1998 – The Delgados – Pull The Wires From the Walls

(The year 2020 marks my 50th birthday. Leading up to the day (22nd November), I’m planning on writing a blog entry for each year, picking a song or an album from then that I love, talking a bit about why, and giving it some context in my life)

Pretty much since his debut novel, I’ve been a big fan of Canadian writer Douglas Coupland. For me, his greatest book is 1995’s Microserfs, which follows a curious gang of misfit Microsoft employees determined to understand what “getting a life” actually means in the modern, hi-tech world. It’s narrated in diary form by main character Dan, who during the course of the novel adds subconscious files to his computer, random bursts of text, phrases, product names, whatever floats around his mind. These are added as lists, or words, occasionally whole sentences, or sometimes merely as alpha characters, all in different fonts and sizes scattered over the page.

I adore this book. I never tire of it, despite the age of the technology mentioned and the outdated references. I read it once a year, easily. And even now, I get a little burst of excitement when I get to page 229 on my copy. Because there, in the random scatter of text, in italics, sit these words. Pull the wires from the wall.

I first heard The Delgados on Mark Radcliffe’s Graveyard Shift. He was an early adopter, playing single Under Canvass, Under Wraps constantly, and having them in for a session. I bought the 7″ of this, but never invested in the album, and to me, they were largely associated with that one song which I put on every mixtape I did that year. Later though, on John Peel, I heard my choice for 1998 which completely blew me away.

It such an understated song, and I’m at a loss to explain the effect it has on me. Achingly fragile, there is something about the words and melody that resonates. It is completely original, and there is nothing in the noisy clamour of their debut album to suggest they were capable of such beauty. Its not for nothing it topped Peel’s Festive Fifty that year, and I bought parent album Peloton as soon as I could. It became the soundtrack to my 1999.

I love every album by The Delgados, but there is something in the understated production of Peloton that makes it my favourite. The Great Eastern is equally powerful, but more layered and textured. Equally Hate, although it does contain my favourite song of theirs Coming in from the Cold. Swansong Universal Audio is also amazing, but slightly glossier, closer song-wise to Peloton with a slicker production. Their sophomore album has more of a lo-fi feel, grooving and looping through songs like Clarinet and The Arcane Model.

Everyone says this, and apologies if its patronising, but there has never been another band where I’ve felt the gulf between genius and success more acutely. They are one of the finest bands to come from these shores (I hope they don’t me, an Englishman, adopting them as my own) but never received the acclaim they deserved, something they noted themselves in their concluding statements. They left with the world with something so much better than a greatest hits collection – a compendium of their radio sessions, which are all amazing.

Members have continued with solo projects, particularly Emma Pollock with a series of excellent albums. They have recently activated a Twitter account, which suggests maybe they are coming out of hibernation in some form, but whether they do or not they remain one of my favourite bands, with songs I will always treasure.

1997 – Belle and Sebastian – Lazy Line Painter Jane

(The year 2020 marks my 50th birthday. Leading up to the day (22nd November), I’m planning on writing a blog entry for each year, picking a song or an album from then that I love, talking a bit about why, and giving it some context in my life)

I have never loved a radio show more than The Graveyard Shift on Radio 1. For period of about three years I listened to Mark Radcliffe and Mark Riley every single night, planning my whole evening around them. I hated it when one of them was away, or if someone else was deputising. And I was so sad when it all came to an end, when they moved to breakfast time, with so much of the content ripped apart and replaced with something more mainstream.

They introduced me to so much poetry, so many books, so many movies, so much culture. But mostly music, both old and new. So many bands and records that I love to this day I first heard Monday to Thursday between 10pm and midnight. Your Woman by Whitetown. Dive Bomb by Number 1 Cup. Come Undone by Secret Goldfish. And bands such as Mansun, Super Furry Animals, Quickspace, Porcupine Tree and more. And my first exposure to Belle and Sebastian through their debut, The State I Am In.

I was blown away from the first listen. The fragility of the vocal, with the most incredible lyrics every submitted to vinyl, this beautiful soliloquy of a man’s struggle between purity and temptation. “He took all of my sins, and wrote a pocket novel…”, back and forth between sin and God’s providence. It spoke of a different kind of Christian faith to that taught in Sunday School, a spirituality born out of your own exploration rather than rigidly following another man’s dogma.

Later, after their second album, came a brace of singles, the second of which was this, Lazy Line Jane Painter. Mark and Lard had moved on from The Graveyard Shift by then, and in fact, soon from the Breakfast Show, the death of Diana participating to their swift exit. So I bought this without hearing it first and thought it was terrific.

Its more powerful than the average Belle and Sebastian, building gradually to a stunning carousel of organ and guitar, the band wringing every ounce of passion out of the song. Its a masterpiece, more of a play set to music, with its own cast of characters with their own personal depths and emotions. I also love the video. It speaks of youth and creativity, a bunch of friends with a camera, some film, and a lot of imagination. And I defy you to find a more magnificent facial expression that Stuart Murdoch’s when his shirt gets paint sprayed.

As a band I have never found them less than interesting. I prefer their more lo-fi offerings to the work they have done with Trevor Horn and Tony Hoffer, but each album has stuff I enjoy. But these songs from the close of the nineties are my favourites, and this song transports me back to a time of simply wonderful radio.

1996 – Orbital – In Sides

(The year 2020 marks my 50th birthday. Leading up to the day (22nd November), I’m planning on writing a blog entry for each year, picking a song or an album from then that I love, talking a bit about why, and giving it some context in my life)

Sometimes you just need an album you can lose yourself in. Something to help set a mood in your head, to provide background to an endeavour, or to either focus your mind or set it adrift. You can dance to music like Orbital if you want to, but its not compulsory. Sometimes, you just need something like this.

Way back in 1990, I first heard The Orb, loving their first album, and absolutely adoring U.F.Orb in 1992. I had a friend who was into this sort of thing who introduced me to other bands, such as Ozric Tentacles and Eat Static, and of course I fell for The Chemical Brothers in a big way, Exit Planet Dust a firm favourite. This carried forward into a love of bands such as Boards of Canada, Battles and Animal Collective.

Orbital though mostly passed me by until this album from 1996. I’m not sure why I took a chance on it, maybe because I bought single The Box from the bargain bin, loving the four tracks on the CD, how each followed a theme despite being very different to each other. I bought the CD that came in a very nice blue stripy box, and listened to it and little else for the whole of that summer.

All eight tracks are outstanding. The opening Thwomp of the first track always sends shivers down my spine, and the bright, dazzling keyboard lines that close the album are incredible. My love of this record sent me back to their earlier releases, my favourite The Brown Album, with the masterful double bill of Impact and Rewind. I even bought a couple of very nice Orbital t-shirts, long sleeved baseball shirt additions that I wish I still owned. I’m sure they would go for a fortune on Ebay.

Every now and then I’ll get this album out and give it a spin, and never regret it. I love working to music like this, it somehow helps me to concentrate on a task. I don’t know why, and I’m sure this is not what the music was designed for. I’d be surprised if the brothers had project plans, benefit analysis and GANT charts in mind when they designed the tracks. My wife hates music like this, really can’t get it, but Orbital will always have a special place for me, and I’m glad I took a chance on this purchase.

1995 – The Wannadies – How Does It Feel

(The year 2020 marks my 50th birthday. Leading up to the day (22nd November), I’m planning on writing a blog entry for each year, picking a song or an album from then that I love, talking a bit about why, and giving it some context in my life)

I’m sure I’m not the only one, but in my head is a long list of songs where I’m amazed they weren’t massive hits. Songs that I thought so perfect, so commercial, so certain to cross over into the public affections and be whistled by milkman up and down the land. Yet for some reason, they languish in the bottom reaches of the charts, remembered by a few, ignored by many.

One that confuses me the most is Waiting for This by the band Ruth. Heard of it? Thought not. But its amazing, a truly brilliant slice of indie guitar pop with a searing solo. The record company obviously had faith in them, handing production duties over to Langer and Winstanley, but they failed to make a impression on the record buying public. Lead singer Matt Hayes did get his moment in the sun, scoring a top 10 hit a few years later as Aqualung, but barely a whimper for Ruth. Its telling that the YouTube video below has managed to number barely 300 views in the past five years. And half of those are probably me.

Silver Sun are another example. Sure, they had more exposure than Ruth, but failed to set the charts on fire despite the fact their songs were brilliant. They were the masters of the three minute pop gem, songs that if recorded by an artist like Robbie Williams would be considered classics. Tracks like I’ll See You Around and Lava are just incredible. But they never really made much of an impression, despite being available for every TV show, interview, and gimmick going. In a way, perhaps they came across as too needy, which slightly alienated a record buying public.

And then this from The Wannadies, my choice for 1995, and quite simply a masterful pop song. I have adored this track from the moment I heard it. I love the lyrics, with that reflective quality of you not being what the world wants you to be. They share a trait with the songs of The Boo Radleys and The Delgados, this slight edge of knowing that something is not quite right, that despite your best efforts you will never be quite what you want to be. But the music is pure pop, the very best kind, full of delicious hooks with a chorus that lifts your heart set against melancholic lyrics that bring you down in equal measure.

At the time, I did know how it felt. 1995 was a tough year for me, both emotionally and mentally. I felt lost, out of sorts with the world, not knowing what I wanted to be. I knew I wasn’t special, but wished I could be, knew I had no talent for anything but wished I could be good at something. And I also wished for that special someone, who unknown to me I already knew. Someone everlasting, kind, the perfect girl to kiss, and still be friends. Who has been my wife for over twenty years now. And I know how that feels. Pretty wonderful.

The album its taken from is also superb, The Wannadies are one of those bands who wrote great songs, one after another, but for whatever reason were never really clutched to the nations bosom. They still resonate – currently in the UK, a slowed down version of You and Me Song is used in an advert. In the last month, they also announced they were reforming to play some gigs. I wish them well, and also wish more people got the chance to listen to this wonderful song.

1994 – Suede – Dog Man Star

(The year 2020 marks my 50th birthday. Leading up to the day (22nd November), I’m planning on writing a blog entry for each year, picking a song or an album from then that I love, talking a bit about why, and giving it some context in my life)

As I said in my post about Slowdive, I have never been one to stick to a favourite band or genre. In 1994, I enjoyed the swansong albums from the previous generation of bands such as Ride and The Stone Roses, plus the different direction of Primal Scream and the Britrock sound of Terrorvision. I was also starting to get into Britpop, being a big fan of Parklife and the batch of bands such as Pulp and Shed Seven.

But there was one album I anticipated more than any other, and that was Dog Man Star. I had fallen for Suede’s debut album in a big way, listening to it many times, and was very excited to hear what was to come. Often you could get an idea of what to expect by the b-sides of previous singles, and the two backing last single Stay Together were really good. Very different to each other, but equally tender and dramatic in their own way.

All the mutterings around Bernard Butler and his relationship with the band concerned me, but it looked as if the album was coming no matter the frictions within the group. It was teased by a 4-track flexi-disc released in the New Musical Express, and this further whetted my appetite for release day, as did sensational single We Are The Pigs. This was backed with two of my favourite Suede songs, Killing of a Flashboy and Whipsnade, both of which are the equal of anything on the debut album.

Release day came and I was not disappointed. It is a challenging album, slightly over the top at times, but full of the most spine tingling music. The production is up there with the best, guitars recorded with a heightened sense of urgency. They ring out with such clarity on songs like New Generation and Heroine, but adding tone and shade to tracks such as Black and Blue.

The crowning glory of the album is The Asphalt World, a daring, challenging construction that goes through various stages until reaching a dramatic conclusion. The guitar solo is like nothing else, incredibly inventive and powerful, full of twists and turns undercut with a swirling organ.

Sadly, after Butler left, this sense of the dramatic left Suede somewhat, although it has returned in recent times, particularly on The Blue Hour and Night Thoughts. That said, follow up album Coming Up was the perfect release for the time, and it showed a different side to the band. Crunchier, sharper, and with more impact that Dog Man Star, it is much more of a pop album, evidenced through half the album being released as singles.

I still love Suede to this day. From all the 90’s bands, in my mind they are the one that has endured, and their music has hardly dated, something you can’t say about Blur, Pulp, or our eyebrow heavy friends from Manchester. Brett Anderson is a sharp looking as he was at the height of his powers, and its great to see Bernard Butler still going strong with many projects on the go. Every album, whilst never hitting the majesty of Dog Man Star, has its own delights, and I have a feeling they’ll be around for years to come.

1993 – Slowdive – When The Sun Hits

(The year 2020 marks my 50th birthday. Leading up to the day (22nd November), I’m planning on writing a blog entry for each year, picking a song or an album from then that I love, talking a bit about why, and giving it some context in my life)

To mangle the words of Depeche Mode – “I don’t understand, what makes a band, hate another band, help me understand”. Music isn’t football. Its not competitive, even if the charts give that impression. Why should we care if one band does well and another does poorly. And why do some people have to announce their hatred of something as if to justify their tastes are correct. Ok, we get it, you don’t like something I like. Big deal.

Growing up, the music press didn’t help. The worst example is Steve Sutherland’s 1992 review of Suede and Kingmaker in Melody Maker, infamously titled “Pearls Before Swine“. He absolutely tears into both Kingmaker and their fans, challenging their right to be present before Suede. The final paragraph is utterly ridiculous, and in my mind an insult against anyone who spent money on this particular music paper. At the time, I loved both Kingmaker and Suede. I would have loved to have been at that gig. Why did I have to pick a tribe?

So an unnecessary attack, one reported to have a profound effect on the life of Kingmaker frontman Loz. And equal to the abuse and pressure piled onto Slowdive, one of my favourite bands of all time. The Manic Street Preachers said they hated them “more than Hitler”, an utterly ridiculous statement anyone with half a brain will see was purely another feeble “look at me” piece of propaganda. Even their own label turned on them, dropping them on the release of their sublime third album.

Lets remember that at the time Slowdive’s members were barely into their mid-twenties. They made great music, and should have been having the time of their lives. Why did they have to put up with this sort of abuse. Other artists don’t have to tolerate this. Fellow painters don’t pour scorn over their rivals. Novelists don’t shit over others books. These poor musicians, trying to make their art, being told by all the bigmouths that their output wasn’t worth anything, was wrong, needed changing. I hate bullying in any form and it used to make my blood boil. And nothing was going to stop me buying their records.

Because quite simply, second album Soulvaki is one of my favourite albums of all time, and When The Sun Hits is my favourite song therein. It is utterly sensational, packed with emotion and musicality, a rush of surging guitars that are powerful not through noise, but through melody and tone. It ends far too soon – I would love to hear the studio tapes before the fade-out, to see how they ended the performance. In my mind exists a version that never ends, band in perfect unison, locked into each others ability.

Slowdive have endured, and I am so glad. It sounds odd, and hopefully not patronising, but I’m proud that they returned in 2014 and are now receiving the respect they deserved back in the nineties. Quite rightly, they are now considered every bit as important as their peers, and Soulvaki is proclaimed as up there with the likes of Loveless and Going Blank Again.

I love their new stuff, and am so excited to hear they are currently working on a new album. I also love all their solo and side projects, particularly the Minor Victories album from a few years back. The Soft Cavalry album is also simply brilliant and well worth picking up. I’m chuffed to have a signed copy, proving that I’m still a hopeless fanboy. When The Sun Hits represents everything I love about music. Thoughtful lyrics, packed with emotion, and music you never want to end. And more than any other band, I respect how never once did they go on the defensive and attack their aggressors. The most dignified band in music, and also one of the greatest.

1992 – Blur – Popscene

(The year 2020 marks my 50th birthday. Leading up to the day (22nd November), I’m planning on writing a blog entry for each year, picking a song or an album from then that I love, talking a bit about why, and giving it some context in my life)

When it came to music on television, I was really spoilt for choice in the nineties. Let’s make a list, shall we. So Top of the Pops aside, we had Rapido, Snub TV, The Chart Show, Dance Energy, The White Room, Naked City (and spin off show Butt Naked), 120 Minutes, TFI Friday, and, of course, The Word. Although the content could be distasteful at best sometimes, this late night Channel 4 Friday night programme really knew how to present bands and make them look exciting. Witness below the sheer raw power and intensity of one of my favourite performances of all time, with Senseless Things smashing Hold It Down.

It wasn’t just limited to specific music programmes. Bands would turn up in odd places on other shows, be it Pet Shop Boys turning up on Wogan to do Domino Dancing, or my absolute favourite, Jesus Jones appearing on The Cannon and Ball Show. And then there was Saturday morning television, where you could be sure to see a couple of bands performing each week. Time and effort was spent to get these bands on TV. 120 Minutes on MTV2 is a classic case in point, real attention made to get new and exciting bands on screen, through videos and interviews.

A great example of a band turning up in odd places is Blur, who had he dubious honour of playing on Cheryl Baker’s cookery show for kids Eggs N’ Baker. These days, this never happens. You can’t imagine Idles popping up on Graham Norton, on Sleaford Mods making an entrance on CBBC. Apart from the atmosphere vacuum that is Jools Holland (in my mind the dryest, least exciting showcase for music on television in history), music barely features. Even the music channels just show the same videos week after week. Spare me please another afternoon of Top Indie Anthems on VH1 and MTV Rocks.

Blur also appeared on The Word, performing my choice for 1992, Popscene. And what a mighty song this is. Released ahead of what would have been their second album, it unfortunately failed to make much of an impression on a public too busy buying flannel shirts and ripped jeans to go with the grunge lifestyle. But I loved it. It sounds dirty and energetic, full of squally feedback and urgent horns.

If it had been successful Blur would have been a very different band. The story that follows speaks of a band who had to all but scrap their second album and go back to the drawing board, the tracks that would have featured spread across the singles as B-sides. Select magazine once pieced together in track order the songs that would have formed this mythical album and it is so different to Modern Life is Rubbish, much more noisy and disjointed, but thrillingly dramatic and messy. Had it been a hit, I’m convinced we never would have gotten Parklife.

My love of Blur has persisted, but these days, I rarely touch Parklife or The Great Escape. I often though turn to Modern Life is Rubbish, and in particular the towering 13, one of the most interesting albums made. Its a challenging listen at first, until your mind clicks into the depths of its ability to move your emotions.

Its such a shame, really, that Channel 4 and ITV have such a massive archive of quality music programmes that never get shown. We get endless clip shows on the BBC, but never anything from the commercial network. Sky Arts recently broadcast a Guy Garvey fronted clip show with ITV clips, but they concentrated mostly on the Granada archive, with earlier years featured. But I miss seeing music on television. It opened my eyes to so much new stuff, connected me with the bands I loved. As much as I appreciate coverage of Glastonbury and the like, there is something about being surprised by a band on a variety show out of nowhere.

1991 – Teenage Fanclub – Starsign

(The year 2020 marks my 50th birthday. Leading up to the day (22nd November), I’m planning on writing a blog entry for each year, picking a song or an album from then that I love, talking a bit about why, and giving it some context in my life)

So which year is the best year for music. I would have to say 1991 is a definite contender. So many amazing albums and singles were released in that year, a goldmine of new experiences and fresh bands entering my world. Primal Scream with Screamadelica, Nirvana, Loveless by My Bloody Valentine, and of course Bandwagonesque by the incredible Teenage Fanclub.

New music also seemed to be supported more than ever. 1991 was the year of The Great Music Weekend, a series of concerts held at Wembley to coincide with The Brits. There were three gigs, all of which had familiar favourites and up and coming acts. There was a metal night which pretty much passed me by, but I listened avidly on the radio to the other two concerts, particularly to hear both Ride and Carter, two bands I loved. I was also a fan of 808 State, and was thrilled to hear them feature on the first night.

Of course in those days there were no streaming services, so no real way to hear new music unless it was on the radio, or you went out and physically bought it. Luckily for me, I was in full time work, still living at home, and had a lot of expendable income. So I bought everything. I must have spent more money on records, tapes, VHS cassettes, concert tickets and T-shirts than any other year of my life. My bedroom floor groaned under the weight of 12″ vinyl. The record shop in the town where I worked had a rapid bounce down to the bargain bin, so anything I couldn’t afford on the day of release I generally picked up a week or so later. I was in there every day, twice on Monday if their delivery of fresh stock was late.

It was from the reduced bin that I pulled out my copy of Starsign by Teenage Fanclub, and so got an absolute bargain, a piece of vinyl that I’ve played multiple times over the years, and even to this day. There is something about this song that sounds even better on record, better than any MP3 or CD can ever achieve. Similar to my 1990 choice, this is another song that can almost bring a tear to my eye, such as its power to move me due to its sheer brilliance.

For me, it has to be the version with the full intro – the edit just doesn’t cut it. That feeling of anticipation leading into that first burst of vocals and band in unison. It is the kind of song I can lose myself in, floating along with the energy of the guitars, packed with melody and tone. From there on, I have adored every Teenage Fanclub album, but my favourites are the trio that led from this single. I have never understood the criticism some gave Thirteen, and Grand Prix is their masterpiece, particularly side one. Neil Yung is the perfect Teenage Fanclub song and encapsulates everything I love about music. Long may they continue.

1990 – Lush – Sweetness and Light

(The year 2020 marks my 50th birthday. Leading up to the day (22nd November), I’m planning on writing a blog entry for each year, picking a song or an album from then that I love, talking a bit about why, and giving it some context in my life)

My Saturday morning routine has changed significantly in the past thirty years. These days I’m normally up reasonably early, have a spot of breakfast, and then I might go for a run, or a nice walk into town. I’ll spend some time with my children, do a spot of work, maybe bake something or potter around the garden. In 1990, I would generally annoy the hell out of my milkman father by sleeping until lunchtime, emerging in time to grab an obscenely large bowl of cereal before settling down to watch The Chart Show.

For those unaware, this was an amazing music show broadcast in the UK in the late eighties / early nineties. It just showed videos, but in a really original way, a visual jukebox which would take a risk on up and coming bands and new releases. They would also alternate between different charts, so if you were me you’d get very excited to see the bobbing fairground horses that heralded The Indie Charts.

Even to this day, when a song is being played my mind goes “Chart Show Information” when you get to the middle eight, or a little instrumental bit after the chorus. I can imagine the fake cursor moving around the screen, bringing up live dates or fun facts in fancy Ceefax. Its how I know that the dog in the Blue Monday video was called Fay. Or that the rat in the Need You Tonight video was called Plague. And that Sweetness and Light by Lush had already been named “Single of the Year” by some parts of the music press, who were also calling them “the new ABBA”.

This is one of my favourite songs of all time, a glittering piece of pop genius so good it can bring a tear to my eye. There is something about the locked in groove of the bass and drums, providing a solid, concrete structure for the most beautiful guitar sounds and fragile vocals.

From the moment I heard this song, watched I would imagine with a lingering hangover and cereal whilst squinting at the Chart Show, I fell in love with Lush. They wrote great songs, pure and simple, which were never overblown or unnecessarily complicated. They just sounded great, and it baffled me that more weren’t converted to their blend of pop and noise.

The news of the death of drummer Chris Acland had a real effect on me, and even now, nearly 25 years later, it makes me feel sad to think of the pain he must have felt, and that of his band-mates during the aftermath. They clearly loved him dearly, and I have huge respect for all their decisions and how dignified they have remained, especially during their recent reunion. I can only imagine how acutely they must have felt his absence during that time.

So quite simply, a stunning song, in my mind a classic. I loved it from the first moment I heard it, sat propped in bed, barely awake, mesmerised by a truly beautiful song that is perfect in every way.

1989 – The Cure – Pictures of You

(The year 2020 marks my 50th birthday. Leading up to the day (22nd November), I’m planning on writing a blog entry for each year, picking a song or an album from then that I love, talking a bit about why, and giving it some context in my life)

So in this blog I’ve already covered what to me are the three other main bands of my youth – Depeche Mode, New Order, and the Smiths. So it’s only right that before this decade is out, we turn to the fourth corner of the Indie square, The Cure. And what better way to do so with this stupendous single.

Few bands manage to produce both fantastic singles and amazing albums. But The Cure absolutely smash it on both counts, filling the charts with incredibly commercial songs and challenging, thoughtful albums. So in two strokes, they please both casual listener and die-hard fan alike. Like many others I’m sure, my first experience of the band came with one of the best singles compilations of all time, the incredible Standing on a Beach. It shows Robert Smith’s skill at creating catchy, memorable songs, right from the bands early records.

But then you delve into the albums, and realise that behind these songs are complex, thoughtful musical ideas, each with a wide range of emotions and concepts. Seventeen Seconds, Faith and Pornography are a stunning trilogy, but the more commercial sound of The Head in the Door and Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me are equally as good.

Disintegration is their masterpiece in my mind, and Pictures of You is the centrepiece, a perfection reduction of the albums mood. It glitters and sparkles despite the downbeat tone, with achingly beautiful words passionately sung by Robert Smith.

1989 was a transitional year for me in lots of ways. It was the year I left school and entered the world of work, and the year my musical tastes became less based on the hits in the charts. Work gave me money and more opportunities to experiment with new music and different bands. It took me a few listens to truly get Disintegration but I’m so glad I didn’t give up. As much as I like follow up album Wish, this to me is their finest hour. It is rich, sometimes complicated, but not a depressing tome. It is a stunning work of genius and this song encapsulates the beauty of this album.