It was the summer when we all listened to The Cure’s “Like Cockatoos”, heavy rotation and a gentle breeze laden with a delicate seaside fragrance. Over a pint we extolled the virtues of Giant Steps, or maybe I extolled the virtues of Giant Steps; you smiled patiently, incredulous that The Boo Radleys were a decent band before the Britpop entropy kicked in, or perhaps a trifle bored, sidetracked by people watching. “But listen to the ambition”, I might have said. “The scope, the sheer width of the guitar parts, craning to escape the vinyl”. But when it came down to it, it was all just shoegazing poo with trumpets, and then somebody fed the jukebox with coin; Metallica no doubt, or something equally as horrid.