On the 30th anniversary of Britpop, almost all the big bands have come back in some fashion.

Pulp released More, their first studio album in 24 years, on June 6 via Rough Trade, and by not-so-complete surprise, they returned to their headlining spot at Glastonbury. Likewise, Suede (aka The London Suede) teamed up with long-time collaborator and Britpop-era producer Ed Bueller for Antidepressants, due for release September 5 via BMG. Fellow Britpop titan Robbie Williams called that era a “golden age for British music” upon announcing his forthcoming eponymous album on May 21 (which followed his strange biopic, Better Man, where he's portrayed as an anthropomorphized ape, fro 2024). This was allegedly the album he wanted to make as soon as he left Take That in 1995; now, thirty years later, he finds himself ready to write it.

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On the other, less active side of the industry, many return through anniversary tours, album reissues, and reunions. Supergrass will perform their debut record I Should Coco in its entirety this coming September, and lesser Britpop bands like Gene and Shack will reunite for their own brief tours, celebrating their 30th anniversaries as well. The  “Bittersweet Symphony” band The Verve reissued their rare EP Voyager I last April for Record Store Day, bringing back their 1993 live album only printed in the US at the time. And, of course, the biggest comeback of them all: the reunion of Liam and Noel Gallagher for the enormous, economy-driving Oasis world tour (Oasis ‘25).

Halfway into 2025, Britpop fever has now become a cheery, rock ‘n roll-loving epidemic — not just in the UK, but everywhere. Teens once again thirsting over (young) Jarvis Cocker; making amusing “girl, so confusing” edits between Liam Gallagher and Blur’s Damon Albarn on TikTok; reviving 90s fashion trends; and yes, buying tickets to any and/or all upcoming tours – all demonstrating a vested interested in the past, with the internet adding more avenues for expression.

Why revive Britpop now?

Well, there’s the ever-growing nostalgia industry, presenting a rosy tinted image of the past to make a lot of money without risking bad, new music. The 30th anniversary of all these great records — What’s The Story (Morning Glory?), The Great Escape, Different Class — has become a perfect time for tours, vinyl repressings, merch deals, and more. And at a particularly shaky moment in national politics, where Labour’s back in power, only to be met with widespread criticism for its bending to oppressive and violent regimes and policies, remembering “the good old days” serves as a powerful tool to assert a unified, curated, and complacent national identity.

But much more interestingly, many listeners seem to come back to the Britpop bands for the timelessness of their lyrics — zany, sharp critiques of modern life. The artists themselves release new music and go on tour to promote it, visiting their old catalogue in the process and looking back in order to move forward and address today’s issues. There’s a cultural need for both fun and catharsis in this chaotic political climate, and Britpop usually provided both.

The “golden age of British music”

Tying a music genre to a nationality is political. The shift in interest in the 1990s toward British artists — UK and Irish rock and pop stars surpassed US legends like Michael Jackson and Madonna in the charts in the summer of 1995 — also came at a time of great restructuring in the UK. This was the decade that experienced the regain of Labour control after decades of Thatcherite conservatism, economic instability that exacerbated class divisions, the final phase of the Irish Troubles, the Iraq War, and the creation of the European Union, to name a few. Thus, “What is Britain?” was the central, shaky question. 

Culturally, the answer was found by looking back into one’s history. The Britpop artists wrestled with the British rock legacy established by bands like The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, and The Sex Pistols, among others. In its mission to reclaim national cultural dominance, especially against the rising influence of US indie rock on the industry, Britpop musicians often looked to their own predecessors with a particularly soft-focus tint. (To list every Beatles reference in the Oasis discography would require another article entirely.) Before performing “Country House” in the 1995 BBC2 special Britpop Now, Damon Albarn confidently declared, “British bands are no longer embarrassed to sing about where they came from. They’ve found their voice.”

NME reporter John Harris defined the “voice” of Britpop in his book Britpop! Cool Britannia and the Spectacular Demise of English Rock as the “wish to reacquaint domestic rock music with a heritage that took in music hall, the upper end of the 60s canon, and the more cerebral aspects of punk.” The bright, cheery sounds — some 60s rock revivalism splashing over upbeat trumpets, some Northern Soul swings, and the occasional chamber pop arrangements — coupled with thick regional accents and catchy, relatable lyrics celebrated modern, British life.

These tunes typically relied on vague yet emotionally stirring lyrics, catchy hooks, simple chord structures, and musical motifs borrowed from older eras of rock and pop music. Some tracks had a more rebellious edge, establishing these bands as people who knew what the average person wanted to feel, not just say.

Blur’s 1993 song “Popscene”, largely considered to be the first truly “Britpop” song, critiqued British culture in its own language, using “60s pop hooks, blaring British horns, [and] controlled fury,” as one reviewer wrote, to capture the utter boredom and soullessness of British mass culture.

Oasis’s 1994 “Supersonic” isn’t a capitalist critique — arguably nothing in their discography is — but the highly-individualistic lyrics (“I need to be myself / I can’t be no one else"), and the expression of feeling invisible as a regular lad entering the glitzy world of rock ‘n roll, still empowered the average listener.

Pulp’s 1995 “Mis-Shapes” also begins their Mercury Prize-winning, no. 1 album Different Class with that same rebellious, populist angle. It promises cultural takeover by the everyday person shafted to the sidelines, as Jarvis Cocker chants, “We want your homes, we want your lives / We want the things you won't allow us” in the chorus. “Mis-Shapes” dizzily spins out into euphoria, as the representative of all the oddballs and outcasts triumphantly proclaims, “The future's owned by you and me!” In the music video, the class politics becomes obvious in the clothes: Pulp sings to the crowd in casual wear as they fight against the fancier-clad socialites, who tease and bully them throughout.

Responding to Britain’s classism with images of the bands as “champions” of both the working and middle class provided national unity in a politically stressful time. Like many people supporting their music, the stars often wore jeans and t-shirts, attended soccer games, kept the Union flag close to their chests, and embraced anti-intellectualism. (The Gallagher brothers boasted that they “never read books,” and Albarn admitted to toning down his background as a well-read, art school dropout to be one of the lads, per Harris’s book.) 

Sure, it was all for show. Oasis ended up reaffirming class divisions during the 1995 “Battle of Britpop” to insist upon their greater appeal to the everyman than Blur. Harris wrote, “It had been nearly five years since [PM] John Major expressed the aspiration of ridding the UK of such divisions and building a classless society; the press’ view of Blur and Oasis suggested that it was a vain hope indeed.” Furthermore, it’s critical to note Britpop entered the scene submissive to the demands of mainstream culture, all while giving the artists (most of whom came from humble backgrounds) creative control. It thrived on the easy marketability of cute faces and charming, grassroots backgrounds; upholding a status quo without isolating the non-conformists; radio-friendly pop anthems that sound just as good at Glastonbury as they did on Top of the Pops; and tribalist fans with money to burn. “That’s something we were partly responsible for,” said Blur’s Alex James to John Harris about the 1995 Battle of Britpop.:

“Suddenly sales did become the yardstick for success…At some point after that summer, it wasn’t good enough to have your single go in at number eighteen. Indie bands had to be selling.” 

Damon Albarn may have set boundaries with “British” music, but the Labour Party, led by future Prime Minister Tony Blair, certainly played with the parameters. “Rock and roll is not just an important part of our culture,” Blair said at the 1994 Q Magazine Awards. “It’s an important part of our way of life. It’s an important industry. It’s an important employer of our people. It’s immensely important to the future of this country…” Reflecting on its power to assert a national identity, he said:

“The great bands I used to listen to — The [Rolling] Stones and The Beatles and The Kinks — their records are going to live forever, and the records of today’s bands, the records of U2 or The Smiths and Morrissey, will also live on because they’re a part of a vibrant culture.”

The Smiths disbanded in 1988, and they weren’t Britpop, even if many cited them as an influence. U2 were Irish, not English. To lump these bands with the English acts accepting awards that year was creating a national "British" identity that, implicitly at its core, assumed English claims over Scottish, Welsh, and Irish culture.

Taylor Parkes wrote for The Quietus on the 20th anniversary of Parklife, “Britpop was the first ‘alternative’ style to be judged on what it sold, and was only too happy for things be this way – which led to a huge shift in priorities, both in British music and in the media which covered it.” At the bottom of all this satire and populism was complacency — a jaded youth not all too interested in truly challenging the UK government, at least not in the way punk bands are doing today. And perhaps later with tragic events like 9/11, the Iraq War, the 2008 global market crash, and more, shallow rebellion wasn’t enough to keep people fighting. Britpop became the sound of the status quo.

Britpop: 30th Anniversary Edition

The “nostalgia band” — one that pumps money into the industry by touring their greatest hits and selling memorabilia — existed before 2025, of course. Oasis, despite their own claims that they’re reuniting to celebrate brotherhood and rekindle a love for their music, are still the faces of a consumerist scheme: the highly-profitable nostalgia tour.

At the start of the tour date announcement rollouts in September 2024, publications estimated that the Gallaghers would have made around £50 million each just off the UK dates. ($65 million each, or $523 million total, per Music Times.)  Finance Monthly reported that the band would generate around £400 million total off the first 14 announced dates alone, factoring in the various revenue streams of ticket prices (which famously fluctuated), merchandise sales, package deals, etc. 

“The tour is predicted to have a significant economic impact, similar to Taylor Swift’s UK tour, which Barclays estimated would generate around £1 billion for the economy…The Oasis reunion could potentially generate a comparable economic boost due to the large fan base and the excitement surrounding the reunion.”

The Standard’s most recent projection stated that the Gallagher brothers could be making about £3 million a person per gig, not including the rumored tour dates for 2026.

Then there are the brand partnerships with Adidas, Urban Outfitters, Levi’s, and more, complementing the pop-up shops in UK cities selling even more Oasis merchandise ahead of the tour. These will pile on another estimated £20 million, according to the Standard.

Simply put, this sudden flare of Britpop fever is probably a sign that a few people are about to make millions, if not billions, of dollars. (Sorry, pounds.)

From a 21st Century fan’s point of view, I recognize that the possibility of seeing Oasis live in my lifetime is both unbelievable and amazing. But, the media and Oasis frame the band as an emblem of “British excellency,” while also claiming that their return isn’t political at all. They’re more aligned with Williams, who is taking this year to reminisce on a time where “things were actually good.”

This nostalgic look at Britain in the 90s feels dissonant, especially when that decade wasn’t actually that glamorous, and the revival is occurring during an equally fraught time. Sure, 1995 was the first time in a long time British bands were dominating in British charts, and they boomed in terms of cultural exports, but is British cultural dominance something people want to celebrate when it’s also the acceptance of censorship, criminal charges, and constant berating of “anti-British” Belfast trio Kneecap? (Much like Blair’s faux pas in calling U2 a “British” band, the current government loves to pick and choose when Northern Ireland is a part of the UK. The media also can’t seem to figure out where Dublin is when defining the “post-Brexit new wave.”) When it incites enough controversy in the media over freedom of expression that US agencies refuse to sponsor visas for bands like Bob Vylan and thus export England’s indie rock and punk scene? When the most “critique” the country can handle are songs by Sam Fender? 

Oasis isn’t making new music; is their stagnation anything more than an insurance policy that they won’t “cause a scene” or write any new songs that represent the people of today? What about the fact that, around this time last year, Noel Gallagher said he believed that all these political demonstrations at Glastonbury were “preachy and a bit virtue-signalling,” and that “everybody knows what’s going on in the f***ing world, you’ve got a phone in your pocket that tells you anyway,” despite the constant misinformation, manipulation of facts, and pro-IDF messaging in said phones that Kneecap, Bob Vylan, and so many more outside of music are actively trying to dispel? A man is currently fighting terrorism accusations for using his freedom of expression to plead for the end of a genocide; his concerts — as well as the subsequent massive support from fans and other artists — don’t exactly boil down to a “let’s all boo war” rally.

It makes perfect sense the UK would lean into a band like Oasis, who were always vague about working class struggle and politics and bumped elbows with Labour Party leaders, right now. They’re the status quo and vocally proud of it. With no solutions to the country’s issues, let alone the incentive to find them, Oasis slipped back into the 90s cultural mindset: an irritatingly jaded, cool Britannia.

“This time I’ll get it right!”

Much like the first Britpop wave in the mid-1990s, the gears for the 2025 revival arguably started turning a couple years before, with much thanks given to a band called Blur.

Following their 2023 reunion for The Ballad of Darren, as well as the lengthy UK tour concluding with the band’s first-ever appearance at Wembley Stadium, the 2024 documentary Blur: To The End (dir. Toby L) finds the quartet in rehearsal spaces, old churches, school rooms, and the haunts of their youth. Without muttering the word “Britpop” or acknowledging the influence the band had on media, pop culture, or modern rock music, they portray themselves as a team of brothers, torn apart by fame, individual interests, and time before coming back together again. 

“Why reunite now?” To The End asked, and Albarn attempted to answer. On one hand, he sought family and companionship after living on his isolated farm, recuperating after a divorce, and wrapping up another tour with Gorillaz. But, after taking time to reflect on 1993’s Modern Life Is Rubbish — whose songs prominently featured on Blur’s 2023 setlist — he acknowledged the fans’ reignited passion for his band’s music. (One young fan waiting in line for their Newcastle performance exclaimed she loved Blur because “modern life was rubbish then, and modern life is rubbish now!”)

“A lot of the old songs make more sense to me now,” admitted Albarn. Great Britain is, once again, in a “slow-motion collapse,” he said. Boris Johnson, the devastating COVID pandemic, the post-Brexit economic downturn, the rise of fringe far-right ideology in mainstream political discourse — the feeling of instability is back. “There’s a post-Brexit appetite for fun,” he said. Avoiding the trappings of becoming “four old c**ts trying to relive their glory days,” Ballad Of Darren aimed to reposition Blur in a new political context: they’re still tired of the modern world, still seeking community amidst the alienation caused by society, but they’re much older and much more attuned to finding solutions to the world’s issues. 

Now at the midway point of the year of Britpop revivalism, we can see some of that appetite quenched by Pulp’s return with More. Much of the record is a reacquaintance with the band: the synth pop introduction of “Spike Island” — coupled with Cocker’s airy, Bowie-esque vocals — triumphantly claims, “This time I’ll get it right!” after contemplating their initiation into the Britpop scene in the 90s and their 2025 return to music. “Tina,” “My Sex,” and “Slow Jam” channel This Is Hardcore in their raw sexuality, embracing the multifaceted aspects of awkwardness, anxiety, confidence, and fluidity of attraction, all while singing over a glittery, sultry, glam rock melody. The euphoric chaos of Different Class tracks like “Common People”, “Disco 2000”, and “F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E.” truly shines through in “Got To Have Love,” an ode to the Northern Soul dance scene that defined Cocker’s youth in Sheffield and the North of England.

Then there is “Hymn of the North”. A quiet piano plays as Jarvis Cocker gently croons about rotting factories, barren wastelands, and the abandonment of the North by “the mainland.” “Don’t forget your Northern blood,” he repeats, sighing over a somber string arrangement. As years pass, his identity is still tightly wound with his regional heritage.

“A Sunset” echoes some of the same feelings of loneliness, wishing “to teach the world to sing / but I don’t have a voice” over a folksy fiddle and gentle rock swing. The realistic demands of the industry (“So now, I’m learning about money / I’m learning about law” in “A Sunset”), as well as the shiny glean of the adverts, almost spoil the actual enjoyment of beauty — the incentive to create fades like a desaturated photo of a sunset. Perhaps it’s a reference to the 24 years in between Pulp records, where they might not have had much to say about anything; or, perhaps, it is disenchantment with the world — a crushing feeling he had to overcome to share his insights.

This is the biggest change in mindset from the 90s, where Britpop bands reveled in consumption, merchandisable faces, magazine covers, and public demonstrations (Cocker was admittedly legendary at these, and Pulp are still vocal about the protection of human rights.)

Musically and lyrically, what we see with Ballad of Darren and More is a rechanneling of the core values of Britpop – using the sounds that defined the bands’ rock music, references to regional locations and mannerisms, and the necessary political context to become mirrors for British society. For every nostalgic, status quo-enforcing gimmick like Oasis, there are bands like Pulp and Blur, actively working to make their values fit the time they’re in.

Thirty years later, despite everything, Britpop can still be both inspiring and fun, a tool to understand the struggles of the world and connect with an easy, accessible voice to express outrage and concern.

“History and stuff like that doesn’t matter,” said Jarvis Cocker at the end of Pulp’s 2025 Glastonbury set, tearing his setlist paper into tiny pieces, per NME. “Because it’s all about now and what we can do right now.”

Header image designed by Victoria Borlando. Photo credits: (from bottom left to right) Tom Jackson, Oasis/Press, Reuben Bastienne-Lewis; (from top left to right) Avalon/Getty Images, Getty Images, Fred Duvall/Getty Images, Mike Huston/Getty Images.