The 90s are often seen as synonymous with champagne supernovas in country houses, oversimplifications ingrained in the lore of Britpop. What really happened? Artists of all kinds ignited and flared for a time, forming a kaleidoscopic night sky obscured in retrospect by the light pollution given off by Blur v Oasis, Loaded and ladettes, flag-waving and parochialism.
One of the most will o’ the wisp of these bands were Lush, co-fronted by two guitarists, Emma Anderson and Miki Berenyi, who met at school and became big enough to crack the US, invited on the second Lollapalooza tour in 1992. They weren’t quite the Lennon and McCartney of the underground – their nose-to-nose co-writes were few – but Anderson and Berenyi’s gauzy music felt like being cocooned in bejewelled spiderwebs, even as their distortion pedals ensured they rocked hard live.
The Americans named it well – dream-pop – while the British term was derogatory: shoegaze. Early Lush had more in common with the Cocteau Twins (Robin Guthrie produced Lush’s debut EP, 1990’s Mad Love) or My Bloody Valentine than they did with their more staid indie rock fellow travellers. But Lush’s poppiest song, 1996’s Ladykillers – a scathing put-down of narcissistic lotharios – remains a banger. Berenyi’s memoir charts the life of her band, from a climate of mutual assistance between very different acts to alienating commercialism.
As the singer, Berenyi was Lush’s focal point, even if Anderson was the outfit’s engine room. The ebb and flow of their relationship makes up a large part of this painfully honest book, which often finds Berenyi (who confesses to being needy and a bit all over the place) walking on eggshells around Anderson (more circumspect). Anderson may well have a different take on the same tides.
Mostly, though, the two come across as the pioneers of memory: sisters-in-arms partaking of the fun on offer – Lollapalooza was bonkers – but refusing, as best they could, to do degrading photoshoots, fighting for their artistic vision in the face of music biz pressure. Berenyi is particularly scathing about how lad culture successfully reframed sexism by putting it in jokey air quotes.
Fortunately, Lush had an attack-dog manager (“He was a wanker, but he was our wanker,” Berenyi reminisces) and a priceless sound man. But the usual pitfalls plagued their unit – recording woes, compensation disparities, dysfunctional dynamics and departed bass players. The band were fizzling when their sharp, wry drummer Chris Acland, to whom Berenyi was particularly close, suddenly took his own life in 1996, a denouement that still knocks the wind out of you even though you know it’s coming.
Britpop only gets going halfway through this eye-widening account, though. Berenyi’s unconventional childhood is covered in unsparing detail, putting some of the later rock’n’roll behaviour in some context. Her Hungarian father was a hard-partying journalist, a womaniser ill-equipped to raise a child, especially in the wake of his partner turning heel. On a drive across Europe to Hungary, he sets the young Miki selling bathroom equipment on the streets of Prague to keep the cash flowing.
Her Japanese mother was in the James Bond film You Only Live Twice and became an agent for photographers in LA, where Berenyi spent frequent holidays. Yasuko Nagazumi had more of a clue than Ivan Berenyi but lived thousands of miles away, doting on her new partner, another sub-prime catch. So Berenyi Sr roped in his own mother, Nora, to “care” for Miki, a tenure laced with racism and abuse – an alarming amount of it sexual.
Berenyi handles the emotional and practical complexities of all this dysfunction with a capable hand. She is resilient and matter-of-fact, but lays bare the compound pain when her coping strategies were misunderstood. You want to weep when the younger Berenyi cuts herself, writes about her pain in her music, and is dismissed as an attention-seeking ligger. She has considerable trouble with relationships, for which she takes responsibility. But who wouldn’t? Fingers Crossed provides a salutary corrective to a much mythologised musical era; it’s often extremely funny. But it’s also a nuanced portrait of personal survival.
• Fingers Crossed: How Music Saved Me from Success by Miki Berenyi is published by Nine Eight (£20). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
