This is an origin story both of the band and the man and not a ‘coke and gold discs’ memoir, as Anderson makes clear in his introduction
If you’re old enough to remember the Britpop Nineties, you’ll probably have some feelings about Suede, and their frontman Brett Anderson in particular. Was he a louche, sexy, Byronic, melodic chronicler of the late 20th century? Or a pretentious, po-faced, pointy-nosed plum? If you approach Anderson’s new memoir, Coal Black Mornings, with either of those preconceptions, you will probably find much to strengthen them. But also, if you look carefully, a little to soften the edges, too.
Suede were one of the biggest Britpop bands alongside Blur, Oasis and Pulp (though Britpop was, naturally, a term at which Anderson turned up that pointy…
