Suede

And then, suddenly, an image, a black-and-white photograph, tucked at the back of a music magazine: a young Adonis pictured in front of a mirror, fragile-looking yet bold, caressing his bare chest, shirt open, hair cut just so; around him, an unmade bedroom, keeper of who knows what secrets. Pop Britain in 1992 finds itself in need, almost desperate for something new, for revelations tinged with mystery, for glamour, for belonging to a homegrown culture, elegant yet at the same time visceral, vicious, dramatic, something capable of shaping common thought, ways of acting, speaking, thinking. Albion's new children need a proud awakening, fresh from the Thatcherite '80s, from the by-now-distant second British Invasion, immediately embraced by their American cousins and then abruptly cast aside as unrepresentative.

They need to find sturdier footing after the ventures and misadventures of the Smiths era and the messy exploits of neo-psychedelia and the Madchester sound. London's media machine has never missed its classic decisive move, working diligently to spotlight the various contenders, hoping that at least one of them might become the chosen stage. Too bad there's been no striker for ages, no name able to finish the job right in front of goal. And yet there's a new scent in the air: the crisis seems to have subsided, football, the first great social redemption alongside pop music, has been readmitted to European competition — could it also be time for a comeback for the sheet music?

That summer/autumn's biggest scoop proves itself in the space of a few minutes: it's called Suede. One, two, three singles, instant chart hits across the Channel, the revenge awaited almost furiously against the dominant (ex-)American indie sound, seen as excessively macho, coarse, dirty. The guy mentioned above is called Brett Anderson; he buttons up his shirt, smiles slyly and doesn't even ask permission — he doesn't need to. He's got them all at his feet, preening over his power to command them at will. He has every right to, but he doesn't notice the catch lurking around the corner, and he can't even imagine that history will nonetheless show him the kindness reserved for the righteous. The strategy is well devised: glory, never mind mere success, has to start from independent foundations, has to carry the flavour of the suburbs, but must also feed the fantasy of the young fan. Brett, the knight of liberation, also has a squire, one of the decisive kind, in the best pop-rock tradition — the guitarist, the right-hand man, the arm that easily becomes the brains when the leader is caught up in some photo shoot laced with gossip. Brett and Bernard together, one's head resting on the other's shoulder, are brothers, no, lovers, they're sex symbols, but not the kind of cheap posters propping up teenage girls' dreams — this is serious business; they're Bowie and Ronson, they're Morrissey and Marr, they're ambiguity, vice, danger, but hell, they're also beautiful. Just like the cover of their full-length debut: two faces and two mouths kissing voluptuously, two women or two men?! Spring 1993 has just begun and who cares if it keeps raining in London, there are hundreds of people queuing up to grab the new jewel box — or so the NME and Melody Maker tell it — the most anticipated album since "Never Mind The Bollocks".

A feeling of nostalgia that ensnares young and old alike, the critics, whole rows of colleagues. Melodrama, dandyism, unsettling themes, a sense of sacrifice without so much as a hair out of place. Ziggy's ghost pushing its way through the folds of the sheets, a moment of ethereal suspension and then resurrection. British music in the '90s truly begins here, yet it feels like stepping back twenty years, to ambiguous glam, to art that was made-up but far from tamed to the industry's wishes. Brett and Bernard believe in it, Ed Buller backs them and puts together a formally flawless machine for them, paying tribute to that golden era without ever coming across as an empty revival. Two supporting players, Matt Osman on bass, Simon Gilbert on drums, understated and decently turned out, a guitar foundation that comes across raw, almost dirty yet sophisticated, with Butler embroidering and overdubbing, accompanying gently and stinging furiously, a compact, epic wall of sound, with feedback always up front, sounding uncontrollable precisely because it's kept on such a tight leash by the band's iron grip. And then the piano that often peeks through, the violins pushing intimacy towards uproar, the romantic, liberating scream, the sax and synths mixing into the deck and thickening Bernard's instrumental drive. A prairie of sound locked inside the bedroom of a Brett who is anything but reluctant to open up his personal diary and make public the filth, sins, messes, hopes and disillusionments of a twenty-something.

"So Young", so young, so naive you don't even notice you're screwing yourself over, maybe hiding behind some lying, bastard substance, "Animal Nitrate", ...Angel, don't take those sleeping pills, a request or an act of faith, piano-and-voice ballads that turn into theatrical coups, orchestral explosions, angelic choirs, the six-string running in to counterpoint, to pierce, to pin down a state of mind. But what a jolt in those drugged caresses, those forbidden kisses, something worth holding onto in this life that seems like a badly staged comedy, in which you look like a puppet with neither head nor tail, a "Pantomime Horse", where affection tragically slips away and you refuse to believe it, because "She's Not Dead", and so, maybe, you'll meet again in another life, the next one.

But let's give it time, first there's hope to be ridden, the hope of pulling through. "Moving" has the force of a punch in the face, screamed out and scarred by guitar; "The Drowners" borrows a T.Rex-style hard-rock template to call out for a helping hand and avoid being swallowed by quicksand; "Metal Mickey" has the charm of glitter on the eyes, of a knowing smile, of the girl who cons you at the worst possible moment and yet you just can't resist her, because in the end it's you staring back in the mirror, an animalistic lover, insistent, even dim-witted, but alive.

Then comes the breakdown, the collapse, and the awakening isn't what Brett and Bernard had imagined. A couple splitting up right at the peak, even though the Valentine's card read "Stay Together". They call it illusion, but it was actually transition, towards more palatable, more decipherable, more artistically accessible shores.

Twelve months after the "revelation", city walls are plastered with huge posters picturing two rough-looking characters, the Gallagher brothers. Out there, Damon Albarn is telling tales of his nights dancing in Ibiza, and dozens upon dozens of bands are springing up like mushrooms. The bands of britpop.

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31/03/2013