My Bloody Valentine: The Band That Broke Music

There are bands that define a genre. Then there are bands that are the genre. My Bloody Valentine is the latter. They didn’t just pioneer shoegaze; they’re synonymous with it. If you’ve ever listened to a song where the vocals are buried under six layers of fuzzed-out guitars, where the drums sound like they’re underwater, and where the lyrics are more of a vibe than actual words—you have a short-list of bands to thank for that, one of them being My Bloody Valentine.

But how did a group of Irish misfits go from scrappy, post-punk/jangle pop weirdos to releasing Loveless, an album so mythic that people are still arguing about whether it’s overrated or the best thing since Pet Sounds? And why did they disappear for nearly two decades only to come back and drop m b v, a follow-up that somehow lived up to the impossible hype? Buckle up, because this is the story of the loudest, most perfectionist, and most accidentally influential band in alternative music history.

The Early Days: Post-Punk Flops

Rewind to Dublin, 1983. Kevin Shields and Colm Ó Cíosóig meet at a karate tournament (yes, really). After becoming fast friends the two decided to start a band, that band was The Complex, featuring future Hothouse Flowers frontman Liam Ó Maonlaí. They covered the Ramones and Sex Pistols, played a few gigs, and then—poof—it was over. Shields and Ó Cíosóig weren’t done, though. They pivoted into a post-punk outfit, A Life in the Day, which was about as successful as its name was exciting.

By 1983, they formed the first iteration of My Bloody Valentine, with vocalist David Conway and bassist Mark Loughlin who would be in the band for a cup of coffee only to be replaced by a 2nd bassist and 3rd bassist who had their own brief stints with band.  The band name (major upgrade imo) was courtesy of a late-night VHS viewing of a 1981 Canadian slasher flick My Bloody Valentine. (Though, to this day, Shields insists he had no idea the movie even existed when the name was suggested.)

The first few releases? Rough as sandpaper. If you’re not expecting the iconic sound the band would go on to pioneer, maybe you could get a decent experience out of the earliest work which is a odd mix between rockabilly and The Jesus & Mary Chain. If you are expecting anything resembling what the band would eventually become, This Is Your Bloody Valentine (1985) and Geek! (1985), are to this day, rather disappointing listens.

As mentioned earlier, MBV’s early years were a mess of lineup changes and frustration. They rehearsed in small spaces and were so loud the neighbors nearly lost their minds. Bassists came and went like Spinal Tap drummers. Guitarist Stephen Ivers left the band while original vocalist David Conway’s girlfriend Tina Durkin joined in on keyboard. In 1984, after recording a rough demo in Shields’ parents’ house, they somehow landed a contract with Tycoon Records. Record deal aside, the Irish music scene didn’t want them. So, in true chaotic fashion, they left. First to the Netherlands, where they lived in near-poverty for nine months, opening for R.E.M. once. Then to Berlin, where they recorded the previously mentioned This Is Your Bloody Valentine Ep.

By 1985, they gave up on mainland Europe and made their way to London. It was a pivotal move—because London was where they’d finally start becoming the band we now know. It wasn’t until they moved to London, recruited bassist Debbie Googe and, most importantly, found Bilinda Butcher that MBV became MBV. Butcher’s ethereal vocals meshed perfectly with Shields’ increasingly warped guitar work, and suddenly, things started clicking. But wait, i’m getting ahead of myself.

Taking Shape

In 1985, My Bloody Valentine finally made it to London—where all good bands across the pond went to either make it big or die in obscurity. At first, it looked like they were heading toward the latter. The members lost track of each other while scrambling for places to crash, and keyboardist Tina Durkin, plagued by self-doubt, quietly bowed out. To add to the bands increasing list of worries, they still needed to fill the role of full time bassist which had been an ongoing issue from the start.

Enter Debbie Googe. Shields got her number through a contact, invited her to audition, and just like that, MBV had a proper bassist. Googe juggled rehearsals with her day job, and the band started practicing at Salem Studios, which was connected to the indie label Fever Records. The label liked what they heard and agreed to release an EP—on the condition that MBV funded the recording themselves (classic indie label move). So, in December 1985, they dropped Geek!—a record that, let’s be honest, didn’t exactly set the world on fire. But it got them onto the London gig circuit, playing alongside bands with names like Eight Living Legs and Kill Ugly Pop, so you know small victories.

But things were moving way too slow for Shields, who was getting antsy. He even considered bailing to New York, where he had family connections. Instead, a lifeline arrived in the form of Joe Foster, co-founder of Creation Records, who had just started his own label, Kaleidoscope Sound. Foster saw something in MBV (probably some raw, noisy potential buried under all that fuzz) and convinced them to record an EP. The result? The New Record by My Bloody Valentine (1986), which finally got them some real attention, peaking at #22 on the UK Indie Chart.

It wasn’t a breakthrough yet, but it was a step. Suddenly, they were playing more shows, building a small but dedicated following. They hadn’t quite cracked the code of their signature sound, but something was starting to take shape. The noise was getting louder. And soon, everyone was going to hear it.

Finding Bilinda 

By early 1987, My Bloody Valentine had landed at Lazy Records. Their first release for Lazy was Sunny Sundae Smile, a jangly, fuzz-drenched single that actually made some waves, hitting number 6 on the UK Indie Singles Chart. For a band still trying to figure out exactly what they were, that was a big deal. Suddenly, they were on tour, playing all over the U.K. But, because nothing comes easy in MBV land, March of ’87 brought a serious curveball: David Conway, their original frontman and source of much of their early weirdness, decided he was done. Burned out, sick, and dreaming of becoming a writer, he jumped ship right in the middle of a tour. The band was left frontman-less, and for a minute there, things were looking bleak.

So Shields, Ó Cíosóig, and Googe did what any desperate band would do: they put out an ad for a new singer. Here’s where it gets hilarious (and painfully relatable for anyone who’s ever tried to form a band). Shields, being a fan of melodies, mentioned The Smiths in the ad. Which, in ’80s London, was basically an open invitation for every Morrissey wannabe and bedroom crooner to show up. Shields later described the auditions as “disastrous and excruciating,” and said he was bombarded with “fruitballs” (Kev’s words, not mine) trying to join the band.

Out of this mess, two names emerged: Bilinda Butcher and Joe Byfield, both recommended through mutual musician friends. Butcher was hardly a seasoned rock singer—her musical background was limited to childhood classical guitar and casually singing with friends while playing tambourine (as you do). But something about her dreamy, breathy voice clicked. Legend has it she auditioned by singing Dolly Parton’s “The Bargain Store.” (Yes, imagine hearing that and thinking, “Perfect. You’re in.”) Shields agreed to take her on, with the added bonus that they could now do dual vocals. Byfield, meanwhile, didn’t make the cut.

Of course, this wasn’t just about plugging a hole in the lineup. Butcher brought a softness and mystique that MBV had been missing—her and Shields’ voices would become part of the swirling, almost genderless haze that defined their future sound. But it didn’t come easy. Shields admitted he wasn’t exactly thrilled about singing himself but had “always sung in rehearsal” and knew the melodies inside out. So, reluctantly, he became a frontman, too.

The newly formed MBV debated dropping the name My Bloody Valentine altogether but in true MBV fashion, they couldn’t agree on an alternative, so the name stuck. “For better or for worse,” as Shields would later say (and honestly, can you imagine them being called anything else?).

Still under pressure from Lazy Records to deliver a full-length album, the band struck a compromise: they’d release a single and a mini-album first, giving them time to settle in with this revamped lineup. Strawberry Wine dropped in November 1987 and did decently well, hitting number 13 on the indie singles chart. A month later, they followed it up with Ecstasy, a mini-album that peaked at number 12 on the indie albums chart.

But if you think this was MBV hitting their stride—think again. Ecstasy was a mess behind the scenes. The band was broke, funding everything themselves, and it showed. The record was riddled with production issues, including a famously botched mastering job. Critics at the time described it as sounding like “a group who appeared to have run out of money halfway through recording”—which was, in fact, exactly what happened.

Even worse? Lazy Records later re-released Strawberry Wine and Ecstasy on the 1989 compilation Ecstasy and Wine without the band’s permission. Nothing says indie solidarity like re-releasing your band’s work without asking.

Still, MBV’s star was rising. Rough Trade Records saw potential and offered to fund a full album. But in a move that would set the tone for the rest of their career, MBV said no. Why? Maybe they sensed that bigger things were on the horizon—or maybe they just didn’t want anyone rushing them. Either way, they were about to take all that chaos, confusion, and half-formed sound and turn it into more chaos, confusion and something revolutionary.

Because right around the corner? You Made Me Realise, and everything was about to change.

You Made Me Realise: The EP That Changed Everything (and Possibly Destroyed a Few Eardrums)

By early 1988, My Bloody Valentine was a band teetering on the edge of something massive — they just didn’t know it yet. After a chaotic few years of lineup changes, label issues, and half-baked releases, they finally caught the attention of Creation Records’ (aka the indie label that would later make Oasis obnoxiously famous.) head honcho Alan McGee. After an impressive string of live shows the band was being dubbed the“the Irish equivalent of Hüsker Dü”, leading to McGee offering them a shot at recording for Creation. Honestly, what better compliment could an up-and-coming 80s noise band ask for?

So, MBV took their chance and hit a studio in Walthamstow, East London. They cranked out five songs in less than a week — not because they were lazy, but because something electric was happening. Something loud. On August 8, 1988, they released You Made Me Realise, their first EP for Creation, and—let’s be real—the release that made people finally sit up and say, “Wait, who are these people?”

Up to this point, MBV had been searching for a sound, but with You Made Me Realise, they didn’t just find it — they practically invented a new one. The title track is a blitz of jagged guitars, barely-there vocals, and enough distortion to make your stereo weep. The band had clearly leveled up. Kevin Shields later admitted that around this time, he became obsessed with experimenting—especially with reverse reverb, which he had used before but now discovered could completely melt reality if you hit the strings just right. Oh, and apparently, smoking a lot of weed might have helped unlock this revelation. Because of course it did.

Shields also name-dropped his influences in later interviews: Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore and Dinosaur Jr.’s J Mascis were huge for him—basically the Mount Rushmore of noisy indie guitar gods. But as much as MBV borrowed, they transformed it into something entirely their own: louder, weirder, and way more beautiful in that disorienting kind of way that makes you feel like you’re floating in a hurricane.

Peter Kember of Spacemen 3 saw them live around this time and recalled a now-legendary moment when they played You Made Me Realise: “They’d transformed. I don’t know quite what had happened, but sometimes bands hit a certain quantum shift. The noise was overwhelming.” That “quantum shift” was real — MBV had gone from jangle-pop oddballs to the scariest, dreamiest wall of sound anyone had ever heard.

The EP itself is stacked. Beyond the title track, you’ve got Slow (a woozy, erotic groove that could melt walls), Thorn, Cigarette in Your Bed, and Drive It All Over Me — all shimmering with that now-signature mix of delicate vocals and blistering guitar haze. And if you were lucky (or unlucky?) enough to catch them live around this time, you’d be treated to You Made Me Realise’s infamous live version — complete with a “holocaust” section, where they would hammer one single chord forever. Okay, maybe not forever, but definitely for 15 minutes, sometimes 30. Audience reactions ranged from awe to agony. Billy Corgan (yes, that Billy Corgan) said about seeing them live: “For the first three minutes it’s like ‘oh okay this is kind of cool.’ Then you’re like ‘This is really too much. I wish they’d f***ing stop.’ And then at about 7 minutes it actually became kind of funny. And about 10 minutes in you start actually getting into it.” Iconic.

And when I say it was loud, I mean L-O-U-D. Later reunion shows would clock in at ear-splitting 130 decibels — basically, the sonic equivalent of standing on an airport runway — all while the band stood motionless, heads down, embodying peak shoegaze energy.

You Made Me Realise wasn’t just some random EP that got filed away in record bins — it was a statement. It hit number 2 on the UK Indie Chart and had critics foaming at the mouth. Spin magazine called it “astonishing.” AllMusic praised it as the moment when critics finally realized MBV was onto something huge. And in case you think this was just hipster noise for noise’s sake, Stylus Magazine ranked the song’s bassline as one of the greatest of all time — number 24, to be exact.

The success of You Made Me Realise set the stage for what was coming next — a debut album that would take that storm of sound and turn it into something even bigger. But make no mistake: You Made Me Realise was the moment the world first heard MBV fully arrive, armed with distortion pedals, reverse reverb, and enough volume to make the walls shake. This wasn’t just an EP — it was a warning shot that the shoegaze revolution had begun.

The Breakthrough: When Noise Became Beautiful

By 1988, the band had linked up with Alan McGee’s Creation Records—aka the indie label that would later make Oasis so obnoxiously famous. With You Made Me Realise, MBV began forging their signature sound: dreamy, distorted, and almost physically overwhelming.

Then came Isn’t Anything (1988), an album that essentially wrote the blueprint for shoegaze before shoegaze was even a thing. Bands like Ride, Slowdive, and Lush would take notes (and entire careers) from what MBV did here. Shields started perfecting his legendary “glide guitar” technique, using a tremolo bar to bend chords into a hypnotic, liquified haze. The press called it “like listening to music through a jet engine.” Fans called it magic.

And yet, this was just the beginning.

The Peak: Loveless and the Sound of a Nervous Breakdown

Now we get to Loveless (1991). The album that nearly bankrupted Creation Records. The album that took over two years, 19 studios, and several nervous breakdowns to complete. The album that Shields obsessed over so much, he drove engineers to quit the industry entirely.

Was it worth it? Absolutely. Loveless is a masterpiece. It’s the sound of music being deconstructed and rebuilt in real-time. Every track is a fever dream of swirling feedback, reversed reverb, and androgynous, whispery vocals that barely float above the noise. “Only Shallow” kicks down the door with a guitar riff that sounds like an earthquake. “To Here Knows When” is pure sonic bliss. “Sometimes” is so good, it made it into Lost in Translation and introduced MBV to a new generation of moody indie kids.

Critics loved it. Indie musicians worshipped it. But Shields? Shields was burnt out. After years of obsessing over every second of sound, he had nowhere left to go. So he just… stopped.

The Lost Years: Kevin Shields vs. Perfectionism

Post-Loveless, MBV signed to Island Records. Big money, big expectations. Shields was supposed to make another album. Instead, he built a home studio and spent years tweaking sounds that never materialized into actual songs. Googe and Ó Cíosóig left. Butcher stuck around for a while, then disappeared. Shields was rumored to have recorded entire albums, only to shelve them because they weren’t perfect.

By the late ‘90s, MBV was officially not a thing anymore. Shields went off to play with Primal Scream, dabbled in soundtracks, and occasionally hinted at a comeback. But by the 2000s, Loveless had taken on near-mythical status. People treated it like the Blade Runner of shoegaze: misunderstood in its time, revered as a classic later.

Then, out of nowhere, in 2007, Shields announced MBV was back. And this time, they were actually going to finish an album.

The Return: m b v and the Art of the Impossible Comeback

On February 2, 2013, m b v dropped. No promo, no warning—just a website that crashed because so many people tried to download it at once. Was it Loveless 2.0? Not exactly. But it was beautiful, strange, and unmistakably MBV.

Tracks like “Only Tomorrow” felt like classic shoegaze. “Wonder 2” veered into drum and bass. Shields was still pushing boundaries, still refusing to make the same record twice. It was one of the rarest things in music: a long-awaited comeback album that didn’t suck.

So, Do MBV Still Matter? (Spoiler: Yes.)

Let’s be real. Shoegaze wouldn’t exist without My Bloody Valentine. They didn’t just influence the genre—they defined it. Every time you hear a band like DIIV, Beach House, or even Smashing Pumpkins layering dreamy vocals over waves of distortion, you’re hearing echoes of Loveless.

Their live shows are still ridiculously loud. Their albums still hold up. And despite Kevin Shields’ perfectionism-induced studio exile, he still claims there’s more music on the way. Will it actually happen? Who knows. But MBV already did the impossible once.

They weren’t just a band. They were a revolution. And whether they ever release another album or not, their legacy is locked in. They made music that sounded like the future—only to watch the future spend 30 years trying to catch up to them.