Why millennials like me think Gen Xers in the ’90s were the coolest generation

M y obsession with the 90s began in the mid-noughties. Like many millennials, it started with Kate Moss . The sheer slip she wore to the Elite Model Agency party in 1993; the insouciant stare as she posed in her pants for Corinne Day in 1993. These images were burned into my teenage brain: relics of an era I would never live through but would forever romanticise and then try to emulate through my own sartorial and lifestyle choices. I’m fairly certain that's why I started smoking, a habit I’ve now (mostly) kicked as a 32-year-old millennial. This is not a unique perspective for someone my age. Almost all of my friends feel the same; Moss is our style icon while other fashion reference points are defined by the decade’s most prolific designers – McQueen! Westwood! Galliano! – and their signature aesthetics. Others will fixate on evangelising the 90s art scene: Tracey Emin’s bed! Jenny Saville’s fleshy portraits; Damien Hirst’s formaldehyde sheep. And some remain in awe of the hedonism that defined the nightlife: the Hacienda! Raves in fields! Clubs without smartphones! Then there was the music. Put any group of tipsy thirty-somethings in a room with a Bluetooth speaker past midnight, and I can guarantee they whack on a 90s playlist. Lauryn Hill, Nirvana, the Backstreet Boys, the Spice Girls, and of course, Whitney Houston, will all feature, alongside the Britpop classics – there’s a reason why my friends and I were all avidly scrambling for Oasis tickets last summer. It’s this visceral and deeply rooted nostalgia that has got everybody so amped up for Tate Britain’s newest exhibition: The 90s: Art and Fashion, curated by Edward Enninful OBE, former editor of British Vogue and industry juggernaut. It’s the first time an exhibition has explored the chaotic collision of art, fashion and photography of the decade, and it’s set to draw an eclectic crowd, ranging from the Gen Xers who lived through it to the Gen Zers and millennials like me who wish that they did. In just seven rooms, the exhibit takes visitors through a journey, embedding them in the radical audacity and optimism that defined the decade. There’s an entire room dedicated to sex, with Tracey Emin’s “Is Legal Sex Anal?” neon glowing on the wall beside Abigail Lane’s blue bottom wallpaper installation, setting the tone for provocation and rebellion. This is followed by a room celebrating club culture, accompanied by a Spotify playlist visitors can scan a code for so they can listen to Aphex Twin and Pulp as they peruse the unvarnished photographs by Vinca Peterson, Seana Gavin, and Elaine Constantine. Think lots of sweaty, euphoric bodies dancing freely and wildly in the way people did when there was no risk of winding up on social media the next day. I have no doubt the exhibition will sell out, with my generation accounting for the bulk of ticket sales, if for nothing else than because we are desperate for any excuse to feel as if we can be a part of the 90s. A major part of that appeal is that this was a smartphone-free existence. It’s the idea of going on a night out knowing nobody is going to ask to take a selfie in the bathroom, or interrupt your dancing to get a cute pic for the ‘gram. This was, put simply, a time when there wasn’t this incessant compulsion to curate and capture your every waking moment. Gen X-ers simply lived in those moments, no obligatory photo required. This is what partying is supposed to be about; it’s meant to be about freedom. There’s nothing free about nervously topping up your lipstick every few minutes to ensure you look your best should someone happen to point an iPhone at your face. The iconic red face-covering dress from Alexander McQueen's Autumn/Winter 1998 ready-to-wear collection, "Joan" (Photo © Tate (Lucy Green)) When you see pictures of the Nineties, no-one person is looking at the camera; they are having too much fun. And without everyone’s every move being documented, there was fewer reasons to compare and despair. You could just enjoy a wild night and then relive it with your mates the next morning. Blissful in ignorance of what anyone else was up to. How lovely. There was no online dating back then, which gave the whole 90s party culture the added dimension of excitement: people actually met on the dance floor. That doesn’t happen now; nightclubs are closing across the country – more than a quarter of UK late-night venues closed for good between 2020 and 2025, according to the Night Time Industries Association (NTIA). Apps have largely rendered us socially immobile when it comes to approaching one another in the wild. It just doesn’t happen. It comes as no surprise then that people are now desperately trying to recreate this era. Consider Lost, the London-based nightlife series that had a strict no-phone policy (enforced by bouncers sealing your device into a pouch), or the litany of events that now hand cigarettes out on trays to guests, as if we’re back in the decade when smoking really was just a cool habit instead of a deadly one. There’s been a resurgence of 90s tech: digital cameras, wired headphones, Game Boys. I’ve even seen Gen Zs listening to Walkmans and wearing Casio watches. And of course, 90s culture; cue the endless rewatches of Sex and the City, Friends, and Nora Ephron films. The 90s is deeply woven into the fabric of a young person’s existence today. Yes, it’s fuelled by nostalgia, but largely I think it’s about yearning for what we imagine to have been a simpler time. Apps have largely rendered us socially immobile when it comes to approaching one another in the wild. It just doesn’t happen like it used to. Because of all this, I think there’s also a strange curiosity among women my age with Gen X women: the tough ones in their fifties now who really were party-hopping their way through this anarchic period. I’m not going to fool myself and say they had it better: sexism was rampant and workplace harassment was tolerated. This was a generation of women who were told they could have it all, but maternity leave was generally around three months and work-life balance wasn’t even a discussion point. But none of that is what people talk about when they talk about the 90s. We focus on the glossy highlights – “you were the lucky ones!” we think – however misplaced it may be. The resentment is more potent, and less tacit, for those of us working in creative industries. Everything looked like it was cooler and more groundbreaking back then; where are our YBAs? Our supermodels? Our rebellious fashion titans? Instead, our creative scene is populated by social media influencers, AI actors, and a set of celebrities with the same facial features. The room at the Tate Britain dedicated to 90s rave culture. (Photo © Tate (Lucy Green)) The artists of the 90s had no money; they made stuff happen because they had to. Today, you cannot become an artist without financial support, which is why today’s creative industries are governed by privileged voices. Those voices might be talented, but they can only stand out so much when the same sort of person from the same sort of private school is succeeding over and over again. I know that the 90s weren’t perfect. But looking at the art, fashion, and photography in the Tate, I can’t help but feel a deep sense of sadness that this world, one filled with spirit, liberation, and sheer unfiltered fun, feels so far from my own. Nostalgia is a sickness, and it’s one that my generation feels acutely every day.