The millennium! yawn Discerning fin-de-sihcle revellers knew to avoid the whole pathetic pantomime and holed up in the Tiv with the Frames for a show with the type of careening magic lesser bands would, indeed, be happy to pull off once a millennium. Glen and Co, however, being Glen and Co, kicked sand in erstwhile label ZTT s face and carried on with more of the spectacular same all year most notably, in a solo performance from Mr H one thrilling afternoon in Whelan` s.
So, a year of breakups (the wracked ferocity of Whipping Boy; the beatific weird science of the Plague Monkeys) as well as dodgy solo outings: if Robbie could do it, no reason Geri, Mels C and B, Posh, Mikey and Stephen can t oops. The world being an imperfect place, Ronan could; and, anyroad, it appears we ll have highlightey-fringe identi-kids Westlife and super-preened cultural ambassadors the Corrs around to keep us in a prematurely middle-aged stupor for some time yet. Meanwhile, ooh, here comes a bandwagon (UK garage), everybody hop on! And, just as swiftly, there it goes again. Go on Samantha, pop needs you. Even the triumphantly resurrected Madonna can t make the radio waves safe for perfect pop on her own, you know.
In retrospect, maybe the soggy squib of the Irish millennial celebrations was very telling. Somewhere along the line, 2000 was the year where we became inured to the Celtic Tiger s yowl: used to an increasingly mediocre quality of life despite the restaurants, boutiques and cappuccini; used to taxi queues, megapubs, traffic congestion, casual racism and crap housing; used to avarice and the cultural monochrome-ism that results when people misplace their souls and can t get time off work to look for them. Thank the God of your choice, then, for PJ Harvey s visceral love-swoon, Radiohead s fearless navigation down the road less travelled, the child-savant exhilaration of Badly Drawn Boy, and the dark, pure fireworks of Coldplay. And while you re at it, say merci for a clutch of peerless pop singles that would almost have you daring to listen to daytime radio again (the dusky tango of The Time Is Now; the snooty swing of If This Ain t Love; the sassy slap! of Don t Mess With My Man; the bleak cinema-verite of Eminem s Stan ). Say ta to Tom Dunne s Pet Sounds for keeping us in Elliott Smith, Looper, Smog and Black Box Recorder all year. Say cheers for Goldfrapp, Pram, Lambchop, Broadcast, Clinic, Sack, Doves, Daniel Figgis, Primal Scream, Sigur Ros, Cat Power, the Delgados, At The Drive-In, the Bill Wells Trio, the finally fantastic Jubilee Allstars, the ever-wonderful Cane 141, and the first non-annoying outing from Belle And Sebastian ( Legal Man ). Say thank fuck for the Music Centre during Green Energy, and for every damn minute of Witnness.
Happy Christmas folks.