By the time Supergrass released their self-titled third album in 1999, the Britpop wave that had carried them to fame was already ebbing. The laddish exuberance of I Should Coco and the widescreen infectiousness of In It for the Money had made them one of the most beloved bands of the mid-nineties, but this record arrived in a very different climate. Rather than doubling down on nostalgia or swagger, the band leaned inward and created a sleeker, more reflective version of themselves. Supergrass feels like the work of musicians who are still young but already aware that youth can’t go on forever.
The first thing that jumps out is how elegantly the album is constructed. The band’s trademark energy is still present, but it’s filtered through a tighter sense of arrangement. “Moving” opens the record with a surprising sense of melancholy, driven by a rising string motif and a melody that aches with restlessness. It’s not a grand reinvention, but it signals an emotional shift. This is a band learning how to express something deeper than exuberance.
Then there are the moments where the old spark returns with full force. “Pumping on Your Stereo” is the obvious example, a cheeky, buoyant track that balances glam-rock pastiche with irresistible pop instincts. The riff struts, the chorus lifts, and Gaz Coombes’ vocal has that playful looseness that made early Supergrass so fun. It’s a reminder that evolution doesn’t mean abandoning the parts of yourself that work.
But it’s the album’s subtler stretches that give it its lasting charm. “Mary,” with its dramatic chord progression and sense of theatrical tension, hints at a more cinematic ambition. “Born Again” pushes into darker textures without ever losing the band’s melodic ease. Even the more straightforward tracks carry a sense of maturity, a slight inward turn that keeps the album from feeling disposable.
The production is warm and polished, but not in a way that erases personality. Instead, it frames the band’s natural chemistry, showing how beautifully they play off one another. Danny Goffey’s drumming, in particular, anchors the record with a confident looseness that keeps the songs breathing.
Supergrass isn’t the band’s loudest or most iconic album, but it might be their most balanced. It sits comfortably between youthful abandon and adult introspection, capturing a band growing up without losing its spark. In retrospect, it stands as one of their most quietly rewarding works, a record that reveals more each time you return to it.
