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 1997. Listening to this album both passively and actively has been unexpectedly calming. When it plays in the background, the harmonies and melodies create a steady, soothing atmosphere. But when I lean in and listen actively, the lyrics and emotional phrasing reveal themselves as carefully crafted, universal expressions of love, longing, and vulnerability. That dual quality is rare—music that can live with you quietly yet reward you when you give it full attention. And every crackle in the vinyl reminds me that someone else loved this record before me. Now it’s found a new home, spinning in my collection, breathing life into my space. It’s not rediscovery—it’s discovery. A first immersion into the Bee Gees, and proof that great music doesn’t age—it waits patiently, until you’re ready to hear it.
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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 found The Pretenders’ debut album by accident. It was sitting in a bin at a used record shop, $8 and a little scuffed, wedged between scratched Springsteen and forgotten 45s. I knew “Brass in Pocket,” of course. It was one of those songs that floated through my childhood, catchy and confident, but I’d never gone deeper. That changed the moment I dropped the needle. What came out of the speakers wasn’t just music. It was Chrissie Hynde. Fierce, funny, wounded, and completely in control.
Chrissie wasn’t just the frontwoman of The Pretenders. She was the architect of the whole thing. An American outsider who landed in London in 1973, chasing something she couldn’t quite name. She was reckless, rebellious, and full of grit. She did whatever it took to survive—writing for New Musical Express, working at SEX, the boutique run by Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood, the epicentre of punk fashion and attitude. She nearly married members of the Sex Pistols just to stay in the country. Her circle included rock journalist Nick Kent and Lemmy from Motörhead, who helped her connect with the original Pretenders lineup. She absorbed everything—glam rock, reggae, punk—and it all found its way into her music. The album kicks off with “Precious,” a snarling punk anthem inspired by a mugging Chrissie experienced in Cleveland. “Brass in Pocket” became the breakout hit, reaching No. 1 in the UK, even though Chrissie hated her vocal performance and tried to block its release. “Kid” is melodic and tender, the beginning of her short-lived but brilliant partnership with guitarist James Honeyman-Scott. And then there’s “Tattooed Love Boys,” a deeper cut, emotionally raw and lyrically fearless. In her memoir Reckless, Chrissie reveals it was inspired by a sexual assault she endured. But instead of playing victim, she channels rage into razor-sharp wit and defiant lyrics. It’s punk at its most personal. Later, as a die-hard Smiths fan, I learned that both Johnny Marr and Morrissey were huge admirers of Chrissie. Marr calls her “one of the greats” and has performed with her many times. Morrissey considers her one of his true friends. They’ve even covered each other’s songs, each version a tribute to mutual respect and punk-era camaraderie. Listening to that debut album now, it feels like a time capsule and a manifesto. It’s not studio-packaged or industry-polished. It’s authentic. You can hear the passion of someone living a life of music in a world dominated by men. Chrissie didn’t just front a band. She led it with guts and grace. Her recklessness wasn’t chaos. It was courage. The debut album cover says it all: stark white, bold black lettering, the band lined up with two looking like they’re ready for a fight and the other two like they’re headed to a party. Chrissie stands slightly apart, arms crossed, gaze direct. Her style wasn’t just cool—it was street-born and instinctive: black leather, jeans, boots, attitude. No stylist, no polish, just presence. Her look wasn’t curated—it was a statement. Like her lyrics, it was sharp, unflinching, and full of intent. I’m not here to please you. I’m here to tell the truth. If you’ve only heard the hits, go deeper. That $8 record and Chrissie's story changed the way I think about rock music, about leadership, about survival. Chrissie Hynde didn’t ask for permission. She just made something unforgettable.
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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.
Now that we’re moving into fall and Christmas is just around the corner, I revisited one of my favourite albums this weekend—and it didn’t disappoint. There’s something about the shift in seasons that makes certain records feel more alive. The air gets cooler, the days get shorter, and suddenly you’re reaching for music that knows how to sit quietly with you. For Emma, Forever Ago is that kind of album.
Bon Iver isn’t just a band—it’s a moment of emotional clarity frozen in time. The name itself, derived from the French phrase “bon hiver,” meaning “good winter,” was inspired by a scene from the TV show Northern Exposure. But the story behind the music is far more personal. Back in 2006, Justin Vernon, the man behind Bon Iver, was unravelling. He’d left his band, gone through a breakup, and was battling illness and burnout. So he did what few would dare: he retreated to his father’s hunting cabin in rural Wisconsin. No distractions. No expectations. Just snow, silence, and solitude. He didn’t go there to make music. He went to heal. But in that quiet, something stirred. Vernon began writing and recording—not with a plan, but as a means to process his feelings. Using basic equipment and layering vocals in a stream-of-consciousness style, he created something raw and intimate. These weren’t polished studio tracks. They were demos. And they were so powerful; his friends urged him to release them as they were. What you hear on For Emma, Forever Ago is exactly that: the original cabin recordings. No studio gloss. Just emotion, captured in its purest form. This album is my reset button. A sonic palate cleanser that sounds like nothing else. The melodies are calming, the lyrics cryptic yet deeply expressive. You don’t always know what Vernon’s saying, but you feel it. What I admire most is how the album doesn’t rush to offer answers or wrap things up neatly. It’s not trying to rescue you—it’s just there, steady and quiet, like a companion who understands the weight you’re carrying. There’s a kind of relief in that. It gives you room to feel what you need to feel, without judgment or urgency. Sometimes, that’s all you need: a little space, a little sound, and something honest to keep you company while you find your way through. Like many, I first heard “Skinny Love” and was instantly hooked. But it was the deeper cuts—“Re: Stacks,” “Blindsided,” “The Wolves (Act I and II)”—that pulled me in completely. Each track feels like a quiet conversation with your own heartache. It’s emotional. It’s minimal. It’s a moment in time, untouched by industry interference. No marketers. No managers. Just talent, truth, and tape. The track “For Emma” features horns added later in a studio session. It’s the only song with outside instrumentation, and when those horns kick in, it feels like coming home. The name Emma comes from a real person—her middle name, to be exact. Vernon reached out after the album dropped, and she was reportedly “pretty freaked out.” The album was first released with just 500 CDs, which sold out almost instantly. That buzz helped Vernon land a deal with Jagjaguwar and launch Bon Iver into the indie stratosphere. Vernon has said that the Wisconsin winter was crucial to the album’s tone. The starkness, the silence, the cold—it all seeped into the music, giving it weight and space to breathe. For Emma, Forever Ago isn’t just an album. It’s a quiet revolution. A reminder that sometimes, the most powerful art comes not from ambition, but from isolation. From heartbreak. From healing. If you’ve never listened to this album, give it a spin. As the leaves turn and the seasons change, let the feeling of winter find you—in reflective anticipation. Seasons fade, but life lingers on.
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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. 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:
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
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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.
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. → 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.
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