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Of all the bands to whom the term ‘Britpop’ was applied, one struggles to think of an act who it fit more uncomfortably than Mansun. It’s perhaps more accurate to think of them as a band simply active at the same sort of time as Blur, Oasis et. al. rather than stylistic contemporaries, for, as any Mansun fan will gladly tell you at length, there were more strings to their bows than most bands of the mid to late nineties could claim. By moving from the dark yet poppy post punk of their debut to wanton prog rock freak outs and Eighties-indebted new wave, Mansun built up a fanbase that was – and still is – cult-like in its devotion, no more so than in the fervent reactions seen at their characteristically exploratory live shows. Here, a nothing short of adoring crowd, all eyeliner and feather boas (both the boys and the girls), morphed in to a throng of flesh totally engrossed in the “rock and roll extravaganza” that was a Mansun gig - for this was a band that the term “indie”, let alone “Britpop”, always seemed a little small for. The harsh ride they got from the press for their genre hopping only endeared them more to their fanbase, who were staunch in their belief that the sneering falsetto of singer Paul Draper contained something to it his contemporaries couldn’t deliver, and could make a convincing argument for Dominic Chad being one of the most underrated guitarists of his generation. These might sound like claims made with a fair amount of wild abandon, but that’s pretty fitting, given that Mansun shows were themselves full of the stuff. The fact that a band so ambitious could ever be seen on the same ticket as the words “Leeds Corn Exchange” makes me chuckle to this day.
ThomasHannan
