In which we make the case for Leatherface's magnificent Mush, PM Dawn quietly invent the future of hip hop, and Set Adrift on Memory Bliss turns out to have been decades ahead of its time.

In which Billy Bragg broadens Sexuality, De La Soul dismantle the Daisy Age, and Dire Straits become the week's most unexpected cultural punching bag.

In which we assess the competing narratives around Kurt Cobain's Rome overdose, uncover the NME and Melody Maker's very different relationships with Nirvana. Before losing ourselves in the smoke, strobes and revolutionary chaos of Scotland's legendary Pure club night, whilst mourning the loss of DJ and co-founder JD Twitch

In which we revisit Aphex Twin’s ambient masterpiece, examine Smashing Pumpkins’ brush with Top of the Pops censorship, marvel at Eddie Vedder’s dressing-room theatrics, uncover the strangest Britpop trivia imaginable, and wonder whether anyone really wanted a Beatles reunion without the hits.

In which Fatboy Slim attempts to convert indie kids to big beat, we rank the week’s albums by their 1997-ness, discover the limits of Seahorses discourse, celebrate The Wannadies, encounter Penthouse’s glorious filth, and crown Sukia’s porn-noir lounge-pop as the most 1997 record of them all

In which Oasis become too big to fail, Radiohead become too ambitious to stop, Jason Pierce turns heartbreak into high art, and both music papers search for a future beyond Britpop while pretending they already know what it looks like

In which we catch Oasis at the exact moment they become unavoidable, trace the strange emotional pull of Some Might Say, consider Snoop Doggy Dogg’s Murder Was The Case multimedia empire, and revisit the brief mid-90s boom where music VHS releases became essential cultural artefacts rather than landfill.

In which Scott Walker returns from self-imposed exile with Tilt, a record so confrontationally out of step with Britpop Britain it feels beamed in from another reality. While the Stone Roses attempt to reclaim their throne via a legendarily ropey Oslo comeback show, woollen knitwear, and several metric tonnes of cocaine-era optimism.

In which we revisit Mr. Scruff’s Keep It Unreal, trace the path from Ninja Tune curiosity to permanently licensed British institution, and ask whether any late-90s album has worked harder in service of TV background music, car adverts and graphic design degree coursework.Elsewhere, we conduct a full spreadsheet-assisted audit of the post-Wu-Tang Forever collapse: RZA’s disappearing production credits, the rise of landfill Wu-Tang, Ghostface’s lone quality-control operation, and why Beneath The Surface deserves rescuing from the great late-90s rap mulch pile.

In which the Manic Street Preachers attempt to survive peak overexposure, Melody Maker desperately tries to make festival season feel culturally decisive, and Star Wars crosses the invisible line between treasured generational reference point and permanently monetised corporate property.