Of course (at least at time of writing anyway), it didn’t happen. She may presumably still be planning her own state funeral, but thanks to Darren Hayman a swathe of the indie underground will know exactly what they’ll be doing whenever the time arrives, “even though we know it’s not right.” Hayman, you’ll recall, also made a number of impressive solo albums studying post-war suburbia, created an incredibly underrated LP of electro-wanderings as The French, given the bloggers an Anglicised version of bluegrass, had a hand in re-popularising the ukulele and still had time to write his fans a postcard from his caravan holidays. But it’s Hefner (self-described as “the biggest small band in the country”) that’ll stay most celebrated. Near the end of the cracking We Love The City, another forthright yet gentle foray into – let’s face it – his own tempestuous love life, the brass-laden The Day That Thatcher Dies mixes even more astute recollections about fancying a girl with blood-thirsty lefty polemic, confirming in his own mind that schadenfreude and sex share the same sort of delicious guilt. Plus, for good measure, a group of kids chanting “Ding dong the witch is dead” with cheerful malice, channelling a sentiment of the national masses that despite being decades old still felt raw. More of a street party than a poll-tax riot, admittedly, but as anti-nostalgia goes it was scathing enough.
[Album: We Love The City]