The stars look very different today: a tribute to David Bowie

Like many people, I woke up to the news. In fact, I was literally woken up by the news. My radio alarm clock crackled into life in time for the 7.30am bulletin. I was sure I’d misheard them. I sat bolt upright, paused for a few seconds and then reached for my phone. I’d received a text message 40 minutes earlier from a very dear friend. It read simply: “Bowie is dead!”

I’d heard correctly, of course.

I immediately felt compelled to write something about David Bowie, his music and why the world was now suddenly a much poorer place without him in it, but of course I had to go to work (real life can be both a gift and curse sometimes), so I’ve spent much of the day trying to work out exactly what I wanted to say. Goodbye productivity.

Here goes…

How does one sum up someone like Bowie? To refer to him as a singer and songwriter, or even a musician, is to do him a great disservice. He was an artist in the truest and purest sense of the word. Sure, his career hasn’t been without its questionable choices (Tin Machine and that duet with Jagger are obvious examples) but, ultimately, he has never made music just for the money (although he made plenty) or to appeal to the widest possible audience (even though his music often did) – he did it because he genuinely felt a need to express himself creatively, often captivating and confounding in equal measure.

Never one to rest on his laurels, Bowie has been through almost as many incarnations and personas as The Fall get through bassists. It’s a well-worn cliché to say this, but you genuinely never knew what he was going to do next – and even when he returned with a completely new musical direction, it was still unmistakeably Bowie. Crucially, it never felt false or forced; it just felt like Bowie being Bowie.

For me, what really made Bowie stand out was that he was truly individual in everything he did – a genuine one-off. No one else has come close to matching the innovativeness and sheer eclecticism of his rich canon of work. Seriously, when was the last time you heard anyone described as ‘the next Bowie’? Come to think of it, when did you EVER hear anyone described as that? It’s really no exaggeration to say that we will never see his like again.

Unlike many of his contemporaries, Bowie refused to fall into the comfort zone of becoming a ‘heritage act’, instead continuing to push forward and make music on his own terms right until the very end, as clearly evidenced on astounding final album ‘Blackstar’. Released just two days before his untimely death, the album now takes on a whole new poignancy when you realise that its creator recorded it knowing he was on borrowed time (producer Tony Visconti described it as Bowie’s ‘parting gift’, which is both heart-breaking and heart-warming at the same time).

While many in his situation might have been tempted to give up, Bowie instead turned in his most creative and intriguing work to date, blending space-jazz, frenetic broken beats, post-apocalyptic funk and even techno-tinged rhythms. ‘Blackstar’ and its equally lauded predecessor ‘The Next Day’ (his first album in a decade) revealed a reinvigorated Bowie clearly still bursting at the seams with ideas – it seems so cruel and unfair for him to be taken from us at a time when he was not only producing his finest work in decades, but most likely still had so much more to offer, if he’d only had more time on this earth.

Like Lemmy, Bowie was someone we probably all took for granted – we assumed he would always be here and now we’re going to have to adjust to a world without him.

Goodbye Spaceboy and thank you for the music. Safe journey home.

2015: an alternative review (part 2)

As promised, here’s part 2 of my alternative take on 2015. Same format as part 1, but a different set of irritations. Dig in, you beautiful, beautiful people…

Kanye West

If there should ever come a time when a man is permitted to marry a cloned version of himself then it’s a safe bet that Kanye will be first in line. I know you want to tell me that he’s a genius, an innovator, a true maverick, and that strutting around alone on the Pyramid Stage in filthy decorator’s overalls under a job lot of lightbulbs constitutes some sort of triumph over his critics. You’re entitled to your opinion, of course, but please don’t expect to sway mine any more than I would expect to sway yours. I used to have a great deal of respect for Kanye – he made genuinely decent music and wasn’t afraid to speak out on issues such as homophobia – a stance largely unheard of in hip-hop circles. But somewhere along the line he has become so absorbed in his own self-importance and the apparent need to remind anyone that will listen (and even those who won’t) that he needs to be respected as an artist that he has effectively been reduced to self-parody. I’m resigned to the fact that he could shit in a paper bag on stage and people would still declare it the boldest artistic statement in the entirety of written history, but personally I’d find him a whole lot easier to respect if he didn’t persist in being a dick at every given opportunity. You’re rich, famous and successful – what are you still trying to prove, and to whom?

Music award shows

I’m going to let the Mercury Prize off the hook here because although it’s been responsible for some highly questionable winners in its time (hello, M People), it does at least recognise that British music extends beyond the lukewarm, play-it-safe fare of Ed Sheeran, James Bay, Sam Smith and Adele. Nope, my ire today is reserved specifically for the Brit Awards and the BBC Music Awards, which may as well be one and the same given their relentless pursuit of celebrating the offensively mediocre. My thoughts on this year’s Brits can be found here and speak for themselves. The BBC Music Awards are basically more of the same, but with Chris Evans (now dyeing his hair a rather fetching ‘Chernobyl sunset orange’) and Fearne Cotton (apparently still a thing) doing their whole ‘we’re still down with the kids, honest’ shtick, desperately trying to convince themselves as much as anyone else that we’re all having fun celebrating The Best of British Music. Rather predictably, the awards were dominated by the wailing banshee Adele (who couldn’t even be arsed to turn up) while Song of the Year (the only category voted for by the public) went to Hozier’s dismal Take Me To Church. That’s right: THERE WERE NO BETTER SONGS THIS YEAR. Honestly, some people don’t deserve ears.

Justin Bieber

Hasn’t he grown up a lot? Hasn’t he matured as an artist? Wasn’t ‘What Do You Mean?’ such a wonderfully strong choice for a comeback single? The answer to all of those questions is, of course, NO. He may look a little taller, a little more tattooed and have a ludicrously lop-sided haircut but he still comes across in interviews as a spoilt brat with absolutely nothing to say for himself. ‘What Do You Mean?’ is the most sorry-sounding, directionless excuse for recorded music I’ve heard all year, not helped by that incessant, panpipe-heavy ‘tropical house’ masquerading as a backing track. Even David Guetta would probably dismiss it as ‘too generic’. That clear enough for you, Justin? Textbook fucked-up child star.

The X-Factor

A confession: I didn’t actually watch it this year, but that’s okay because apparently neither did anyone else (for the most part, anyway). Each year, this low-brow corpse is subjected to the ritual humiliation of being dug up from its grave, dressed in new clothes (from River Island, naturally) and paraded through the streets under the pretence that it’s still new, fresh and relevant. Except viewers are now starting to get wise to the fact they’re being made fools of and switching over (or off). They’ve seen their reflections in the polished turd Cowell’s presenting to them and it’s all starting to feel a bit tired and smell a bit stale. Maybe people are fed up of watching twat-for-hire Grimmy and Rita Ora (from the mean streets of stage school) coming across like your uncle and aunt trying to be down with the kids. Maybe the new presenting team of Murs and Flack didn’t resonate with the viewers in the way that O’Leary apparently did. Maybe people have just stopped caring about someone with a predictable sob story (and a tabloid-unearthed assault/drug/theft conviction) being moulded into whatever Cowell thinks hysterical teenage girls or bored housewives will go for. One thing has always been clear, however – the best thing about X-Factor is clearly earlier in the series where the proudly deluded and genuinely tone deaf are given their five minutes of fame and then ritually rejected from the competition (even better when they storm back in to tell Cowell he’ll be sorry when they have a number one album and their toothless face is adorning billboards across the world). Trouble is, a show focusing entirely on this element would either be tantamount to bullying or the greatest outsider music showcase you’ve ever seen. With that in mind, let’s leave the corpse to fester in the ground next year, eh, Si?

Martin Shkreli

I grow more and more convinced each day that some people are put on this earth with the sole purpose of showing everyone else what a complete and utter twat looks like. A case in point is Martin Shkreli, a snivelling excuse for a bunch of cells who has had both the best and worst year. The kind of person who would genuinely wipe his arse on bank notes, Shkreli first came to the wider world’s attention earlier this year when he acquired the rights to HIV drug Daraprim – and promptly hiked its price by an eye-watering 5,000 per cent from $13.50 to $750 a pill, giving the rather dubious excuse that the extra profits would be used to develop an ever better product (but only after tweeting about raising a middle finger to his critics). He also reportedly paid $2 million for the only existing copy of a Wu-Tang Clan album – although to be fair, no one bought their last commercially available album anyway. His luck now seems to have run out after he was arrested on suspicion of running a Ponzi scheme at his previous company, prompting him to resign as CEO of his present company (are you keeping up with this?). Let’s see the twat buy his way out of this one.

2015: an alternative review (part 1)

2015, eh? It’s been a year of ups and downs, and all that… blah, blah, blah. You’re probably sick of reading about the highlights of 2015 by now, so in keeping with my own personal tradition, here’s a slightly different take on some of the year’s events in the world of music and popular culture in general, with a tiny smattering of politics (but not too much) thrown in for good measure. Part 2 to follow very soon.

Adele

To be clear, I have no issue with Adele as a person. I’ve no idea what kind of human being she is but I’m more than willing to tolerate her continued existence. What I do have an issue with, however, is the hype which surrounded the damp sleeping bag of a third album she saw fit to unleash on us this year. I don’t think anyone was expecting a radical change in direction (a psychedelic jazz-funk opus, for example) but surely the most hardened Adele fan (I’ve no idea how such a concept would even manifest itself) was hoping for more than a tepid regurgitation of EVERYTHING ADELE HAS EVER DONE IN THE HISTORY OF ADELE BEING A THING? Everything about this album smacks of a total lack of imagination, from the uninspiring title (looking forward to ’86’) through to the same lazy preoccupation with trying to patch up shitty relationships. And that’s before we even get to the music, which is basically the aural equivalent of the bitter disappointment experienced on discovering that the cup of tea you’d be looking forward to has now gone cold. It’s a truly sad indictment on the British music industry when this utter puddle of whinge breaks all sales records. She’s getting away with murder and we’re all letting it happen.

Sam Smith

Maybe I just hear things differently to other people. I remember having a conversation with someone at university about M People caterwauler Heather Small and how her voice really grated on me – an opinion met with genuine surprise from the other party who genuinely felt she possessed a perfectly fine voice. History is now repeating itself in the form of Sam Smith. A work colleague agreed with me that his songs were dull, dreary and largely forgettable and then added “but what a voice though, eh?”. See, where a lot of people are apparently hearing the saviour of British soul music, I’m just hearing the incessant whining of a child about to break into a full scale tantrum because his mum won’t let him go to a family wedding dressed as Spiderman. His voice is not only unremarkable, it’s also downright unpleasant to listen to, like a shrill, never-ending apology for wetting the bed. Sometimes, if you listen hard enough, the sounds he emits form actual words. He also has the distinction of making a Bond theme worse than Madonna’s ‘Die Another Day’, something anyone with ears had hoped wasn’t physically possible. Like I say, maybe I just hear things differently, but there are times when it would be preferable not to be able to hear at all.

Donald Trump

There was a time when The Donald was little more than a figure of fun because he didn’t really understand how hair worked and, let’s face it, Trump means fart (if you’re British). And fart jokes never stop being funny, right? In short, he was seen as an eccentric but ultimately harmless character, a bit like Simon Cowell, Lord Sugar or Mr Bean. Somewhere along the line, however, he’s turned into some sort of bright orange bouffant Hitler, spouting the type of venomous rhetoric which ended in old Adolf lying face down in a ditch, on fire. I don’t know whether Trump actually means it, whether he’s just saying what he thinks ‘his’ kind of people want to hear or whether he’s just trying to see what he can get away with, but one thing is clear: if you were standing next to him at a urinal, you’d sure as hell splash the fucker’s shoes.

NME

Yeah, it went free and, in the process, defied accepted science by actually being worse than it was before. Cover stars since they stopped expecting people to pay good money for the ‘pleasure’ have included Sam Smith and that gimp from Twilight who went back for seconds when they were handing out eyebrows. Inside, the magazine is so dumbed down that its few remaining staff may as well come round to your house and act out its contents using brightly coloured sock puppets. As a product, it’s clinging on for dear life but as the go-to music magazine of record, it died a long, long time ago. What a shame it wasn’t allowed to float off to the great newsagent in the sky with at least a modicum of dignity still intact.

TFI Friday

Admit it – if you had your own TV show, wouldn’t you just fill it with your mates and things you like? That’s basically always been the formula for TFI Friday, which made a long-awaited and much-trumpeted return to our screens this autumn following a successful anniversary special in June. But now the dust has settled it’s becoming all to clear that the new series has failed quite miserably to live up to expectations. The format remains largely unchanged and all the familiar ingredients are still there, but it no longer seems to work. Evans grates in a way that he didn’t back in the ‘90s (even when he was in the grip of his very public meltdown) and the whole ‘look at me, I’m rich, I have famous friends and can get away with anything’ vibe no longer feels like good-natured, laddish banter, but now has a distinctly vulgar tone. The music has been dire (U2, Justin Bieber, Coldplay, James Bay, Texas, to name but a few), making Later With Jools Holland look like the Bangface Weekender in comparison, while the celebrity interviews feel stilted and awkward, punctuated by pointless little skits and routines shoehorned into the show for the sake of it. In the 90s, TFI Friday worked perfectly because it captured the alcopop-fuelled lad culture of the Britpop era, but in the 21^st century it just feels like you’re listening to a particularly embarrassing speech full of jokes which fail to land given by an obnoxiously inebriated relative at a family party. Come in TFI Friday, your time is up.

Transmission: incredible

Sound Advice #2: 

Klaxons – Surfing The Void (2010)

Go on, admit it. You’d written them off as another novelty act, hadn’t you?

You probably remember Klaxons as the leading (disco) lights of the short-lived, media-fuelled and, to be honest, largely non-existent ‘nu-rave’ scene of almost a decade ago.

If you think hard enough, you’ll probably also recall that there wasn’t really anything particularly ‘ravey’ about them (they didn’t properly venture into electronic music until last year’s ‘Love Frequency’) and that they were only really lumbered with that albatross of a tag because they emerged at a time when any band with a keyboard player was immediately branded a ‘dance-punk/indie-dance crossover’ act by lazy music critics.

Okay, they famously covered Grace’s ‘Not Over Yet’ and Kicks Like A Mule’s ‘The Bouncer’ and they (perhaps reluctantly) became synonymous with glowsticks and the kind of dayglo fashions not seen since Fat Willy’s was clothing our nation’s children in the early 90s, but if we really must pigeonhole them then Klaxons were, at heart, a psychedelic band – and a great one at that.

There’s no denying debut album ‘Myths Of The Near Future’ was a great record and, yes, it did capture a ‘moment’ in British alternative music history, but I put it to you that the band’s real piece de resistance was, in fact, second album ‘Surfing The Void’.

While ‘Myths…’ was a playful, multi-coloured patchwork quilt of an album made by a bunch of wide-eyed whippersnappers who you suspected couldn’t quite believe their luck, its follow-up was a much more mature-sounding record produced by a band who were no longer simply ambitious – they actually walked the walk, sounding confident in their own abilities.

Polydor apparently made the band re-record large chunks of ‘Surfing The Void’ on the grounds that what they had presented to the label was ‘too experimental’ (that’s major label speak for ‘not mainstream enough'). However, at no point does the finished product feel like the work of a band who’ve had to compromise (even though it is), instead sounding like a fully rounded album by a band (and they WERE a full band by now, with a full-time drummer and everything) who had trusted their instincts and found their direction.

Lyrically, the fantastical, futurist themes are still present and correct (the frankly fantastic album cover art alone should provide a glaringly obvious clue that they’re not going to be singing about going to the chip shop on the way home from the pub) and musically, the ludicrously catchy choruses are even more, erm, ludicrously catchy than before (from opener and lead single ‘Echoes’ right through to adrenaline-pumping closer ‘Cypherspeed’), but everything just sounds bigger, better, more complete.

Crucially, it’s the sound of a band who’ve managed to throw off the shackles of that whole embarrassing nu-rave nonsense and turn in their strongest work to date.

What’s really baffling, however, is that while around 350,000 people bought ‘Myths Of The Near Future’, a significantly more modest 30,000 (still enough to spend a week just inside the top 10, admittedly) thought it worth parting with their hard-earned cash for the follow-up. Despite generally favourable reviews, it seemed the record-buying punters had other ideas.

Okay, so they probably took a bit too long to release a second album (three years can be a long time when you’re riding the zeitgeist, even if your nasty major label makes you re-record it), but maybe some people just didn’t ‘get’ Klaxons now that they weren’t part of any so-called scene. Maybe some people still associated them with nu-rave and the whole NME-instigated ‘hey kids!’ approach to music and consequently felt the band had nothing new to offer and bought another Kings Of Leon album instead ‘cos that was REAL music, right? Maybe some people just bought the first album to look ‘with it’ in front of their chums (y’know, the Nathan Barleys of this world).

Losers.

Ten more things I did instead of watching X-Factor

1. Watched a bit of ‘Farewell to the Planet of the Apes’ on the Horror Channel – specifically a bit where two apes were literally flirting with each other. Having checked that I hadn’t accidentally stumbled on to the more ‘specialist’ channels further down the list, my discomfort was further compounded by the fact they sounded like they were voiced by Carry On actors. I was half expecting a Sid James ape to stroll in at any moment, emitting a filthy chuckle from his grinning simian lips. Still, it can’t be anywhere near as uncomfortable as watching Grimmy acting like a sixth form tutor who thinks he’s still down with the kids.

2. Had a wee. I got up to go the bathroom, obviously – I haven’t yet reached the stage where I keep a bucket by the sofa, although I may one day look into setting up something involving a series of pulleys if the need arises.

3. Microwaved a chicken biryani.

4. Ate the microwaved chicken biryani. It wasn’t bad, although I did burn the roof of my mouth in my eagerness to consume said ready meal.

5. Scratched my arse.

6. Ironed four new work shirts.

7. Wondered why shirts always come with so many bits of plastic and cardboard (and tissue paper?!) stuck to them, ready to fly off in a multitude of directions as you try to unfold your newly purchased garment. I probably spent just as long picking up plastic clips from the floor as I did actually ironing the shirts they were attached to.

8. Flicked through the channels and accidentally (ACCIDENTALLY!) caught a few seconds of X-Factor in which Simon Cowell looked like he’d been living in his car for the past few weeks. I wonder if he watches the show back each week just so he can freeze-frame the exact moment a contestant realises their dreams have been smashed to smithereens?

9. Wondered whether there had ever been a Smiths tribute band called The Smithereens. And if not, could someone make it happen?

10. Wondered if I could come up with a solution to the world’s problems during my spare evenings. I’m not promising anything, but I’ll give it some thought, okay?

I regret nothing. NOTHING.

Let's push things forward

Hip Hop Hump Days #9:

Various Artists – Rough Trade Shops Hip Hop 2015: Beats, Bass + Rhymes

Listen. Can you hear it? Something’s happening.

Hip hop is a strange beast. At its very worst, it is little more than diluted factory line chart fodder designed to secure airplay and make the bloated even fatter – think Nicki Minaj doing Crazy Frog impressions backed by nauseatingly overproduced landfill EDM or Pitbull’s bewildering lack of anything remotely resembling talent.

At its best, however, hip hop has the power to be one of the most creatively rich and diverse forms of artistic expression, constantly finding bold and inventive new ways to surprise and enlighten.

Right now, hip hop seems to be bursting at the seams with artists striving to be different, rather than simply trying to fit in with any sort of preconceived notion of what the genre should be about. It’s hip hop, Slim, but not as we knew it.

It seems the good people at the Rough Trade shops, themselves standard-bearers for exquisite musical taste, have also noticed this, prompting them to put together a compilation of 35 tracks from some of contemporary US and UK hip hop’s more forward-thinking exponents.

The resulting double CD is an exhilarating snapshot of a multi-faceted musical movement which still refuses to be confined by so-called boundaries, acknowledging its roots but still managing to sound vibrant, fresh and, above all, like the work of artists brimming with actual ideas.

This is hip hop as it was always intended to be: groundbreaking, inventive, creative, original… and, crucially, free from interference from major label executives looking for a generic, polished product to spoonfeed commercial radio listeners between adverts for household insurance and local carpet warehouses. No one gives a shit what Nick Grimshaw thinks or whether they’ll appear on the next Now compilation.

For me, what’s interesting here is how comfortably tracks from opposite sides of the pond sit alongside each other. From the US, we have Earl Sweatshirt’s piano-led ‘Chum’ which suddenly breaks into sci-fi prog rock, Sub Pop signings (and can you imagine Sub Pop putting out hip hop albums even a decade ago?) THEESatisfaction and Shabazz Palaces and their own unique (and sometimes psychedelic) take on the genre, and the consistent brilliance of Run The Jewels. Longer-established artists such as Ghostface Killah and Pharoahe Monch also get a look-in, proving that keeping things fresh isn’t solely the preserve of the new skool. Also worthy of a mention are the free-jazz stylings of Hail Mary Mallon, Sonnymoon and Your Old Droog.

The UK is superbly represented. Young Fathers are as good as ever, steadfastly forging their own distinct musical path, while Foreign Beggars kick off 'Sirens' with droplets of eerie digital pizzicato before erupting (if that's the right word) into bass-heavy minimalism and super-sharp lyrical delivery. Ocean Wisdom’s collaboration with kidkanevil layers dark, grimy basslines over organic-sounding drum and bass reminiscent of Breakbeat Era, while Novelist and Mumdance’s mighty ‘Shook’ impresses with snatches of euphoric synth piercing through stabs of deep, vibrating, buzzing feedback, like shards of sunlight penetrating storm clouds. A mention too for Jehst and Strange U's brilliantly unsettling 'Dolph Lundgren'. And you will not find a more deliciously British take on hip hop than West Country MC Spye’s closer ‘Oops Sorry’ – trust me.

Thirty-five tracks. All individual in their own way and yet at the same time sharing a common characteristic in that they are all pushing boundaries and daring to do something different without pandering to the mainstream. This is what hip hop was about when the likes of Kool Herc and Grandmaster Flash were cutting up old funk and soul records to create something completely new: pay your dues to those who came before you, but take those influences and keep on moving forward.

And on the strength of this album, hip hop has never been in finer creative health.  

Listen. It’s happening right now. Be a part of it.

Written off?

If the uneasy relationship between the internet and the music industry has taught us anything, it’s that too many people today believe they shouldn’t have to pay anything (or at least any more than they think they should) to listen to the music they love. Equally, it seems these same people believe they shouldn’t have to pay to read about the music they love either.

While pretty much every music magazine is seeing a rapid decline in sales, no one seems to be feeling the increasingly painful pinch more than NME, once that bastion of cutting edge new music eagerly awaited each week by the faithful and now little more than a flimsy, overpriced shop window for the online version (which, incidentally, attracts around seven millions users a month).

Having enjoyed six-figure circulation figures at the peak of its success, the magazine struggles to entice more than around 15,000 people a week to part with their hard-earned cash – and at £2.50 a pop for something that can be read cover to cover during an average toilet visit, who can blame them?

Something’s gotta give and that something, it seems, is the cover price. Having realised that they can’t sell it anymore, the people at NME have now decided to see if they can literally give it away. Yep, from September, NME will be free, moving from the newsstands to railway stations, shops and student unions instead – an indie Metro, if you will.

It’s hardly a surprising move, although what IS surprising is that NME has managed to cling on for dear life for so long. In its heyday, it was the first port of call for anyone eager to find out when their favourite band’s next album was coming out or whether they would be touring nearby. It was also THE place to read about exciting new bands you wouldn’t see in the mainstream press.

Today, thanks to the old information superhighway, your favourite band have just used their Facebook page and Twitter feed to link to a brief YouTube teaser for their next album. As a loyal fan, you’ve received advance notice of their tour dates via email (no more filling in and sending off those postcards inserted into the record or CD cover so that you can then receive more postcards) and you can even tweet the band directly to express your delight at the fact they’re playing at the Dogger’s Arms in Kettering or to vent your frustration because they’ve wisely given your hometown a wide berth yet again. Oh, and you’ve probably already discovered enough new music online to fill five issues of NME before its writers have even thought of an opening line for an article telling you why Rustic Scrotum or Panda Pop Holocaust are the future of all our lives.

In a digital age, no one wants to wait until next Wednesday to find out when Damon Albarn’s concept album about sandwiches is going to be released. They want it now, dammit.

But there’s another issue – granted, not one that will have had a huge impact on their already plummeting sales figures but which I believe is still an issue all the same.

It’s fair to say that the quality of the product has decreased significantly over the past decade (if not longer). Gone are the days of in-depth critical analysis of this week’s new albums – now everything feels dumbed down and diluted, like it’s been written by an excitable work experience kid (and from what I’ve heard, that’s probably not too wide of the mark). Everything is brief and to the point (whatever that may be), but without any depth, personality or genuine passion. Where’s the individual writing style? Where’s the sense of pride in your work? Nah, the industry just wants short, punchy phrases it can plaster across adverts, posters and stickers on CD covers. Don’t try to be too clever or creative – we can’t fit it on the sticker, not with that five-star rating we’ve included from The Sun and Heat! And no, you can’t give this one a bad review – we’ve already decided as a publication that we like this band because they might be the next Arctic Monkeys.

Also, considering we live in an age where the media have never had more research tools at their disposal, a little basic fact-checking wouldn’t go amiss here and there, NME. That includes your website and its relentless stream of ’25 albums you just HAVE to hear before you turn 27’-type clickbait.

As part of its ‘rebranding’ (and why is everything just a brand these days?), NME’s distribution will be increased to 300,000 copies, presumably because increased circulation means they can not only attract more advertising but also charge more for the privilege of advertising in a magazine you’re now more likely to find lying face down on a sticky train carriage floor.

Will this additional advertising revenue be invested back into the product? Will they employ quality writers who actually understand the music they are writing about, rather than simply picking up on the latest generic white male guitar four-piece because they’ve got the right hair and clothes? Will they resist the urge to create more double-page spreads out of the fact Noel Gallagher has said SOMETHING CONTROVERSIAL AGAIN? Will they stop writing articles about Muse with lazy headlines such as ‘Apocalypse Wow’? Will they just stop writing about Mumford & Sons altogether?

We can but hope – but we probably shouldn’t hold our breath.