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The 2005-2006 English Premier League season began a couple months ago with newly promoted Wigan Athletic F.C. giving champions Chelsea an early season endurance test, narrowly losing 1-0 in the last minute. Normally a match with a small side like Wigan wouldn't have meant much to me, but this time it was different--I had a frame of reference. "Wigan, huh? That's where The Verve were from."

Lost in the shuffle between big northern cities Liverpool and Manchester, Wigan wasn't ever known for producing much besides factory workers, and were it not for The Verve seizing their small window of opportunity in 1997 it might have stayed that way. Formed in 1989, the early days of the then simply "Verve" were spent exploring their psychedelic sounds. Led by the iconic Richard Ashcroft, they released a number of quality singles, (one of which "All In The Mind" features a b-side "A Man Called Sun" that inspired the name of a former Portland band). With a subsequent, eponymous 1992 E.P. that compiled a few of these tracks and continued to build their fanbase the group was poised to break through with their debut LP a year later, A Storm In Heaven.

Easily my favorite album of theirs, A Storm In Heaven settled on my ears like a warm, gentle breeze. Not terribly concerned with making proper "hits", they layered their sounds in true shoegazer fashion to create a beginning-to-end classic that I have yet to get tired of. Produced by John Leckie (who also handled duties on one of my other all-time faves, The Bends) and featuring blissful art design by Brian Cannon and photography by Michael Spencer Jones (who later gained greater attention for their work with Oasis). The album cover nailed the embodiment of their paradoxical esthetic--how can this be the after-life if there is still inclement weather? From the noisy opening "Star Sail", featuring Nick McCabe's signature guitars, to the more stripped down "Make It Till Monday" and the piano-based goodbye "See You In The Next One (Have A Good Time)" ASIH represents their pure embodiment of youthful ambition.

Even though they were well received by critics, the band didn't exactly take off in popularity. As with so many British bands, they were set on capturing the States, and they joined up with the second stage on Lollapalooza 1994, only to be done in by health problems and the first of two famous legal troubles. It seems the well-known jazz label of the same name took notice and forced the group to add the not-so superfluous "The." Heading into the studio to record their second proper album, the group was on edge and brought in producer Owen Morris (another Oasis association---actually, I believe in the early days of the 'sis they played some opening gigs for The Verve) to help them sort things out. There are some legendary stories about massive drug use and destruction at the studio that seemed to seal their fate, and when they released the material as A Northern Soul in 1995 it was met with mixed reviews. More health problems (I missed seeing them play First Ave. in Minneapolis due to Ashcroft's supposed sore throat) and a growing feud between Ashcroft and McCabe saw the band split up that fall.

Convinced that I had heard the last of the group, I was left trying to make sense of A Northern Soul, as it contained little of what I had loved about their early work. Sure, there were some trippy jams, but bringing in the string section for "History" seemed forced (I was always kind of annoyed by those that claimed the group knew it would be their swan song), and the single "On Your Own" was just so clean and perfect. The album gets better towards the end, with the combined weight of "Life's An Ocean" and "Stormy Clouds", but it was hardly the cohesive whole I had hoped for. I suppose the group had taken the idea of their region's dedication to American soul music to heart, and hoped they could recreate the sound for a new generation, while I just wanted more shoegaze.

About a year after their breakup, and now with the information overload of the Internet, I was following stories about new Ashcroft projects with Verve drummer Pete Salisbury, and wondering if I would ever hear the results. Eventually it became clear that the band were more-or-less reforming, convincing McCabe to re-join and bringing in an additional member, Simon Tong, to handle some of the guitars and add keyboard to compliment the original four (Ashcroft, McCabe, Salisbury, and bassist Simon Jones). Knowing their difficult history I wasn't exactly holding my breath in anticipation, but I will never forget the moment in the summer of 1997 when I picked up the import single of "Bitter Sweet Symphony" from Let It Be Records in Minneapolis. Putting the disc in the car stereo and hearing those now-infamous strings kick in I felt a mixture of disappointment and anticipation--I wondered if they would break-through with this new, Britpop sound, and was unsure if I'd accept it as their natural sonic progression. (On a strange legal sidenote, the royalties for "BSS" were eventually taken away from the group, since they used a looped sample of a symphonic recording of the Rolling Stones' "The Last Time" they made the song the property of Mick and Keith.)

It wouldn't take long for me to get my answer as it soon seemed like they were everywhere, even to the point where I was no longer answering the confused question about the difference between them and The Verve Pipe. I was admittedly kind of excited, since I thought that perhaps the album would turn out different from this first single -- I have a pretty weird memory of waking up terribly hungover on the day I turned 21 and putting Urban Hymns (released the day before) in the stereo for its first play. I kind of liked bits more than I expected to, but ultimately found it pretty unmemorable--besides "BSS", singles "The Drugs Don't Work" and "Lucky Man" are the only songs that stood out.

Following another attempt to tour the States (I half-heartedly tried to see them in Seattle), McCabe left again and the group eventually imploded for good. Soon after Richard Ashcroft began making awful solo records. However, I still remember the time when The Verve were The Greatest Band Of All Time.

Last week I saw the Unrest reunion show, which was probably a high point of my life. Listening to "West Coast Love Affair" with your best friend from high school? Seeing an ex-boyfriend pogo in the corner? It really doesn't get any better. But in the days after, I started to feel kind of like a loser. Or like my mother. You see, my mother really only listens to music made before 1973, the year she graduated from college. I graduated from college in 1998 and a cursory glance at my itunes proves my point: I am becoming my mother. Except obsessed with the nineties. It's sad when all of your favorite bands are broken up. How often is Unrest gonna reunite? Not very often.

But then salvation came in the form of Televise. My friend Nicki, who is addicted to MP3 blogs, told me I had to hear this band founded by the former drummer of Slowdive. Former member of Slowdive! Dude, she had me at hello.

And then I read their bio and really fell in love. I quote: "Jamie Armstrong was added on guitar in January '04 to complete the lineup after writing an imaginary soundtrack to NASA's space exploration videos." Imaginary soundtracks to NASA space exploration videos? That's what all music should sound like! I want them to be my new best friends.

After deciding that they were my New Favorite Band, I decided it was time to listen to their music. It did not disappoint. They claim to draw upon the bands of 4AD, Thrill Jockey, and Creation. All I have to say is, Sigh. There are only two songs available stateside, via their website, "If I told you" and "Smile", but both are unbelievably awesome and go perfectly with snowy weather, though I imagine they'll be a nice soundtrack to any season.

With Televise, I can conveniently feed my unquenchable shoegazer fixation/nineties nostalgia trip while at the same time resting assured that the band is both current and somewhat obscure. I guess the question remains about whether a band whom I've only heard two songs can really be GBoAT-quality. The answer, I believe, is found in their bio, where they say "music is limitless, endless possibilities of sound, no restrictions or guidelines, freedom is found." I prefer my bands to sound like their main activities include smoking pot, reading Siddhartha, and watching nature movies. These are also confident words, words that can only come from the Greatest Bands of All Time.

Here's the thing about Galaxie 500: you have to buy the whole package. It's a hard prospect, and one I've had a great deal of difficulty with in the past. It's how a friend of mine describes the MC5--a band I've classically had problems with: if you question it, you'll never understand it. They're a package. the music is just an extension of that greater consciousness. Which, all in all, sounds like something of a cop out to me. but it's the only way I can describe Galaxie.

Like Dinosaur Jr., the Galaxie folks fell into that slacker archetype, though of the distinctly collegiate variety. Dean Wareham, Damon Krukowski, and Naomi Yang met as teens in New York, and reacquainted in New England of the mid-'80s while the trio attended Harvard. Dean and Damon played together in a former band, which became Galaxie 500 after Dean's reluctant acceptance of Damon's girlfriend, Naomi, as a novice bass player.

The trio began playing an ephemeral, opiated rock in the tradition of lighter Velvet Underground and Television. The difference, of course, is that Galaxie 500 were staunchly anchored by something those bands could never really be accused of--Galaxie 500 were just plain boring. and over the course of their three proper albums, they never really got any more exciting. Wareham's guitar playing was a beautiful wash, his lyrics lazy and obtuse. the rhythm section of Damon and Naomi serviceable, but never really rising above simply going through the motions. but that's the whole thing--that's the Galaxie 500 hook. There's a simple progression amongst their albums, but honestly, their entire catalog could have been recorded in one sitting. it's such a compacted, effortless vision--and it makes for one of my favorite bands of the 1980s. They make me pine for a time I never knew. Ivy leagues. the early '80s. New England in the woods.

Galaxie 500 dissolved in 1991, with Dean forming the similarly effortless Luna and Damon and Naomi forming, well, Damon and Naomi--but the beautiful simplicity had pretty much already run it course. Galaxie 500--the Greatest Band of All Time to pass out to.

I remember once reading [ed. note: My memory for specifics is famously faulty, particularly in regard to reading retention. which is why I always seem to preface my anecdotes with the phrase "I read somewhere--"the perpetual "somewhere"--a source I couldn't name to save my life. I apologize for this very feeble crutch.] some rock journalist waxing on about Brian Jones' early roll in the Stones, a point that lead them eventually to the assertion that the true soul of the Band--what would become Mick's narrative throughout the 60s and 70s--lay squarely on his shoulders--with, of course, a little help from Keith. Something of a reasonable assessment, me thinks; I mean, sure: Mick was probably around for some harrowing shit, lived "the life" a lot harder than most anyone you or I know, but when it comes right down to it, he'd probably rather be fucking a model than meeting the smack dealer. Which, of course, is the difference. He was always more of a fly on the wall of a lifestyle that consumed the people around him. the "rock and roll lifestyle."

Though perhaps not as dramatic as the story of the Stones (I mean, what could be, really?), I've always sort of sensed a similar sort of dichotomy at work between two of the world's most under-rated junkie geniuses--Jason Pierce and Pete Kember--the duo at work behind Spacemen 3. I have no proof of this dichotomy, of course, but can only offer their disparate solo careers as evidence: Pierce (aka J. Spaceman), with his critically-acclaimed Spiritualized, gluttonously expands his track-marked image with each of his releases--with nearly every song containing a thinly-veiled drug reference--but whose work possesses a clarity and professionalism that simply doesn't mesh with the capacity of a 20-year junkie. Kember (better known perhaps as Sonic Boom), on the other hand, has actively grown less-and-less accessible with each release (both under the names Spectrum and EAR)--abandoning his pop roots for what basically amounts to lengthy, unintelligible synthetic drones. The man is obviously on drugs.

anyway.

Until Spectrum became Totally boring, Sonic Boom was on such an incredible roll following the demise of Spacemen 3. His first solo release, predating the break-up of Spacemen, was the truly stunning Spectrum, credited to Sonic Boom--a passively desperate record with titles like "help me please," "Lonely Avenue," "If I should die," and a cover of Suicide's "Rock 'n' Roll is Killing My Life," Spectrum finally sees Kember unencumbered by things like "choruses" and "changes." The "solo" record, strangely enough, also features the bulk of Spacemen 3, and a good number of the cast that would go on to make up Spiritualized. Notable not only for its beautiful expansion of his trademark American-by-way-of-England drone pop, Spectrum also introduces another very important facet of Sonic's early solo career--super rad packaging. Spectrum features this awesome plastic, spinning "trip wheel" cover (terrible description) and gatefold (Kember is first and foremost an obsessive music fan, and much like fellow record bin scourers Stereolab, he knows the value of a fancy collectible).

Produced while both parties refused to speak to one another, Spacemen 3's final album, Recurring, for all intents and purposes acts as the real debut for both Spiritualized and Spectrum proper--the record's A and B sides divided Speakerboxx style. After the break-up, Sonic took the name of his solo record and began working on a new record. The resulting debut--originally packaged in this weird plastic sleeve filled with lava-lamp-like colored oil and water (called the "squishy pak"--which now all smell pretty musty)--would be Sonic's defining solo moment, the nullifying Soul Kiss (Glide Divine). The album's beautiful formula is something like this:

Two or three synths plus farfisa organ plus soft, meandering guitar times a ton of delay times tremolo times flange, repeat. and then repeat. and again.

this record is essential. period. I can think of no greater personal influence on my specific intention in music making than the perfect semblance of Soul Kiss--its aimless, breathless delivery in constant stark consistency.

Around this time Sonic began working on his Experimental Audio Research (E.A.R.) project, with fellow wanksters like Kevin Shields, to produce freeform sonic experiments and otherwise milk his small audience of a few more dollars. While E.A.R. has its supporters, to be sure, I sort of view its "formation" as the beginning of the end for Kember, as the distinction between it and Spectrum began to become less clear. Spending the next few years releasing the last of his pop records (including a collaboration with Jessamine and his long-time obsessions the Silver Apples) Sonic took his vintage keyboard fetish to its ridiculous extreme, while slowly growing less and less inspired.

Never as commercially viable as his former bandmate, Kember continues to tour on occasion, even exploitively touring songs from the Spacemen songbook recently--despite the release of no new material ("It's so sad," Pierce recently remarked). Dude's still kicking around all rock and roll, presumably waiting for the inevitable deification of his former band, and all I can do is wish he'd put out a pop single. Then he'd be the Greatest Band of All Time.

The year is 1995. I'm 17 years old and going to see my favorite ska band The Skeletones at The Troubadour in West Hollywood. Primed and ready to get my skank on I am met with three dour looking dudes walking to their instruments. These three dudes then proceed to spend the next half an hour making super loud freak out psychedelic music juxtaposed with really interesting gorgeous ambient style, slightly kraut-style passages. Me, being a dude who likes a lot a music but doesn't know about all the different kinds, am blown away. I grab a drumstick that the one guitar dude totally thrashed on his guitar, and proceed to keep it for many years as a representation of being open to surprises and crazy music. I talk to the dudes about how crazy it is they are playing on this ska show. They are totally nice to a young Hawaiian shirt wearing 17 year old dude and tell me they are on tour and their real show got cancelled and had to the opportunity to hop on this show and figured why not. The ska fans were pleasant to them, and one (me) even bought a CD.

The dudes that blew my mind were Space Needle. Jud Ehrbar, the band's main songwriter, started the band as his four track project. Ehrbar and Jeff Gatland created the band's 1995 debut album Voyager a inspiring album of rumbling lo fi noise, strong melodies, and deep experimentation. Brushing up against the edges of shoegazer, prog rock, lo fi, drone, and free (jazz) music Voyager created it's own place and sound. Space Needle added guitarist Anders Parker (from the more famous Varnaline) for touring and he became a official member for the recording of their second album The Moray Eels Eats The Space Needle(the name a direct rip from Holy Modal Rounders' 1968 album The Moral Eels Eats The Holy Modal Rounders also featuring awesome artwork from Roger Dean the man who created Yes' artwork). The second album was a much cleaner affair. It was recorded in a fancy studio with the man (Chris Lasus) who produced Helium's The Dirt of Luck. The album is much more segmented, meaning it seperates all of the diffferent aspects of the band's different sounds. There are the wild free jazzy songs, there are the kraut style songs, and there are the quiet pop songs, as to where on Voyager those vibes came together on songs. While they do all things well, it doesn't translate to making the band or this specific album better.

Space Needle broke up shortly after the release of The Moral Eels Eat The Space Needle with Parker focusing on Varnaline and Ehrbar focusing more on a solo ambient project called Resevoir. Space Needle didn't last long but to a 17 year old at a ska show they were certainly The Greatest Band Of All Time.