The Nineties are in but let’s be honest on our nostalgia trip

So, Britpop’s back in business. With Gen Z discovering the Nineties in lieu of anything decent to look forward to, and their parents uncovering the sad reality of mid-life in an economic desert, real and imagined nostalgia for the optimism and swagger of the Rule Britannia age is riding high.

In response to the renewed interest, Blur are playing Wembley in July, while Pulp can be found in a variety of places over the summer. All the talk is whether the apparent – albeit modest – thawing of relations between the Gallagher brothers could finally precipitate an Oasis reunion. The fact that Noel’s latest song sounds like it was bottled in 1996 just adds to the sense of bygone times being revisited.

It’s lovely in a way. For all that Britpop ultimately – and inevitably – failed to maintain the joie de vivre of its early years, it nevertheless burned bright while it lasted. Given the dark times we now find ourselves in, it’s no wonder that people should seek a little of the Nineties reflected – or perhaps refracted – light in their lives.

But memory is a wonderful thing. For kids born in the 21st century, it’s reasonable enough to view the Britpop period through a filter: no crappy album tracks; no hideous dance music topping the charts; no Bluetones. But for those of us who were there – and by there, I mean for the most part watching Top of the Pops and TFI Friday – there can be no excuse to ignore the full reality.

In my case, that means acknowledging both my mixed feelings about the Britpop landscape and the broader truth about my musical tastes of the mid-Nineties.

When Blur, Oasis et al first hit the big time, I was 15, and should have been ripe for the picking: a middle-class, provincial lad, a year away from finishing at my village secondary school and with the world at my feet. When I was given my own stereo after completing my GCSE exams, nothing could stop me.

Sure enough, I remember my first shopping trip for CDs with absolute clarity: the music aisles in Saffron Walden Woolworths bulged as I joined the throng of music aficionados, each searching out their niche indie favourites in a desperate bid to outdo one another’s euphonic esoterica. I explored the shelves, loving the clickety-clack as plastic case flicked against plastic case; one exciting musical adventure vying with the next for my attention.

Did I take (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? to the tills? Did I walk out proudly with Pulp’s Different Class, or even I Should Coco by Supergrass? Or did I, in fact, pass by those classics and instead spend my birthday money on Picture This, Wet Wet Wet’s triple-platinum, MOR behemoth? And did I pop that in a bag with a compilation called Acoustic Rock, featuring the Crash Test Dummies, George Michael and Eric Clapton, among others? And might I perhaps have finished off my inaugural spree by reaching for Def Leppard’s power ballad single, When Love & Hate Collide?

It’s not that I hated Britpop, or the indie scene as such. I liked Oasis; though I didn’t care for Pulp or The Verve. Shed Seven were a guilty pleasure, and I adored Divine Comedy, although they were hardly in the same bracket. At the V festival in 1997, I sang along joyously during Blur’s headline set. And when I hear the Britpop anthems of that era now, I feel as if the last quarter century never happened.

But really, those were not the bands I was listening to in my bedroom. My tastes were either thoroughly middle-aged (The Beautiful South), or less guitar-focused (Ben Folds Five), or nerdier (They Might be Giants) than those of most of my friends. And it’s much more likely that I’d put on a CD by one of those groups now if I wanted a nostalgia fix.

Back then, I was also a member of the Spice Girls fan club; but that’s a different story altogether, which I’ll tell you if you want – if you really, really want.