‘Look Ma, No Mike!’ N°12 – Vintage 90s Music Videos

1 . Lilys – A Nanny In Manhattan

Featured on the 1996 album “Better Can’t Make Your Life Better”.

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2 . Paul McCartney – Put It There

Featured on the 1989 album “Flowers in the Dirt“.

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3 . Wendy James – The Nameless One

“The Nameless One” finds Wendy James stepping away from Transvision Vamp’s fizzing pop-punk vigor, trading defiance for a more literary collaboration with Elvis Costello and Cait O’Riordan.

As the lead single from her debut solo album “Now Ain’t the Time for Your Tears,” released in March 1993 under MCA Records, the track plants its flag in introspection rather than flair.

Costello’s involvement permeates every corner—his fingerprints are evident in the acerbic yet melancholic lyricism, though one wonders if James’s voice carries enough grit to fully deliver his brand of razor-sharp songwriting.

The production, helmed by Chris Kimsey, balances sharply articulated instrumentation with a sense of restraint, but what emerges is something oddly neat, as if the track is too politely polished for its own good.

Peaking at number 34 on the UK Singles Chart, it’s clear the song generated some attention, but it never feels destined for ubiquity.

The supporting cast, featuring Pete Thomas of the Attractions on drums and contributions from Richard “Cass” Lewis and Neil Taylor, adds a sense of musical pedigree, yet the overall effect doesn’t quite escape a certain calculated stiffness.

Recorded in June 1992 and arising from a serendipitous link between James and Thomas, “The Nameless One” feels like a bridge to an artistic identity James hasn’t entirely crossed yet.

If “Now Ain’t the Time for Your Tears” settled for a modest number 43 on the UK Albums Chart, it might be because even with Costello as the architect, the structure lacks a singular, lived-in voice to anchor it.

James’s attempt to channel Costello’s sharp quirkiness occasionally lands, but she seems more tethered to his blueprint than carving out an autonomous persona.

Featured on the 1993 album “Now Ain’t the Time for Your Tears”.

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4 . Supergrass – Mansize Rooster

“Mansize Rooster” reminds listeners why Supergrass emerged as a defining force amidst Britpop’s noisy mid-’90s sprawl, even as it resists easy categorization.

Clocking in at a brisk 2:36, the song barely sits still, a manic burst of energy rendered with the kind of swagger that exposes influences without becoming tethered to them. It’s a lean, infectious artifact from *I Should Coco*, helmed by Sam Williams at Sawmills in Golant, England—no doubt the recording’s buoyant punch owes something to its location. Williams keeps the track as tight as a coiled spring, where the interplay between Gaz Coombes’ elastic vocals and Mick Quinn’s loping basslines creates a kinetic balance of chaos and control.

The single’s original 1994 release as a 7-inch vinyl—a lime green splash for the first pressing, translucent grass-green for the second—seems almost quaint next to its later EMI/Parlophone-backed re-recording. Still, this transition from indie obscurity to a number 20 slot on the UK Singles Chart underscores the track’s oddball accessibility. The band’s live rendition on *The Word* in 1995 was perhaps the closest Britpop came to condensing TV-ready absurdity with genuine indie rebellion.

“Mansize Rooster” flaunts a confidently ridiculous charm, bolstered by the extravagantly cartoon-like artwork from Designers Republic and Ed Coombes—a design that, like the music itself, walks the line between irreverence and craftsmanship. The addition of tracks like “Sitting Up Straight” and “Odd?” on the single release—with the latter’s outro consisting of literal bubble-blowing—emphasizes how little Supergrass took convention seriously. Still, the song’s brevity might leave some listeners hankering for a richer narrative or more substantial exploration of its frenetic hooks.

As much Britpop as bizarro pop, “Mansize Rooster” channels the outsized quirkiness of an era without overstaying its welcome. It’s as unsubtle as its title promises, and maybe that’s the point.

Featured on the 1995 album “I Should Coco“.

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5 . The Cardigans – Rise & Shine

“Rise & Shine” by The Cardigans serves as an understated origin point for a band that would later achieve mainstream success with tracks like “Lovefool.” Recorded at Tambourine Studios in Malmö under the ear of producer Tore Johansson, the song made its first appearance on a limited edition EP in 1992 before anchoring their debut album “Emmerdale” in 1994. Its journey didn’t end there, as it was re-recorded yet again for their international breakout album, “Life,” underscoring its significance in the band’s formative years.

Written by Peter Svensson and Magnus Sveningsson, the track is a study in delicate, almost reserved pop craftsmanship. Nina Persson’s emergence as lead vocalist marked a turning point for the group, her voice an instrument of restraint rather than domination—a perfect match for the understated arrangements that define “Rise & Shine.” While the instrumentation is polished, there’s a certain fragility to the song, an intentional simplicity that echoes the pared-down aesthetics of early ‘90s European indie pop.

Chart performance was decent rather than outstanding: number 29 on the UK Singles Chart, 34 in Scotland, and a more compelling number 11 in Iceland. It’s a placement that mirrors the song’s quiet refusal to shout for attention; this is music content with subtle charm over instant gratification. The B-sides across its various releases, including enigmatically titled tracks like “Pikebubbles” and “Cocktail Party Bloody Cocktail Party,” seem to tease a playful irreverence hidden beneath the band’s polished surface.

If anything, “Rise & Shine” feels like an artifact of a band in transition—a document of thematic and stylistic experimentation before the polished sheen of international hits like “My Favourite Game.” While not groundbreaking, the track is quietly effective, a modest calling card for The Cardigans’ tendency to explore pop’s softer edges without devolving into saccharine formula.

Featured on the 1994 album “Emmerdale”.

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6 . The Wedding Present – Brassneck

“Brassneck,” the opening track from The Wedding Present’s 1989 album “Bizarro,” turns emotional disillusionment into a jangly lament drenched in regional wit.

The title, a Yorkshire expression for brazen audacity, frames David Gedge’s songwriting as he weaponizes the phrase against a former lover. With sharp, distrustful lines like “I just decided I don’t trust you anymore,” the song embodies frustration without descending into melodrama. Instead, Gedge’s disaffected delivery underscores the track’s bite, a hallmark of his lovelorn narratives.

Musically, the band stays true to its indie rock roots, layering the driving rhythms and chiming guitars that characterize much of “Bizarro.” While the jangly instrumentation propels the song forward, it risks growing repetitive, leaning on its momentum rather than expanding the song’s emotional or structural range. Yet, this repetitiveness mirrors the obsessive loops of post-breakup thoughts, perhaps unintentionally amplifying the track’s thematic resonance.

Charting at number 24 on the UK Singles Chart, “Brassneck” achieved modest commercial success, albeit less impactful than some of the band’s other singles. Its lack of external collaborations or production flourishes keeps the track firmly rooted in The Wedding Present’s unadorned aesthetic—a strength and limitation in equal measure.

The song exemplifies Gedge’s knack for exploring relationships’ emotional fallout, though it doesn’t stray far from the thematic ground he often treads. As the first track of “Bizarro,” it sets the tone for the album’s exploration of heartbreak, but it remains more a sturdy opener than a revelation. “Brassneck” succeeds in distilling raw emotion with sharp simplicity, yet its deliberate straightforwardness leaves just enough room for deeper complexity to feel absent.

Featured on the 1989 album “Bizarro”.

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7 . Max Q – Sometimes

“Sometimes” encapsulates the spirit of Max Q’s unorthodox collaboration, blending Michael Hutchence’s signature charisma with Ollie Olsen’s experimental inclinations. Released in 1989 on their self-titled debut, the song functions both as homage and reinterpretation, being a cover of a track originally penned by Olsen during his stint with Orchestra of Skin and Bone. This dual identity—a nod to Olsen’s roots and a reimagined vision—underscores the project’s fragmented yet intentional essence.

The production, steered by Olsen himself, carries the weight of his electronic tutelage under Felix Werder, but it never fully sheds the feeling of creation through limitation. With cassette players and rudimentary instrumentation shaping the sound, “Sometimes” feels both vintage and raw, its aesthetic leaning into imperfection while winking at a kind of DIY futurism. Hutchence’s vocals, unmistakably evocative, anchor the piece, though they occasionally seem suspended, less intertwined with the track than commanding it from an orbit above.

The accompanying black-and-white music video mirrors the song’s starkness, portraying Max Q on stage, a minimalist motif that feels both deliberate and constrained, as though avoiding any digression into gloss. Recorded for CBS Records but sparsely performed live, the video adds another layer to the project’s elusive aura—a snapshot rather than a full narrative.

While “Sometimes” holds a minor place within the band’s repertoire, overshadowed by “Way of the World,” its embeddedness within Hutchence’s broader career is impossible to ignore. The exploratory flourishes here seem to echo in later INXS works, a faint residual of the Max Q experiment bleeding into a polished future. Olsen, for his part, proves a grounding counterpoint, leveraging his avant-garde credentials to stretch Hutchence’s comfort zone.

Yet, for all its ambition, “Sometimes” occasionally succumbs to its conceptual weight, a track more intriguing than transcendent, more skeletal vision than fully fleshed reality. Its achievement lies in its unapologetic divergence, marking a brief moment where pop star and innovator collide, producing sparks—if not a roaring fire.

Featured on the 1989 album “Max Q “.

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8 . Sultans Of Ping F.C. – Wake Up And Scratch

Released in February 1994 under Epic Records, “Wake Up And Scratch Me” by Sultans of Ping F.C. finds itself lodged somewhere between absurdity and defiance, perfectly in line with the band’s unpredictable ethos.

As a lead single from their second album, “Teenage Drug,” the song capsulates the band’s ability to balance irreverence with tight, punk-driven melodies. While peaking at number 50 on the UK Singles Chart might suggest a lukewarm reception, its release predated the full album, positioning it as a preliminary tease rather than a conclusive statement. There’s an unmistakable sense of exuberance in the track, underscored by the Cork-originating band’s quirky aesthetic and lyrical penchant for mundane subversions.

Frontman Niall O’Flaherty’s stage persona, built on feather boas, pink sunglasses, and unapologetic theatrics, echoes through the track. This unapologetic flamboyance works in tandem with clattering guitar riffs courtesy of Pat O’Connell, and rhythmic grounding from bassist Paul Fennelly and drummer Ger Lyons—or their replacements Monty McCarthy and Alan McFeely as later configurations go.

By this point in 1994, the Sultans of Ping F.C. had already secured a foothold in the UK indie scene, bolstered by their breakout hit “Where’s Me Jumper?” and support slots alongside Carter USM, The Ramones, and a memorable stint with The Sex Pistols. These associations color the band’s stylistic palette, situating them in a space where humor, subculture nods, and sonic mischief collide.

Yet “Wake Up And Scratch Me” isn’t all fun and frolic. Its infectious energy runs the risk of veering into repetitiveness, with the lyrical focal point aiming more at cathartic shouts than coherent narrative. Despite being emblematic of Sultans’ laissez-faire attitude, this lack of depth can leave the track feeling a touch superficial—not their most memorable or biting output.

Placed within the broader context of their career, the song marks a bridge between the chaotic charm of their early work and the commercial turbulence surrounding their later album, “Good Year For Trouble.” The collapse that followed, complete with controversies over bondage-inspired artwork and the loss of their label deal, casts a shadow over this single’s brighter days. Still, as a snapshot of mid-’90s indie quirk, “Wake Up And Scratch Me” encapsulates the anarchic joy that made the Sultans of Ping F.C. a fleeting yet captivating force.

Featured on the 1994 album “Teenage Drug”.

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9 . Santa Cruz – Rocket Man

“Rocket Man” by Santa Cruz, released in 1997 under MCA Records, stands as a curious artifact of its time—a late-’90s experiment blending electronic, rock, downtempo, drum and bass, and Britpop influences into a single piece that leans more toward fusion than definition.

Where the track particularly intrigues is in its stylistic ambition. The hybrid of downtempo beats and Britpop textures feels like a snapshot of a specific cultural moment when genre boundaries loosened, allowing such disparate elements to coexist. Its rock undertones add a grounding layer of rawness, a counterpoint to the electronic gloss that seems designed to evoke a slightly melancholic atmosphere while sidestepping outright gloom.

At its core, “Rocket Man” oscillates between the introspective calm of downtempo rhythms and the jangly resolve common in Britpop aesthetics, suggesting a work caught between earnestness and detachment. Yet, the drum-and-bass influences can feel tacked on, as if the band felt obligated to nod to a trend rather than embrace it fully. This leaves the composition teetering on the edge of adventurous and overstuffed.

In many ways, the song reflects the experimental tendencies of its era, when cross-genre attempts often yielded mixed results. “Rocket Man” may not carve out a distinct identity, but its willingness to throw disparate ideas into the mix makes it a time capsule worth at least a passing glance.

Featured on the 1997 album “Way Out”.

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10 . Stereophonics – Local Boy In The Photograph

“Local Boy in the Photograph,” the 1997 debut single by Stereophonics, is a poignant piece rooted in tragedy and small-town life. Pulled from their album *Word Gets Around*, the song’s narrative revolves around the true story of Paul David Boggiss, who ended his life by stepping in front of a train between Cwmbach and Aberdare. Kelly Jones, the band’s frontman, taps into personal experience—having known Boggiss through county football—to craft lyrics that feel both intimate and matter-of-fact. The pain is there, but it’s filtered through a distinctly observational lens.

Musically, the track aligns with the late ‘90s Brit-rock aesthetic, blending an evocative vocal delivery with mid-tempo instrumentation that walks the line between melancholy and propulsion. It’s a formula that worked well enough to initially push the single to number 51 on the UK Singles Chart, before a 1998 re-release gave it a second wind, peaking at number 14. Scotland embraced it slightly more fervently, where it climbed to number 10, while Ireland saw it hover at 28. The British Phonographic Industry’s Silver certification for 200,000-plus units sold reflects its understated staying power.

In live settings, the song has become a staple for the band, frequently closing out performances. Its reentry into the UK charts in 2010 at number 60 following the death of former drummer Stuart Cable speaks to the song’s enduring resonance with the fan base. Stereophonics’ willingness to rework “Local Boy in the Photograph”—as seen in live recordings and a semi-acoustic version for Radio One—hints at a flexibility that enhances its luster without overexposing it. The balance they strike, though commendable, sometimes feels tethered to the weight of its backstory, leaving one to wonder if the song would be equally impactful without its tragic underpinning.

Featured on the 1997 album “Word Gets Around”.

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11 . Hurricane #1 – Only The Strongest Will Survive

“Only the Strongest Will Survive,” the eighth track and title song of Hurricane #1’s album, clocks in at 4:43 minutes, and its deliberate pacing suggests no rush to prove itself.

Written by Andy Bell, best known for his contributions to the Britpop and shoegaze DNA, the track finds its identity somewhere between anthemic declaration and a mid-tempo reflection. Its release as a single saw it peak at number 19 on the UK Singles Chart, lingering for six weeks—a tenure respectable yet unremarkable in the saturated landscape of late-’90s British rock.

The song’s chart journey extends to the Independent Singles Chart, where it scaled to number 3 and camped out for twelve weeks, hinting perhaps at a niche resonance within the more discerning indie circles. Still, these statistics speak less of widespread dominance and more of a loyal audience’s engagement.

Its title—a platitude designed for motivational poster ubiquity—feels more aspirational than revelatory. While it may aim to conjure resilience, it risks veering into self-help vagueness rather than vivid storytelling.

At its best, Bell’s craftsmanship lies in the song’s coherence; it doesn’t battle for attention through bloated instrumentation or garish hooks. Yet, it also lacks the kind of jaw-dropping lyricism or inventive arrangement that would make it indispensable in Britpop’s fiercely competitive catalogue.

What lingers most is a sense of the song knowing its place: neither striving for the zenith nor prepared to crumble. Perhaps “Only the Strongest Will Survive” is less about surviving storms and more about weathering them quietly.

Featured on the 1999 album “Only the Strongest Will Survive”.

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12 . Ride – Leave Them All Behind

“Leave Them All Behind” doesn’t ease you in—it demands attention with an opening Hammond organ riff that channels The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” bold in its audacity and deliberate in its homage.

Clocking in at an unapologetic eight minutes and seventeen seconds, the track rejects pop radio’s patience while somehow climbing to No. 9 on the UK Singles Chart, a testament not to accessibility but persistence.

Andy Bell and Mark Gardener’s shared vocals drift across swirling guitars, emblematic of the shoegaze aesthetic, yet tethered to something rawer and more immediate. The guitar riff nods faintly toward Johnny Marr’s interlude with Electronic, as though the song itself contemplates lineage before shedding it. Noisy but richly layered, it’s less atmospheric than Ride’s earlier work, but no less potent.

Loz Colbert’s drumming evolves as the track unfolds, blending Keith Moon-style chaos with the rhythmic discipline of funk and hip hop. It’s not subtle—triplets crash into your ears incessantly—but it anchors the sprawling textures effectively, sometimes barely reining them in, at others propelling them forward.

Released as the lead single from *Going Blank Again*, the song marked more than a commercial milestone for both Ride and Creation Records; it revealed a band confident in taking their American tour inspiration and warping it into an alienated anthem of drive and abandon.

For a track so steeped in its influences, it feels curiously above nostalgia. Even as it flaunts its roots, it challenges the listener to keep pace or risk falling behind—whether in its relentless length, its unorthodox structure, or its tightly coiled arrangement.

Still, there’s a sense that the ambition slightly outstrips the payoff. What begins as hypnotic teeters on self-indulgent by the seventh minute, as if daring you to question its endurance. Yet, with Ride performing it on “Top of the Pops,” noisy guitars intact, any critique feels moot. The track is less a plea for approval than a declaration of defiance.

Featured on the 1992 album “Going Blank Again”.

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