(1997, Maverick)

This is an album so accutely bound up in my own sense of being and personal history that I can’t really look at it in any objective way. It was the album that opened my world to several musical branches, that brought fragility and femininity to an overly masculine scene, that raged hard enough to turn my head toward hardcore, and which led me to getting frosted tips that ended up like more of a blond quiff than anything Chino could more ably pull off. It remains a masterpiece.

LISTEN: Spotify

READ: The excellent Ghost Cult magazine’s look back on the album’s 20th anniversary.

WATCH: A slightly shabby but still excellent full set from their UK tour, which I was lucky enough to catch on another date, spending most of the time worrying that Chino’s trousers might finally lose their battle with gravity.