Anybody who’s ever been even peripherally associated with any news event knows that most journalists start with a story and then find a few facts to fit it. Going home from the tragedy of the Poll Tax March years back and watching London local news utterly fail to put the brutalised demonstrators’ side of the…
“You can’t be trusted for a minute. That noise is unacceptable to the neighbours. Just moderate it a bit, will you?” Barbed Wire, from Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci’s first album, Patio, closes with the sound of an irate mother breaking up one of the bedroom recordings that, together with sessions culled from radio stations in their…
Last month, as I was being served at the counter of north London’s fashionable Rhythm Records, the assistant suddenly clasped his stomach and rushed out into Camden High Street. “It’s all right,” said a second assistant, who took over, “he had a heavy night. It isn’t a comment on your taste.” I had just bought…
My interview with Spike Milligan didn’t exactly go as planned. I made an effort to arrive at his East Sussex address dead on 2pm, so I wasn’t too early, or too late, trying to learn from the mistakes of previous grail-seekers, whose ignominious fates I’d witnessed in a wedge of press cuttings. I did the…
To listen to Robert Pollard speak is to spiral at 45 rpm through the worn-out grooves of a mind so stuffed with obscure musical ephemera, you’d swear he was spieling rock-star cocaine-babble. Except that it’s 10am on a Monday in Dayton, Ohio, and Robert Pollard is a 38-year-old primary-school teacher with two teenage children who…
For the lazy journalist, the Cincinnati rock band the Afghan Whigs are “the Motown Nirvana”, a combination of soul melodies and post-grunge guitar squall. For the casual observer, their sharp suits, unashamed showmanship and, at times, downright funky sound represent a clean break from the alternative-rock peer group they themselves have described as “slovenly”. Their…