The Spirit of the 90's

Richard took a sip of wine and sighed. He looked around the city centre restaurant and smiled to himself. This was such a lovely evening. There was nothing like a night on the tiles. There was good food, fine wine and conversations with friends. The restaurant was on form, as always. No wonder the place was booked up months in advance. 

He helped himself to another slice of the Chateaubriand and continued to regale his friends with tales from his recent holiday to the South of France. He detailed how each morning, he and his wife Vanessa, would call by the boulangerie for fresh croissants and pain au chocolate. They would then return to the rented gite, a holiday cottage, to read the newspapers on the terrace with the pastries and coffee. His friends gushed and enthused that it all sounded just divine. 

‘You really must go.’ Richard insisted.

His friend Cathy, started talking about last year’s trip to the vineyards of Italy. Again the group chimed in delight. 

‘Speaking of which.’ Richard said, turning in his chair, to grab a passing waiter. ‘Could we have another bottle of red wine, please? And another jug of water for the table?’

The waiter nodded, of course, and hurried off to the bar. 

For Richard, life in his forties was going well. Didn’t they say that life began at forty? Well, here he was, living the good life. Work was going well at the shipping company. He had been export manager for almost a decade, and there was talk of him being made branch director by the end of the year. He had the BMW with the personalised reg plates, and a nice house in the suburbs. He had worked hard and done well for himself. From his humble beginnings in a run-down Salford town, he had become, what he considered, a success. His wife Vanessa, coming from a wealthy Cheshire background, always rolled her eyes when he mentioned the old days. When Richard spoke about growing up, and life in the inner-city in, in the 1990’s, Vanessa said it reminded her of when her grandfather would talk about his days down the coal-mines. Richard would insist that the point he was making, was that he had done well for himself, to leave those days behind. 

Once they had finished dining, and had their coffees, they paid the bill. Richard said goodbye, hugging and kissing his friends on both cheeks. He couldn’t recall when the hugging and kissing thing had started, but these days, with his circle of refined friends, it was how they always greeted each other. His mobile phone pined. Richard checked the alert message. 

‘That’s me. My taxi is up the street. I’m off.’ He waved and blew kisses, before stepping out into the night.

With the map on his phone app to guide him, Richard found the taxi cab, pulled up at the bottom of the street. As he was climbing in the back of the cab, he noticed a fly-poster on a red-brick wall across the street. According to the poster, the classic indie club, 17th Street, was hosting a 90’s indie theme night. Richard quickly reached for his mobile phone and took a snap of the poster. While the taxi headed off, Richard smiled, staring at the photo on his phone. 17th Street? He hadn’t thought about that place for years. His mind wandered back to those crazy, drunken nights of his youth, in the 1990’s. 

17th Street had been the venue. It had been the coolest hangout in Manchester back in the day. While all the wannabes had been queueing to get in the Hacienda, those really in the know, had been at 17’s. The club had closed a decade ago, and gone down in local legend. The poster announced it was opening for a one-off night. 

The next morning, Saturday, as Richard was reading the broadsheet newspapers, and breakfasting at the kitchen table, the indie night at the old club came to mind. He grabbed his mobile phone and messaged the friends he thought might be interested in accompanying him on the 1990’s night. By the time Vanessa returned from the hair salon, bringing freshly-baked paninis for lunch, he had heard back from everyone. It seemed that he was the only one interested in a night of nostalgia. He was really intrigued by the prospect of a trip down memory lane, at the club that had meant so much to him and had been a key part of his life back in his younger days. Who wouldn’t want one last night of 90’s magic?

Vanessa offered to go with him, if nobody else was up for it. Richard told her, she really didn’t have to. He didn’t know what the night would be like anyway. Would the place be full of old duffers like him, pretending they were seventeen years old again, for one last wild night? He insisted that he really didn’t mind going alone. He would have a few beers, soak up the atmosphere, and listen to some banging tunes. He might even, he said, treat himself to a kebab on the way home.

‘A kebab?’ Vanessa laughed. ‘When was the last time you had a kebab?’

‘Erm, nineteen ninety-something.’ he admitted.

‘Do you know what goes in to kebab meat? she asked.

‘Nobody knows what goes in to it.’ Richard laughed.

In the week leading up to the big night, Richard changed from his usual radio stations, to a retro 90’s station. These days, he tended to listen to classical or jazz stations, his musical taste, had, like his tastes in general, become more refined. Feeling like he was going back to his old high school or something, Richard went through the double-doors and up the familiar steps. A mixture of curiosity and excitement washed over him. He was actually back here, in his old haunt, after all this time. He emerged at the top of the stairs and gasped. 

The place was just as he remembered it, the same Stone Roses and Shed Seven framed posters on the black-painted walls. The club was a dive, a real dump, compared to the wine-bars he frequented these days, but he’d been little more than a kid back then. This had been back in the day, before the promotions, before the nice cars and gold watches, before the lifestyle. He had been a raw Salford city kid, out for kicks and a big night out.

The place was packed with revellers, swaying in time to the indie anthems. Was indie music still even a thing? Did it still exist or was it a relic from the past, like so many other genres of music? There were styles of music that appeared and peaked, right at that perfect time, only to vanish without a trace, becoming a footnote of music history. Skiffle had been a British fore-runner of rock and roll that had faded away. What about Ska and Two Tone? Maybe indie had met the same fate. Richard, for one, no longer listened to indie. Maybe the world had moved on. Maybe those that had been around for indie, had grown up, and the next generation had evolved their own sounds, like grime and RnB.

He had grown up in the years since the 1990s and, these days, listened to music more becoming his age and stature. 

But, right then, standing in the dingy club, packed with people out for a slice of nostalgia, the indie anthems blasting out moved him deeply. It was like seeing your teenage sweetheart after decades apart. You never realised how much you missed her until that point. He looked around and it was almost like going back in time, it seemed that here in this club, right now, the 90’s spirit and swagger had been resurrected. There was a real mix of people. There were people like him, in his forties and fifties, who were there for a bit of nostalgia, to try and get a second chance at what life had been like in that magical, wonderful decade. They were older, with thinning grey hair and had put on a few pounds in the decades since the 90’s. One woman in her early fifties, danced to the music, with her eyes tight shut, as though she was trying to block out all the years that had passed. 

There were a lot of younger people in the club, too, surprisingly. They were dressed in what they thought of as 1990’s clothes, all baggy jeans and bucket hats. It was like they had this idea of what the decade had been like, but no idea of the reality. He had once gone to a 60’s theme party where everyone was dressed up as hippies. Richard suspected, as with his decade, the reality of the 60’s had been different. 

A song by the Inspiral Carpets came over the speakers. A cheer went up at the song choice. He stared at the young people singing along with a song that had been released two decades before most of them were born. He was here to try and recapture his youth, as were a lot of the older people. This young crowd were tainting it, ruining it, dressing up as though it was a fancy dress party. One young lad was giving his best Liam Gallagher swagger, while wearing his green parka coat zipped right up to his chin.

Richard made his way to the bar. There was a couple of beer pumps mounted on the bar and rows of coolers stacked with cans of lager. He ordered a can of lager, with a red strip running down it. He had downed gallons of the stuff back in the day. He took a swig of the cold beer and winced. It certainly wasn’t the refreshing beer he recalled. He took another hit, hoping that, the more the alcohol took effect, the better the beer would taste. He’d found that when sampling some of the murky, dark brown ales his father preferred. The first drink was awful, the second was okay, and after that, you were flying. 

He perched himself on a stool at a tall table, by the edge of the small dance-floor. The area reserved for people to dance was the size of his kitchen cupboard. That didn’t stop people. Tonight, just like the old days, people were dancing to the music, wherever they were standing. As the chorus of the Charlatans track rang out, Richard raised his beer in salute. He smiled at the irony of the track that most people knew by the band was, in fact, called The Only One I know. He sang along with the track, joining in with everyone around him. His gaze wandered across the room. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the nostalgia as much as he was. There were people his age, some sporting their 90’s vintage, while others, like him, were dressed in their every day, modern clothing, and had opted to grow old gracefully. 

The young people were in their element, revelling in glory of the 90’s. Their parents had clearly raised them on the music and glorious swagger of the decade. Richard had recently heard bands like Blur and Oasis described as dad rock. He had suddenly felt very old. For him, dad rock meant the Beatles and the Hollies. Was that now considered grandad rock? Was that even a thing?

He spotted a young man on the far side of the room. Richard thought he recognised him from somewhere. He looked really familiar. Maybe he worked at the office. He always joked that the average age of the staff at the film was about fourteen. He suspected that the young ones were so young that they called lunchtime, playtime as they were that fresh from the playground. 

Richard flinched. The young man seemed to be staring right at him. The young man had a retro tracksuit top, zipped right up to the collar, and a mop of unruly dark hair. He was glaring at Richard, a look of disapproval on his face. Richard shook his head and took a swig of beer. What was the lad’s problem? Richard was entitled to be here. Okay, so, he was no longer the young indie lad-about-town, but this was his nostalgia they were revelling in. The 90’s had been his decade. His parents had had the 60’s and he’d had the 90’s. And yet, here was this young upstart, glaring at him. It wasn’t Richard’s fault that no decent music had been made since Oasis’ split in 2009. The young man can’t have even been born, when the Stone Roses were in their prime. 

Richard chunnered to himself, about these young kids, and turned on his stool, so that the lad wasn’t in his eye-line. This wasn’t the 90’s anymore, he was far too old to be getting into a scrap in a club, because somebody looked at him funny. He took another swig of beer, smiling at the harsh-tasting beverage. How had he managed to drink bottle after bottle of this stuff? His taste must have changed and been refined over the years. 

Several beers and song tracks later, Richard had relaxed and was revelling in this blissful night of sweet memories. This was such a good night. He was delighted to have been given the opportunity to have this flashback to the old days. If he was being completely honest, though, if they did a night like this every month, he would probably pass. He was having a great night and enjoying the nostalgia, but was now ready to leave it in the past. He recalled seeing Noel Gallagher, of Oasis, being interviewed on breakfast television recently. The song-writer had admitted that while the 1990’s had been great, he had no wish to relive or repeat the decade. He had been there, and done that, so now he wanted to do something else. Richard knew exactly what he meant.

Just after eleven thirty, he decided to call it a night. Whereas, back in the day, he would have been heading off to a party at a friend’s house, tonight he would be going straight home. Gone were the days of partying all night. As he often quipped to friends, these days, he preferred to be in bed the same day he went out. None of this, going out on Friday night and coming back home Sunday afternoon, nonsense. It would probably take him two days to get over this evening out, as it was. 

He finished his beer, and still wincing at the taste, tapped on his taxi-cab app on his mobile phone. He pushed through the crowd of people, still enjoying the tunes and the atmosphere. Most of this lot would be hear until closing time. 

At the top of the stairs he found the young guy who has been glaring at him. The lad still had the outraged look on his face. Where did Richard know him from? He definitely knew him from somewhere. 

‘Do I know you?’ Richard asked. 

‘You sold out, man.’ 

‘What are you talking about?’ Richard said.

‘Look at you, in your designer shirt, and expensive watch. What a sell-out.’

Richard panicked at the mention of his watch. He instantly regretted wearing the extremely expensive time-piece.  Richard placed his hand over the watch. He had paid a serious amount of money for the watch, and he wasn’t about to let this Salford scally take it from him. The lad laughed, sensing what he was thinking. 

‘Don’t worry, mate. I’m not after your watch. That watch sums up the difference between you and me. You’ve sold out. Hear that music?’ he jabbed a finger at the air. 

Richard heard the raw jangle of indie guitar.

‘That’s the music of the streets.’ the lad went on. ‘Music for misfits, the downtrodden, the disenfranchised. I bet you don’t even listen to this music anymore. It’s not aspirational enough, is it? Is it classical or jazz for you, these days?’

Richard had to admit that he did listen to those genres of music, and dabbled in easy listening. 

‘I’ve grown up, that’s all. People change.’

‘You forgot who you are. You don’t belong here. You are a sell-out.’

‘Grow up!’ Richard shouted.

He charged down the steps and burst through the doors and out into the dark street. He spotted his taxi further up the street, and jogged over. He didn’t need to give the driver his address. The app had done all that for him. The driver already had the street in a leafy Trafford suburb in this Sat Nav. 

As the taxi pulled away, into the late-night, pulsing city traffic, Richard suddenly knew who the lad was, why he had been so very familiar. How was this even possible? 

The young man he had been arguing with, was a younger version of himself.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom