The Eighties is still regarded as something of a wasteland for rock, the first period in which the relentless forward motion that had propelled white boy guitar music from rock and roll, through acid rock and into punk, had run out of steam in a mess of hair metal and anthemic stadium-sized post-punk derivatives. The…
On Sunday, at 2.26 in the afternoon, a man claiming to be the transport correspondent of the Daily Telegraph rang me up asking me why I had described Michael McIntyre as ‘spoon-feeding his audience warm diarrhoea’. I hung up, assuming it was some weird prank call, like the people who ring me at 3am asking…
I Know It’s Over is The Queen Is Dead’s first pause for breath. As usual, Morrissey’s mordant wit is mistaken, historically, for unmitigated misery. “Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head.” What an opening line! Remember all those classic blues and folk songs that billow forth from the point of view of…
This is the story of a spontaneous comment that got out of hand, and grew, momentarily confusing an accommodating Japanese performance art group, and, ultimately, inconveniencing a corporate arts sponsor. But it’s also a story about how we value creativity. Is Art about books sold, tickets bought, and units shifted, pleasing the largest possible number…