Where dreams go to die

So it seems perpetually self-satisfied music mogul Simon Cowell’s ill-considered idea for a ‘DJ X-Factor’ is finally set to see the cruel light of day, albeit via an online platform bafflingly offered by Yahoo (cheers, guys).

While it’s not yet clear exactly what format this atrocity will take, the flat-topped twat’s track record should be enough to tell you that it’ll be about as appealing as waking up to find Jedward lying either side of you with knowing smiles on their otherwise vacant faces.

How will it work? To my mind, it takes at least 30 minutes, if not an hour, to get a feel for what a DJ is like, maybe even longer. It’s about building a mood, a feeling, a journey (clichéd, I know) – how will that be condensed into three minutes in front of an audience of over-excitable adolescents and tearfully proud nans? And DJs who CAN cram it all into three minutes – otherwise known as turntablists – already have their own talent show in the form of the infinitely more credible DMC World DJ Championships.

How will contestants be judged? Mixing ability? Track selection? How easily they can make that excruciating heart shape with their hands? Whether they have some ridiculous gimmick like throwing cake at people who’ve paid to see them? Will someone with the skills of Carl Cox or Sasha find themselves rejected with a withering: “You’re not quite right for this show – I mean, what are you going to do when it’s Abba Week?”

The advancement of technology has effectively meant that anyone can download the latest top 10 tracks from music sites such as Beatport and mix them together using the ‘sync’ button (which basically does all the work for you). Great, but where’s the creativity, the imagination? Will someone with real technical ability and a genuine understanding of the music they’re playing lose out to someone who simply plays the chart-toppers and puts on more of a show behind the decks?

What does Cowell imagine ‘clubland’ is like these days? Will extra points be awarded for demonstrating your prowess on the microphone by giving a shout out to the hen party down at the front or spitting out lyrics such as “remember, folks, it’s half price WKDs at the bar until midnight”?

Will Cowell complain that drum and bass is “too fast”? Will he put two different DJs together purely because “you look good and I think girls will really like you”? Will there be a judges’ house stage where plucky hopefuls are forced to fiddle around with expensive electrical equipment precariously close to a swimming pool while the show’s equivalent of Cheryl Cole (or whatever she’s calling herself these days) fights back tears as she stares into the distance while managing to look bored, confused and angry at the same time?

And on the subject of judges, who would they be? Fatboy Slim literally told Cowell to “fuck off” when he was approached to become a judge on the show in 2013. Could any DJ worth their salt lower themselves to this level and then expect to be taken seriously? Or will Cowell call on the services of so-called ‘superstar’ DJs such as David Guetta and Paris Hilton, who, ironically, are probably better known for NOT actually mixing.

The bottom line is that a DJ competition will not make good television. Turntablism aside, DJing is not a visual art – it’s about listening and dancing to what’s being played. Good DJs work best in their natural environment – the club, the rave, the festival, the squat party – where they can feed off the crowd in order to shape and develop their set. No amount of fancy studio lighting, overpaid celebrity guests, theme weeks or heart-wrenching sob stories (“my dead grandad always wanted me to be the next Pete Tong!”) can ever replicate this.

People: this is evil and must be stopped, or, at the very least, ignored. Cowell is a parasite who loves nothing more than to feast on the shattered dreams and bitter, stinging tears of the young, impressionable and foolish.

You’ve already encouraged him by continuing to watch X-Factor – don’t make the same mistake again. How will we explain this shame to our grandchildren?

We’re better than this.

From the archives: Welcome to the Chemical age

Originally published in the Coalville Times newspaper in early 2002

When I was a trainee reporter at the Coalville Times, a weekly newspaper based in Coalville, Leicestershire, back in the early noughties, my colleagues and I came up with the idea of writing a series of classic album reviews - in short, a rather self-indulgent opportunity to wax lyrical about one of our favourite records.

I'm not entirely sure why I opted for Exit Planet Dust (with hindsight, I probably would have gone for something like Endtroducing) but I guess it was a pivotal album (even if it isn't the Chemical Brothers' best) and, besides, my colleagues chose records like Daft Punk's Discovery (good, but it had only been released a year earlier so hardly qualified as a classic) and Notorious BIG's Life After Death (I've honestly never rated Biggie as a rapper) so I suppose I was just trying to be different.

Anyway, below is a scan of the original review as it appeared in the paper - I no longer have the original draft (I wrote it at work) and I can't quite summon up the will to type it out manually (although I may do if enough people complain that they can't read it).

Click on the image to enlarge

From the archives: In the republic of mediocrity, genius is dangerous

Originally published on It Is Happening Again on January 14, 2014

If you’re at a loose end on 19^th February and you’re not busy sewing your eyelids shut or filling your ears with molten glue then you might find yourself basking in the festival of mediocrity that is the Brit Awards.

Music is one of Britain’s biggest exports, so the Brits must be a celebration of everything that’s truly great about British music, right? Oh, hell no.

In truth, the Brits have always trodden that fine line between terrible and appalling. Remember how Annie Lennox used to dominate the awards in the early 90s after releasing a solo album which sounded like the ramblings of someone who wanders through shopping precincts shouting at pigeons? How about the fact that glorified redcoat Robbie Williams holds the record for the most Brit awards (12, in case you wondered)? Coldplay? Yup. Mumford & Sons? You betcha. Cutting edge stuff, like I said.

So, it’s 2014 and things aren’t faring much better. Let’s look at some of the artists ‘leading’ the nominations, shall we?

Firstly, Bastille, nominated for four (four!) awards. BASTILLE. The name alone sounds like some overly pretentious ‘boutique’ bakery which sells tiny artisan loaves to hipsters. The reality is far, far worse. It’s hard to believe anyone would deliberately start a band which sounds so contrived, so unadventurous and yet that’s exactly what appears to have happened. It’s like they were put together with the sole purpose of fronting an advert for Topshop. They probably know people with names like Hugo. The music itself sounds like The Hoosiers, Scouting For Girls and that twat who sang ‘JCB Song’ have got together for a jam at their local Costa Coffee open mic night. The singer (I can’t even conjure up the will to look up his name) pronounces things in the most horrible, affected way – “if you clewse your eyes” and “rhythm is a darncer” (hell, even people who say ‘darncer’ in everyday speech still sing it as ‘dancer’) – that makes you want to hunt him down and see to it that he never sings again. That literally tens of thousands of ‘consumers’ are lapping up this drivel by the bucketload is a sad indictment on society and a shame we will have to bear for generations to come.

Next up: Tom Odell. Yeah, because that’s what the world needs right now, isn’t it? A frickin’ Starsailor revival. And worst of all, you’re ensuring that he gets to make a living out of peddling his painfully bland output by buying into this bullshit. This means he’ll probably make a second album. Just think about that for a moment.

Then there’s Katy Perry. I imagine she likes to see herself as a cross between Betty Page and Dita Von Teese in terms of image, but in reality comes across more like forgotten 90s pop ‘star’ Lolly. The fact she’s effectively just re-releasing the same song each time doesn’t really help, either. As with Lady Gaga, everything just feels so forced, so false. All style, no substance.

Jessie J, then. I caught a few minutes of her set at Glastonbury in 2011. The most interesting thing about it was the fact she had to sit down to sing due to a broken leg. Her vocals were dreadful, her songs lacked variety and the whole experience felt like watching your mum trying to be ‘street’. I was embarrassed for us both. It saddens me that she’s been nominated for British Female Solo Artist.

This pitiful line-up is symptomatic of what’s really wrong with the Brits. While the whole thing has always been so ridiculously corporate and the results so tediously predictable (with the possible exception of the time Belle & Sebastian pipped Steps to the post for Best British Newcomer in 1999), there always used to be a sense of danger. Whether it was Jarvis Cocker pretending to waft a fart at Michael Jackson (I still firmly believe he’s owed a knighthood), The KLF firing blanks from a machine gun at a bewildered audience after performing a death metal version of ‘3am Eternal’ with grindcore metal band Extreme Noise Terror, the endless squabbles between Oasis and everything else in existence, or, erm, Danbert Nobacon (stay with me here) from Chumbawamba tipping a bucket of ice water over John Prescott, you could pretty much guarantee that something was going to happen that wasn’t in the script. Something to ruffle the suits and give ITV bosses a collective coronary.

Okay, there was that time when Adele flipped the bird at no one in particular when her 39^th acceptance speech of the night was cut short in 2012, but when you consider that this was to make way for Blur then you can only conclude that she fully deserved to be denied the right to inflict her foghorn voice on everyone for another second. But other than that, the most controversial incident these days is more likely to involve someone dropping a microphone or suffering an autocue malfunction. Rock and, indeed, roll.

Worse still, James Corden, who appears to be allergic to turning down work, is presenting the awards for the THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEAR. I’ve yet to meet anyone who can fully explain his appeal. He is neither funny nor entertaining and always looks a little too pleased with himself. I don’t know who’s responsible for this bewildering decision, but they deserve to be hurt. Badly.

Sure, there are a few redeeming features. The supremely talented John Grant is nominated for Best International Male, for example, but you and I both know he’s not going to win and, anyway, it’s too little, too late.

You go ahead and watch if you like. I’ll be in the kitchen, licking a cheese-grater.