Musically Crippled and Tongue-Tied

Following the acknowledgement that I hadn’t written on this blog for quite some time, I was faced with the dilemma of where to place the blame for this act of negligence. Was I bored of writing? No. Were my days totally full to the brim with more important, unavoidable tasks? Certainly not. Had my growing cereal addition finally got the better of me? Not yet. As this pointless stream of consciousness continued, the conundrum of my lost words playing heavily on my mind, I suddenly became all too aware of the answer as it filled the air around me.

From out of my speakers, the familiar sound of The Smiths.

Morrissey has quite literally, ruined me. Having long been aware of The Smiths and the hype that surrounds them, for years I had never really been bothered enough to give them a listen, sticking it on my musical ‘to-do’ list, along with getting into Janis Joplin and  listening to the Pink Floyd albums that no one talks of. Perhaps it was through intuition that I knew it would be dangerous for me and so avoided them for so long, in the same way that some people choose never to smoke crack, i.e.with good reason. But all I can say is thank god I did put it off until the age of 23. If Morrissey had worked his wicked magic on me at the age of say, 16, my life would probably be considerably worse and less enriched right now. I would have had seven less years of musical enjoyment; I would’ve never gone to gigs, made friends, read books or eaten Indian food.

What I’m trying to say is; since properly getting turned on to The Smiths about six months ago, my interest in any other artists has all but diminished, along with the desire to write about music. What more is there to say?! The Smiths are music. Why even bother making more music? We’ve got all we need. We can just listen to that now. What’s the point?!

Of course I’m exaggerating (kind of), but once you realise how incredible The Smiths and Morrissey are, it’s really impossible to imagine how you could ever feel the same about any other band ever again, or even get real enjoyment from other music. Now, I am all too aware of my very strong tendency to slip into intense periods of irrational and unhealthy fanaticism about musicians or bands, but this is different. I knew things were getting serious when I found myself apologising to friends for my repetitive music choices, and often favouring silence if I couldn’t listen to The Smiths, or even silence in preference to lying to myself that I would make another music choice when it was obviously an impossibility. Managing to ween myself off temporarily with Morrissey’s solo efforts - an act as effective as giving methadone to a heroin addict - I was soon back on the hard stuff. Even my inexpressive musical equipment was beginning to look jaded at their thankless task of playing the same six albums over and over again. My faceless ipod looking me in the eyes as if to say MUST WE LISTEN TO STRANGEWAYS ONE MORE TIME?!! WHAT ABOUT THE BEATLES?! YOU USED TO LIKE THEM

At the epicentre of this unhealthy obsession, we find Morrissey. A man for whom my love grows greater each and every day. Sporting a quiff, hearing aid and NHS glasses, he's a man who defies all the norms of what is required of a ‘cool’ frontman;  yet these signifiers of the 'anti-cool' are pulled off so impeccably, that he consequently became a style icon like no other. His obsession with the kitchen-sink reality of England, cult film stars and figures from sixties British popular culture influenced much of the visual imagery associated with the band, and made Morrissey an even greater antithesis of the typical frontman.

Amongst the many reasons why he is so worthy of such adoration, is the simple fact that no one else has ever spun lyrics which even vaguely compare to the lines of Morrissey’s crafting.

And the people who are weaker than you or I,

They take what they want from life.

His subject matter, phrasing, depth of suggestion and ability to capture a feeling, thought or emotion effortlessly is unprecedented, and the perfectly balanced dance between wit and darkness is his alone. Not only that, but to have successfully remained an enigma and subject of such intrigue after thirty years in the public eye is an amazing, rare achievement. His decision to give nothing away has made him the most intriguing character; using his time with the press not to hand out every little detail of his life like cheap flyers - as so many do - but to discuss animal rights, condemn the monarchy, highlight the idiocy and irrelevance of politicians, and other such incredibly important things which need to be said by someone in the public eye. Naturally such assertions have also ensured that he's accrued his fair share of haters, but then all the best people are those that piss others off for one reason or another.

No wonder people from every demographic can be found hurling themselves at Morrissey during any live performance, for it does feel like he understands. For every possible occurrence that could happen in life, Morrissey has already written the soundtrack and the lyric that will not only sum up exactly how you feel, but make you feel incredibly grateful to have felt that way; be it good or bad.

If you have never experienced The Smiths fixation, then you would be justified in your confusion over the negative, almost resentful way that I have described it here. But while it can be crippling, intense and socially awkward, it is also wonderful; and comfort can be found in knowing that at the age of 23, I have probably found the best band I will ever hear - and that's okay - because their music is now mine to enjoy, forever.

Here is Panic.

Listen at your peril.

Nostalgic Mumblings of a Homesick Time-Traveller

Whilst finishing up the last few pages of ‘John’ by Cynthia Lennon, the latest in a long line of books that I have read in the hope that people’s words and memories can successfully – if temporarily – transport me back to the glorious 1960s, I reached the conclusion that; I am old. While this may not be true if one is measuring the abstract concept of time in the conventional way, as by that dubious yardstick I would be deemed a mere twenty-three years old, I am talking more in the musical sense.

Nostalgia is a weird, wonderful, troubling and powerful thing, and a curse that I struggle with a lot. There are times where I have found myself almost crippled by the desire to exist at a time when people, society, music and attitudes were more similar to my own interests and ideals. Of course, whether such a time ever really existed is uncertain, and I’m not denying that much of my personal torment has been caused by peering through the glorious rose-tinted glasses of hindsight.

I noted the other day, as I was reading through various definitions and tales of nostalgia in attempt to sooth my own raging bout, that the first synonym that appeared for nostalgic was homesick. I like this. This allows me to believe that I am actually from another time and that I should be turning twenty-four not in 2012, but in 1969, having spent the previous five years of my adult life submerged in the colourful, liberating, experimental and optimistic cultural waves that were crashing around everyone like a tsunami of awakening. However, by some misfortune, I have ended up far away from home in the complicated, digitalised world of the 21^st Century, struggling to find the portal which will deliver me safely back to the part of myself which cavorts and frolics there as we speak.

I’m sure I am not the only one who has been lost to the complex voids of time travel, and if my geographical navigational skills are anything to go by, it is hardly surprising that I find myself so far from home, a bit confused and entirely unsure as to what I came here for in the first place.

There is a great deal of evidence to support the strength of my age-related epiphany, not least to be found in the music that I listen to and repeatedly praise and obsess about on a daily basis. While the majority of my musical intake comes courtesy of a record collection, my hope being that somewhere between the needle and the vinyl there will be room for me to slip back to the homeland, even by other more 21^st Century means of listening to music the majority would be pre-1995. This therefore leads me to believe that I have the listening habits of someone between the ages of thirty-five and seventy.

This is why I feel old before my time. I spend my days thinking to myself that all this popular music is rubbish, just insignificant churning shod; noise pumped out to the useless farting masses. Now, obviously music is subjective, and if it brings joy to people/morons then there's not much I can do about it. I'd never wish shit music didn't exist. It can be a useful tool in determining whether someone is a vibrant, interesting person or y'know; a JLS fan.

Now, obviously I am not saying that good, new music doesn’t exist, and indeed it can be found in abundance if one only looks under the right mossy rock. Nor do I not love many things about my life and the wonderful people I have met here in 2012. Where possible, I deal with my homesickness by spending time with other people who may also feel like they too have been born in a time that is not entirely their own, strong in the knowledge that if we all want it badly enough time can be transcended. Besides, it is only through our acceptance of time as a concrete a notion which suggests that we cannot in fact choose to exist in any moment we so desire. Time is irrelevant after all, not linear.

In the meantime, I continue to submerge myself in words written by those lucky people who know for certain that they existed at the time to which I feel such a connection. Cynthia Lennon, Pamela Des Barres, Patti Boyd, Mick Rock, Pauline Butcher, Nick Kent, Elliot Tiber and Cameron Crowe – thank you for providing the mind raft for such a vivid and sensual journey back through time.

Fortunately for me, alongside the realisation that I am old comes the brilliant awareness that I am also incredibly young. While the homesickness for a previous age lingers within me, rearing its head sometimes more powerfully than others, I am confident that at some point I will find myself back at the moment in which I belong. And in the meantime, I might as well enjoy the holiday for all it’s worth.

A song to transport you...

80s Cool

Pronunciation: /eɪtis kuːl/

Adjective

In reference to something fashionably attractive or impressive within the decade beginning 1^st January 1980 and ending 31^st December 1989 inclusively, or that which exists in a different time but bares many of the same attributes. Commonly judged with a lower expectation of ‘cool’ than that which appears in other decades, however definitely brilliant in its own way.

i.e.           Wow, doesn’t Boy George look so cool in that long t-shirt and waistcoat combo?

I speak about 80s cool in this manner, because it certainly is a thing. Its own thing. A brilliant thing, but a very different thing to the central idea of cool that one draws upon when discussing say, Grace Slick, Nico, Jim Morrison or Brett Anderson. Primarily because they exist outside of the realms of that magical anomaly of a decade.

The brilliant thing about 80s cool is that it had the ability to absorb and overcome even those incredibly cool characters that strutted confidently out of the 70s, calm and unsuspecting of the reinvention that this decade would involuntarily be causing them. I call upon David Bowie as exhibit a) in this argument.

Perhaps the coolest man to ever walk the planet, a pioneer. A man who, by 1979, had securely held the world in his hands for over seven years… whatever he wore, however he cut his hair, whichever style he chose to adopt into his music, the rest would eagerly follow. Sure, it is worth acknowledging that in holding out until 1983, Bowie did stay strong for longer than most, but once the 80s cool had penetrated his Godlike mind, there was simply no turning back.

1983’s Let’s Dance album is great. The title track is incredible, and there are no words to describe how brilliant and fresh it sounds when one has the rare pleasure of hearing it on a night out. However, what makes the album so brilliant as an example of 80s cool is that from the very opening chords of the first track; Modern Love one can initially tell that we are a world (and a decade) away from the effortlessly cool albums such as Station to Station or Low. The Serious Moonlight tour which followed in a whirlwind of inflatable globes and egos, Blues Brothers-esque dancers, confetti and dry ice served as further evidence in the trial of Bowie’s subjection to this powerful disease, and while he certainly was not alone; the effects for the King of Cool were devastating. By 1988 after two disappointing albums and typically 80s style stadium tours, he decided it was a good idea to front a hard rock band called Tin Machine who need no further explanation than what can be deducted from this photograph;

Fortunately for Bowie, once enough time had passed for the 80s to become a shadowy memory, he was once again restored to his pedestal and those who love him dearly began to aggressively repress the knowledge and memories which stem from this dark period.

Meanwhile, the curse affected others in different ways. While some, like Bowie, had already proved themselves and were thus able to easily shake off the virus by the mid-1990s, others owed their entire career and success to riding this wave, and are subsequently doomed to be associated with this phenomenon for as long as the human race survives. Rick Astley, Phil Collins, Adam Ant, Ultravox, Spandau Ballet, Nik Kershaw, Dire Straits, Simple Minds, Duran Duran, Sade, Huey Lewis and The News, Culture Club. I’m looking at you.

It is no coincidence that the majority of the aforementioned crusaders of 80s cool performed at the Live Aid concerts on 13^th July 1985, as this happened in the midst of the decade and as a result, documents all of our favourite 80s cool offenders at the absolute peak of their crimes. A sea of mullets, hoards of backstage cocaine, synthesisers everywhere you look, shoulder pads, back combed hair, bright make-up and a generous helping of Princess Diana – this was 80s excess at its best. With his bid to raise money for Ethiopian famine, Bob Geldof not only managed to raise £150 million, but he also facilitated the most accurate and detailed documentary proof of the 80s cool epidemic that was sweeping mercilessly across western culture.

In reeling off a list of those characters who I consider innately woven into the fabric of the 80s cool phenomenon, I in no way mean to imply that this is necessarily a bad thing. For example; Duran Duran, Dire Straits and Spandau Ballet are all brilliant and still heavily featured and loved over twenty years since the end of the decade to which they owe so much. I say owe, because while these three bands in particular are amazing, they are undeniably a product of their time, and would have certainly never reached the dizzying heights that they did were it not for the 80s backdrop – a time when the parameters of what is considered cool were very much off kilter.

By the very nature of this decade, even arguably the coolest band of the time were by all other standards, pretty uncool. Their frontman - a tee-total, celibate, vegetarian – hardly evokes images of a tortured soul of rock n’ roll excess, which had previously provided the blueprint for what is deemed cool within the music industry. How typical of this decade that it’s coolest musical output should be so far removed from what every other generation has considered the height of cool. The genius of The Smith’s music however, is certainly not capped by the potential of its inhabited decade, as it still stands as incredible and defiant over much of the music made before or since. Not only that, but in causing people to completely rethink the guitar as an instrument for understated yet beautiful expression, Johnny Marr successfully paved the way for the Britpop explosion of 1990s (an entire movement dedicated to cool Britannia) and provided the guidelines for what we now know as indie music.

The Smiths ability to stand out from the rest of the 80s offerings as something other was no coincidence. Their deviation away from pomp and excess, both in terms of music, behaviour and image, was all part of Morrissey’s plan from the get-go. The name The Smiths was intentionally as far removed from the likes of Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark or Spandau Ballet as conceivably possible, both of which the frontman considered insanely pretentious. Meanwhile, the plain clothes and signature quiff haircut offered a stark visual contrast to the extravagant high-fashion of the new romantics that they so desperately wanted to distance themselves from.

While 80s nostalgia lives on and fond glances are cast back to a time when bright colours and excess became the new beige, one cannot help but be thankful that decades and the trends which define them are confined to the obligatory ten years. Eventually we found ourselves out the other side, riding the wave of The Stone Roses’ 1989 release into an era where the style/substance balance would be re-established and affordable pills and stripped-down music brought satisfaction to youth culture in a way that high-priced cocaine and shoulder pads never could.

The 80s provided lots of great music; that is undeniable. I would hate not to mention The Cure, or indeed to overlook the entire fascinating movement of dark synth and gothic to which we owe so much wonderful music. The very nature of the outlandish decade meant that extremes never seemed that extreme, and the ability to shock with appearance was greatly reduced. The Cure are yet another band that greatly owe the success of their image to the time in which they lived; for in what other decade would a chubby goth in big white trainers be placed at the height of cool? A justified question, yet in it’s very asking, serves to demonstrate exactly what made the 80s such a fantastic decade.

Cover Songs : Walking The Tightrope

A song is anything that can walk by itself – Bob Dylan

In order to create a good song, a song that connects with others and somehow manages to tap into the common consciousness of a moment and become worthy of adoption by the populace as a theme tune to their lives, it is usually necessary for the songwriter to give a little of their soul to the cause. In writing a song, the writer is offering the chance for others to have a small window into their innermost core, they are laying themselves bare for scrutiny, for rejection, and making a gamble as to whether others can tap into whatever emotion they have chosen to make public.

As a result of all these factors and emotional investments, the act of covering someone else’s song is therefore something that should not be taken lightly, and goes a little way to explaining why cover versions can often sound cheap and lifeless. It is one thing for an artist or band to take a song and inject their own twist on the emotions and words originally presented, bringing to the table a whole new wealth of experience and delivering the piece and it’s history to a whole new genre and audience, but when we see (as we so often do), songs which are covered purely for financial gain and an easy ‘hit’, it is somewhat disheartening to see someone’s personal efforts cheapened and churned out like a soulless business transaction. You can almost picture the sterile business meeting that has occurred among the big-wigs of the record label, propositioning a new talentless artist with a masterpiece of yesteryear with little or no regard for the piece of art as personal property, no consideration for the life events, emotions or people who played a part in the original inspiration of the song. No thought for the moment in time where those words and ideas were first scratched upon paper and set free like a caged bird to find their own way in the world.

Putting a song out there for public consumption must be a great yet terrifying act of faith, and in doing so one must hope that their brainchild is treated with respect. It is a shame therefore, that often the songwriter loses all ownership of their work and it is often down to the people in suits to decide where, and being sung from whose mouths, these fragments of themselves will end up.

With these thoughts in mind, I have been compiling a list of cover versions which I believe do the original songs (and their writers) justice, and others for which the motives and the finished piece sound more as though they have taken a piece of genius and aggressively stamped all over it, reducing it to a mere one-dimensional version of it’s original self. However, that is not to say that a cover version does not have the potential to completely outshine the original and provide it with something that it was previously lacking, as though the second set of hands it falls into are able to have a strange insight into what the original required in order to take it to a whole new level. On these occasions, it is as though a number of factors have been brought into perfect alignment, serving to demonstrate a global level of understanding between human beings; that people from different eras and backgrounds can somehow work together to make something incredible.

Below I give mention to six songs; three of them being brilliant covers, and three not so great. In compiling this collection I was pleasantly surprised to note that I found it much easier to think of the positive examples (possibly due to the choice to ignore anything related to the X Factor as they are too big an offender to even begin discussing, or because one probably represses the memory of hearing a song they know and love being absolutely disrespected). Also, it is worth mentioning that while Bob Dylan’s work does not appear in this list, his incredible song writing has ensured for a number of brilliant (and not so) covers over the last forty years, however it is simply that there is not one song in particular that I could decide upon to discuss below.

Three brilliant cover versions;

Placebo – Running Up That Hill (Kate Bush)

As one notes when observing a great songwriter like Kate Bush, the potential for a brilliant cover version is already heightened due to the quality and malleability of the original piece. Placebo’s version of Running Up That Hill is incredible, adding a whole new dark and brooding twist to the song, with Brian Molko’s delivery of the line ‘make a deal with God’ sounding more like he is making a pact with the devil. The thunderous electrical take on the piano and drums ensure this cover sounds a lot more downbeat than the original, a lot more pained, as though a fresh input of suffering is being filtered through each and every note in the struggle to understand the person that the protagonist has fallen in love with, but the fact that they are of a different gender makes this empathy so difficult.

The White Stripes – Jolene (Dolly Parton)

It is always great when a cover version completely surpasses its original genre, as this is the most likely way for a song to reach an entirely new audience. The White Stripes are quite the masters at the art of brilliant cover versions, partly due to the respect with which they treat the original, and because of Jack White’s desire to nod to various influences in a respectful manner. It is always amazing when a cover manages to bring light and excitement to a song which perhaps, would have otherwise gone unappreciated by many people due to the nature and genre of the original. What The White Stripes have achieved here, is getting a new generation of music lovers singing a country song from 1974 at the top of their lungs, indulging in the heartfelt pain of a wife singing to her husband’s mistress not to steal him from her.

Johnny Cash – Hurt (Nine Inch Nails)

Johnny Cash’s take on the 1995 song by Nine Inch Nails has got to be one of the finest examples of how songs have the potential to be approached from an entirely different angle, thus giving the words and sentiments entirely new perspective and meaning. For example, hearing the words “I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel”, sung by a thirty year old has an incredibly different effect than by a man of seventy one with severe health problems and – in hindsight – only several months to live. The power and emotion behind Johnny Cash’s performance in this song is so potent it can reduce you to tears; the fact that he wasn’t the one to actually write the words seems entirely irrelevant, for what he brings to the table is so much more. The great genius of this song also lies in the fact it was somewhat unknown in its original state, particularly in the UK, and Johnny Cash has taken what was otherwise a far from outstanding song and made it into four minutes of utter magic, and an ode to the vulnerability and mortality of human existence.

(During the research for this piece I also discovered that Leona Lewis recorded a cover of this song in a vain attempt at Christmas number one last year. While I hope I never hear it, this goes to demonstrate the thoughtlessness and lack of respect that can so often exist when it comes to selecting a song to cover. What on earth could a twenty-six year old who’s been handed the world on a plate ever bring to this song?)

Three questionable cover versions;

Mark Ronson ft. Daniel Merriweather – Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before (The Smiths)

An incredibly insulting cover, particularly when one considers that Daniel Merriweather is on record as saying he was entirely unfamiliar with the original song and that he was ‘never a Smiths fan’; so why does he feel he has the right to ruin it for everyone else? A prime example of a song which has been covered, and in the act of doing so, any emotion or weight that the original carried has been duly compressed into a flat piece of ‘sound’ for consumption by the iTunes generation. The concept of bringing disco vibes to a song by The Smiths should surely have been shot down at the first hurdle (and as I have mentioned before, a change of genre is brilliant when covering…if it works, which this explicitly does not). One must surely hope that if Morrissey had been given any say in the matter, he would have prevented it from happening and released a tirade of insults on Mark Ronson and his one-man quest to cover every song ever written (on the subject of which, what was Valerie all about? It wasn’t even a good song in the first place).

David Bowie – Across The Universe (The Beatles)

Perhaps an odd choice, but I chose this example because it demonstrates how, even when a number of great things come together on paper and it looks as though something good could come of it, the reality is often very different. Now you could argue that the fault here lies in an attempt of covering a song by The Beatles (which is obviously never a good idea), however as a huge fan of both them and David Bowie, upon first sitting down to listen to this song I was guilty of anticipating something wonderful - particularly when one considers John Lennon is actually featured on Bowie’s version, and it was done entirely with his blessing. However, what ensues is actually an absolute atrocity, and I warn you now; never listen to this version. Much to my dismay, it not only provides an incredibly unpleasant listening experience, but it has also ruined the original for me. The effects are that far-reaching. It’s hard to put one’s finger on exactly what is so offensive about this song, but what it does demonstrate is that the volatile nature of covering another man’s art means that some kind of unfathomable alignment needs to occur for it to pay off, and even when every other factor is seemingly in place, success is far from guaranteed.

Ed Sheeran – Skinny Love (Bon Iver)

Now, without this blog turning into a hate campaign against Ed Sheeran, I simply had to include this example as it best represents the crime of covering another’s song but leaving absolutely no trace or stamp of personality on it, thus rendering the whole experience utterly pointless. Therefore, what Ed Sheeran has chosen to do with his cover, is inflict a lot of unpleasantness on others for no real purpose. Bon Iver’s original from 2007 is a truly magical song, and it is incredibly insulting to hear Ed Sheeran dilute it to a level of disposable trash, with the usual jerky guitar and croaky voice that we have heard a million times from his like before.

One of the cover songs’ most wonderful qualities is also its downfall. While, when done correctly, a cover version could inspire the listener to hunt down the original and thus open the possibility of discovering a new band, artist or album that they would have otherwise been unaware of, they also have the ability to lead people to believe the version they hear is the only one in existence. Imagine a whole new generation being brought up to think that Hallelujah is a song by Alexandra Burke. I just hope that any one with a vague amount of interest in music will have done their homework and learnt that such things are simply untrue.

To return to the Bob Dylan quote at the beginning of this entry; “a song is anything that can walk by itself”, this illustrates that a good song has the power to head out into the world and carve it’s own journey, have it’s own experiences and take on a life of it’s own apart from that of the original creator. I believe that good songs are not written, but they are given as a gift to the songwriter, that the person in question was at the right place at the right time and were subsequently able to channel something from the universe in order to convert an emotion or experience into musical format. While this maybe an incredibly romanticised way to view the whole thing, it does mean that anyone who chooses to cover a song should not take the decision lightly for it is a huge responsibility, and to abuse the song’s trust is simply criminal.

Here is Johnny Cash with Hurt: 

Inspiration Needed.

With no new music or exciting happenings in the music world of late, it has been difficult to muster an interesting new topic to mumble on about. I’m aware that it would be incredibly dull to repeatedly harp on about the joys of losing oneself in an ever-expanding vinyl collection, or to talk about how great ‘Abbey Road’ sounds through the needle of a record player; as everyone knows this already.

To see the back of 2011, on a musical level, is no bad thing. The Brit Awards ceremony – which is coming up over the next month – is a painful reminder of exactly how little this year had to offer us in the creative stakes. Once at the forefront of exciting new music; supporting emerging bands and seizing the opportunity to promote a musical movement from the get-go, The Brits are now as beige as the musical landscape that Adele and Ed Sheeran so drearily cast with their every note. While this year sees Noel Gallagher and Blur return to the stage, their presence merely helps to highlight that we are no longer in the creative golden age that they were once a part of. In the 1990s alone, The Brit Awards offered such memorable moments as Jarvis Cocker vs. Michael Jackson, Brett Anderson’s effeminate swagger into the imagination of the nation, not to mention Geri Halliwell in that dress. So then why is it there's not a single memorable or scandalous tale surrounding the whole event in the last ten years? Surely accruing all of our musical talent – rock star egos and drug addictions included – into one big room together is enough to cause some kind of outrageous outcome? Or perhaps the slow roll of the tumbleweed speaks more evidently of the unimaginative, in-bed-before-10pm nature of our successful musicians today.

The Horrors album ‘Skying’ seems to offer the only promising glimmer of hope in terms of the output of new young bands (however, I use the term ‘new’ loosely, due to this being their third release – but with little else currently emerging they are comparatively fresh, with everyone else of note having been around for at least ten years now). The Horrors’ throwback to a cobweb infested corner of the 80s reminds us of a time when musicians actually had personality and more interesting topics to sing about than lego or pavements.

Ed Sheeran : The face of new music?

While one despairs at the lack of music shows on television in 2012, or perhaps more upsettingly – an absence of demand for them – it remains to be asked how exactly we would fill a thirty minute episode of Top of the Pops each week, if that was even a possibility. Short of giving David Guetta a guest DJ spot or having Lady Gaga and Rihanna’s videos on constant loop, I don’t think there would be a lot else on offer. Resultantly, nostalgia for the Top of the Pops of yesteryear, along with The Tube and The Old Grey Whistle Test now cuts deeper than ever… a longing for a time when there was an actual vested interest in new music and fresh talent, and people yearned to see a more personal side to their idols than what can be read in a ten minute scan of Wikipedia. At least Jools Holland does his bit with the only credible music show on television; the performances on which are often truly breath-taking; but destined to forever take the graveyard shift on BBC2, it is never going to recapture the lost audience of the Friday at 7.30pm slot.

To further fuel the fire of musical depreciation, whilst spending a brief ten minutes in Topshop yesterday, I noticed that they are currently selling a big grey jumper with the ‘Abbey Road’ cover photo printed on to the front. This angers me, in much the same way as it does to see David Bowie or Bob Dylan’s most ‘career defining’ image printed across cheap cotton and being sold by highstreet chains to an audience who probably know nothing about said artists, but just wish to appear as the more interesting one at a party who really ‘digs music’. Such statements I say with confidence, as I know full well that anyone who was truly a fan of their music would avoid these garments by a country mile.

Meanwhile, the festival headliners circuit is restricted to a select ten bands or so who find themselves on heavy rotation across the multitude of festivals that now lace our summer months. While great and financially rewarding for those bands who have reached the inner loop, it does mean a bit of a drag for anyone who chooses to go to more than one festival per season, and begs the question as to how or when any new bands will find themselves ascending far enough up the ranks to be deemed worthy of entering this honorary club of untouchables. By the age of twenty-three, I presumed I would be watching on as my peers were the ones taking the musical world by storm, headlining festivals and leading a new hype or movement within the business, however it is now incredibly rare for anyone under the age of thirty, or any band who has been around for less than ten years, to really cause a stir in what has now become a largely middle-aged business.

One thing is for sure; at a time when society is in turmoil and creativity finds itself suffering a devastating drought, nostalgia’s hypnotic lure is at its most powerful. While a longing for the 60s and 70s has for a long time been prevalent, in 2012 one even looks back on the contagious vigour and comparative optimism of the 1990s as something incredibly enviable. Watching Pulp’s energetic performance of Common People on Top of the Pops from 1995, it is hard not to wish that we could be back there, when the Britpop movement was instilling a sense of national pride and there was a widespread belief within youth culture that we were on the brink of once again ruling the world in a contemporary reworking of the 60s British invasion.

To further demonstrate this point, HMV have recently announced that while they are enduring losses in the sale of new music and DVDs, they will now be placing a heavier focus on stocking a wider variety of vinyl across many of their stores, as this is now the medium that people are choosing to spend their money on in an attempt to recapture the magic of the bygone era that vinyl so wonderfully provided the soundtrack to.

I am aware that this entry has been particularly scornful and perhaps places a little too much emphasis on negative aspects of the music industry; it is purely because I find the present state of affairs to be so damn frustrating. Perhaps the most irritating thing of all, is that when someone exciting or genuinely unique does emerge on the scene, appreciation for them is somewhat non-existent as the public now are more eager to spend their money on sampled, generic dance tunes which seem to tick a box on first listen and don’t ask any more of their audience. The zest for music or something new and stimulating to treat our ears and minds with, was clearly lacking in 2011, and all I can hope for is that once we’ve got the bitter reminder that is the Brit Awards out of the way, 2012 can get busy with producing something for young people in Britain to actually get excited about. And maybe then, I can stop with the bitchin’ blog posts.

Here is Jarvis Cocker sorting it out for a generation of hungry music fans in 1995, when people actually used to care :

The U2 Debate.

It’s no secret that a conscience can sometimes be a pest,

It’s no secret ambition bites the nails of success.

Every artist is a cannibal; every poet is a thief,

All kill their inspiration and sing about the grief.

The issue of what a band should do when they have been together for over thirty years is a relatively new one. With the music industry - as we know it - only having been around for about sixty, there are very few who have yet reached the monumental landmark of being in a band together for such a long period. 2012 marks the fiftieth anniversary of The Rolling Stones, and the only question is surely; is this really a reason to celebrate? Of course it provides the perfect opportunity for yet another worldwide stadium tour where the same hits get churned out from the skeletal horrorshow that the band have become; selling their souls and their grace in exchange for millions of dollars and the ego boost that comes from thousands of people screaming your name each night. But this isn’t what it’s all about. It would seem that what ex-NME journalist Nick Kent suggests in his book ‘Apathy for the Devil’ – that The Rolling Stones were widely believed to be washed up and on the wrong side of their best work by 1972 – has proven true. Yet, here we are forty years later still watching the soulless puppet show push on through, fully aware that Keith Richards and Mick Jagger despise each other to their very core, that the words they sing and the notes they play no longer ring true and that the band and fans alike would really be a lot happier if this pretence would stop and we could listen to Sticky Fingers with a wonderful, untarnished mental image of The Rolling Stones in their prime.

U2 are perhaps the only other band who fall into this bracket who are on a par with The Stones in terms of global superstardom and the ability to still sell out stadiums in the blink of an eye, but they themselves actually hold the feat of remaining together for almost thirty-five years without a single line-up change or any periods of band hiatus. Now, it would be easy for me to take a few punches at U2 – indeed, the majority of what I have just discussed about The Rolling Stones could be effectively applied to their Irish market shareholders – however, that is not what I wish to do in this blog. While there are many questions to be raised regarding why something other than artistic drive could persuade a band to continue beyond a point where they offer the music world anything worthwhile, my main concern today lies with the damaging and resounding effect that a band can have over their own name as a consequence of providing a new generation with incredibly average material. By making music of a low calibre, a new audience who are unfamiliar with previous releases will be quick to judge a band’s merit on their latest offering, and uninspired to delve into their back catalogue, the band will be forever dismissed as irrelevant. This kind of self-slander is destructive and painful to observe and it brings me to the point that I wish to make; I do not want people to judge U2 on Elevation, Get On Your Boots, Beautiful Day or any of the other songs or albums that have frequented our airways in the last ten years or so. Nor do I want people to take one look at the millionaire cardboard cut-out version of Bono that has existed since about 1997, shaking hands with presidents and rubbing shoulders with political scum.

I want you to know how incredible U2 once were. And I want you to read on objectively.

In my opinion, there are three great albums to be taken from U2’s vast back catalogue, and by great I mean they each stand alone as incredibly powerful albums that should make any all-time-best list and make any output by the likes of Coldplay – to whom they are so readily compared – look utterly amateur. It is bizarre now to see U2’s music written off as stagnant and repetitive, when with each new studio album from 1980-2000 (that’s ten in all), they completely reinvented their sound and ambitiously swung in a variety of diverse musical directions, not afraid to alienate their fan base to achieve artistic satisfaction.

War (1983), The Joshua Tree (1987) and Achtung Baby (1991) are the big three that I would urge anyone to listen to before feeling that it’s their birthright to slag off U2 for being the cartoon band that they have now become. Each one representing the band at a completely different stage in their development, and being worthy of objective acknowledgement for what they were trying to say at the moments they were made respectively. War in particular is an incredibly ballsy album; starting hard with a martial drum roll and high pitched squeal, it's clear this album means business right from the start. The message of the song is apparent from the get go as Bono croons and then pleads into the microphone;

I can't believe the news today,

I can't close my eyes and make it go away.

How long, how long must we sing this song?

Tonight, we can be as one tonight.

It quickly goes on to describe the horrors of war and violence against innocent people in no uncertain terms, and the band goes about such business with uniform authority, knowing exactly what the song needs and how to deliver it. Sunday Bloody Sunday was a bold political statement at the time it was written, and it delivered a universal message of refusing to sit back and take such mindless violence whilst also being layered with a hope for the future. It is perhaps one of the best openings any rock album has ever had, as it grabs the listener from the start and prepares them for what’s to come. Coming in at number 221 on Rolling Stone Magazine’s ‘Top 500 Albums Of All Time’ list, U2's War is as almost perfect a balance of politics, blind faith, hopeless love, and ringing guitars as you will likely find recorded over the last twenty-eight years since it's release. The band would change direction after this album and never really look back. It was an album of the moment, yet timeless at the same time. And for U2, it was a bold statement that set them on the path they were looking for.

I feel that less needs to be said about The Joshua Tree due to the fact that it is already widely regarded and plugged as their seminal album, however my point with this particular release is that the greatness lies in the songs which are not featured on the numerous greatest hits packages that Island Records have put out over the years. Running To Stand Still in particular is an emotive masterpiece, drawing from the influence of American music and culture that is so explicit throughout the album, the song considers the constraints placed upon one’s life in the throes of heroin addiction and documents the activity and emotions of a couple who have ended up in a dark and painful place as a result of bad choices and a lack of options offered to them by society.

Sweet the sin
Bitter taste in my mouth,
I see seven towers
But I only see one way out.
You got to cry without weeping,
Talk without speaking,
Scream without raising your voice.
You know I took the poison,
From the poison stream,
Then I floated out of here.

As the 1980s drew to a close, we saw the first instance of U2 doing what they are now deemed old-hands at; taking themselves too seriously. With the release of their 1988 album and concert film of the same name; Rattle and Hum, U2 sought to further portray their growing obsession with American music through the incorporation of blues-rock and gospel into their sound. Aware that they might have been dragging themselves into the dangerous realms of self-importance and stung by the subsequent backlash from critics and fans alike, the dawn of the 1990s marked a new era for U2, and they began by taking a leaf out of the master of reinvention’s book – David Bowie – and upping sticks to Berlin to record an album under the experimental production of Brian Eno. The result; Achtung Baby is a brilliant and dark parody on rock stardom.

Embodying an entirely different sound from anything we had heard from the band before, the fusion of heavy rock with electronic elements served as a powerful demonstration that successful reinvention is definitely possible. Adopting the persona of ‘The Fly’ – a stereotypical, egotistical rock star who has seen one to many excesses and who has truly started to believe his own hype, Bono could be seen on the accompanying Zoo TV tour strutting the stage in head-to-toe leather and, for the first time, adorning the wraparound shades that he has not been keen to remove in the twenty years since. The incredible depth and texture that one enjoys during a listen of Achtung Baby is rarely paralleled; each song hugely inept at creating a particular mood and highlighting the many cracks which can appear in the mask of a troubled rock star. To create an album like this some twelve years into a band’s existence is remarkable, and as Bono describes it best; “[Achtung Baby is] the sound of four men chopping down The Joshua Tree” and boy, does it sound fantastic.

Coming off the back of a hugely successful and band-defining album like The Joshua Tree, then choosing to take that winning formula and completely twist it round is representative of the great courage that U2 possessed throughout the first twenty years of their time together, and therefore makes it all the more disheartening to see them looked down upon as the stale entity that they are so often viewed as today. Following Achtung Baby, the 90s saw them become even more experimental and unpredictable with 1993’s techno attack on media-over saturation Zooropa, followed by 1997’s Pop – in which the band delved further into the realm of electronica and alternative-rock. It wasn’t until 2000’s All That You Can’t Leave Behind that U2 seemed to finally settle on a sound that they have stuck with ever since; a more conventional and easy-listening take which has subsequently earned them their place in music-for-Dad’s territory.

Who knows whether it would be possible or enjoyable for a band to continue to experiment and produce groundbreaking music beyond their twentieth anniversary. The relatively young age of our music industry is yet to prove it so, however something it has repeatedly taught us is that artists make their most interesting and resounding work before the age of forty – thus making this a brilliant age for one to step aside from the mainstream music arena. Sure, make arty albums that satisfy artistic desires and tour small to medium sized venues with a stripped down approach in order to reacquire a loss intimacy with fans, but do not continue to regurgitate the same songs that you were singing in a town hall at the age of eighteen and pretend that the passion is still there.

Having seen U2 perform live on four occasions between 2001 and 2011, I must say that what I have witnessed is a gradual decline in enthusiasm for the task in hand. The first show that I was in attendance at on 14^th August 2001 at Birmingham’s NEC arena can be described as nothing other than mind-blowing. The performance that they gave that night was every bit as mesmerising and powerful as the footage I had spent hours pouring over from their shows in the 1980s. Full of energy, emotion and an aura of charisma from Bono which left me feeling as though my soul had been wrenched out of me and wrung out in front of my eyes, it was that moment that truly convinced me that music is one of, if not the, most powerful force of love and connection amongst fellow human beings that we have at our disposal. However, the following three shows; 2005, 2009 and then their Glastonbury performance earlier this year, have continued to reaffirm to me that the easiest way to lose one’s musical credibility is to take everything that was once fantastic about your band; and shit all over it. A lack of energy on stage, a vacant look in the eyes, the laborious delivery of a machine that has made the same movements one too many times - the past three occasions I have witnessed them have left me feeling empty and disappointed. Often overshadowed by huge set designs - which are ultimately a transparent attempt at driving attention away from the band I have paid so much to see - it has become a case of style over substance. And everyone knows U2 were never really up there in the style stakes.

That is all I wish to say on their decline, as I wish to reinforce my primary aim of urging everyone to look beyond the image of U2 that is held in 2011, and to delve back to a time when Bono was a young, politically radical and passionate individual who wanted to change the world through the power of brilliant music. Having witnessed a disappointing performance at Glastonbury this year, I finally decided that I am no longer going to chase the shadow of a once great band or open myself up to their self-slander, but enjoy the many moments of brilliance that they have already provided, and believe me – there is certainly enough of those to be getting on with.

Below I have included three videos of U2, one song from each of the three albums I consider their most noteworthy. The first two are live performances, as this is undeniably where their strength lay at the time, and where their passion and talent really shines through most effectively. As to whether Bono has done too much damage to his own image so to render them irredeemable by many remains to be seen, however in the meantime; do come back with me to a time where their music did the talking and their title as the ‘biggest band in the world’ was truly deserved.

U2 - Sunday Bloody Sunday

War, 1983

U2 - Running To Stand Still

The Joshua Tree, 1987

U2 - The Fly

Achtung Baby, 1991

Suede : A Musical Obsession.

If you have ever found yourself under the mesmerising spell of an artist or band; caught in a limbo world where no other music but that of said musicians is of any interest to you, where you can think of no better way to spend your time than pouring through as many interviews and trivia bites as you can feast your eyes on, flicking through youtube videos and absorbing all such information with as much ease as a newly purchased sponge, then I look to you for understanding and empathy; as this is exactly how I feel about Suede right now.

It hits you almost like a fever; unexpected and unexplainable in its approach, you just wake up one day and find that it has wrapped its merciless fingers around your whole body, and there is little you can do but ride the wave to its natural conclusion. As an obsessive with an obsession for music, this is a pattern that I have dealt with on several occasions before, however there is no telling for how long I will be inflicted with a disease which has seen my requirements for oxygen usurped by the need to hear Dog Man Star on indefinite repeat.

Anyone who has ridden the musical fixation rollercoaster can tell you that, despite its ability to overrule all rational thought, and overspill into various aspects of your life – it is not an unpleasant experience; in fact it is an absolutely fantastic feeling, of which every second is rich with appreciation. Music never sounds as good as when you are in the throes of irrational obsession, and you can wave goodbye to any difficult decisions regarding what to listen to on your ipod, or indeed; what to write about on your blog.

Perhaps at this point I should address the band over which I am so shamelessly gushing, and in doing so, acknowledge how unlikely and random a candidate they really are, however I struggle to know where to begin with Suede. Victims of a bizarre and unjust turn of events, whereby they were seemingly ousted from the Britpop movement for not complying to the laddish, boozing, fake-working-class checklist, despite the fact that they themselves kick-started the subgenre, but in turn expressed no desire to be associated with what it went on to embody. The hype surrounding Suede’s emergence in 1992 was truly extensive, with Melody Maker proudly adorning their front cover with the words “Suede: the best new band in Britain” and the following year, the Brit Awards shuffled around their schedule in order to afford them a last-minute slot at the ceremony as a direct response to pressures from the music press – all before an album had even been released. With so much hype surrounding them, it would have been easy to disappoint or fall victim to overzealous critics, however their first self-titled album was an enormous critical and commercial success subsequently earning them a Mercury Music Prize in 1993, and then leading on to record – what I believe to be their true masterpiece – Dog Man Star in 1994. Despite a string of increasingly commercially successful albums throughout the 1990s before disbanding in 2003, Suede are rarely remembered and seldom played in 2011. This is a great shame, as they are truly brilliant and arguably the best and most interesting band of the 1990s – an achievement for which I hold their astoundingly fascinating frontman mainly accountable.

One look at Brett Anderson’s erotically charged, androgynous stage persona will quickly answer questions regarding why they didn’t fit in well with the overtly laddish overtones of peers such as Liam Gallagher and Damon Alburn. Incredibly charismatic and instantly fascinating, Anderson can be seen strutting the stage with a stereotypical feminine haircut, big silver hoops through his ears and a black lace top tied loosely around his slim and hairless torso, singing lines such as 'I want the style of a woman, the kiss of a man'; he certainly cuts a striking and controversial image. However, this is most effective due to the way in which Anderson conducts his androgyny; with such self-assurance and masculine gusto, proudly stalking the stage in the knowledge that he is twice the man that any jean-wearing guy swigging beer at a football match could ever be. It is no wonder that he managed to ruffle a few feathers in a time where shell-suits reigned supreme, and American grunge was topping the charts. While Suede’s absence from the common consciousness of today is a shame in part, I am not sorry that their songs haven’t received The Universal or Wonderwall treatment, and that their music can be enjoyed without being tarnished by advertising campaigns or being strummed by incompetent guitar players in parks and festivals across the country.

I would recommend the album Dog Man Star to anyone, as it really is a five-star album that can be enjoyed perfectly from start to finish. While Suede may not have been flying the flag for British optimism, Anderson’s observations of suburbia are accurate and representative of a generation who came of age during the perilous 1980s, delivered via his impressive and instantly recognisable vocals. Introducing The Band, New Generation and Black or Blue are particularly good at summing up the feelings of British disillusionment that Britpop was soon to gloss over with the resounding opening chords of Blur’s Parklife.

So I will continue to ride out my obsession with all things Suede and Brett Anderson, even to the extent of finding myself shaving the hair on the right side of my head in an attempt to adopt some of the latter into some visual aspects of my life, as well as having him provide the audio soundtrack to my every move. Their performance of Animal Nitrate at the Brit Awards in 1993 is one that I keep going back to, and something that I suggest you check out if you are at all interested in what it is that has sparked such infatuation with the band and their music. I have included it below, but be warned; musical obsession is contagious. 

Style & Substance : Do Our Rock Stars Need Both?

Having been together - in one version or another - for over twenty eight years, and in that time selling over 70 million albums, it would be unfair and wrong to argue that an artist or band is unable to fully ascend into the realm of mega-stardom without having a strong, stylish and easily recognisable image to accompany their musical talent; as the Red Hot Chili Peppers demonstrate perfectly. Sure, you can’t hear the thundering rhythm of Flea’s bass, Anthony Kiedis’s punching vocals or the screams of [now ex-guitarist] John Frusciante’s emotionally charged guitar through a poster, but this hasn’t stopped millions of fans across the world from hanging their stylistically challenged funk-rock heroes proudly on their bedroom wall.

Such facts and figures go a long way to proving that appearance really isn’t everything in this image obsessed world of ours - which is obviously a wonderful thing - however as a harmless observation, it is amusing to note that the Red Hot Chili’s uncomplimentary mish-mash of style has seemingly passed under the radar (but just as tellingly; nor has it spawned an army of clones among their vast fan base).

I was reminded of their aesthetic downfall recently when watching the music video for the song Dani California, the concept of which is actually very entertaining – or would be – were it not for the fact it serves only to highlight their own shortfalls. The video itself is a nod to the evolution of rock music; the band is performing the single on a stage while embodying a variety of iconic images which represent important figures or eras in the history of rock music. Recognisable characters include David Bowie, Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, Johnny Rotten, The Misfits and The Beatles; each being easily recognisable due to their association with a powerful image which instantly triggers recollection of the person or band without need for a musical accompaniment. In creating a video of this nature, the Red Hot Chili Peppers chose to draw all the focus onto the one thing that they themselves do not possess; a strong and recognisable image, or indeed any style at all. This becomes most apparent at the conclusion of the video, when the bold and striking adopted facades of previous icons are stripped away, leaving the band looking as lost and unidentifiable in their own clothes as attendees of a year 7 non-uniform day.

While they are clearly all fascinating and hugely talented people with extraordinary life experiences behind them – as a read of Anthony Kiedis’s autobiography Scar Tissue will confirm – I find it is hard to fully give oneself over to a band whose forty-nine year old singer scales the stage in black fingerless gloves adorned with safety pins, while his huge muscular, tattooed bulk of a torso fights its way out of red cut-off combat trousers. To his left can be found the man-boy that is Flea, often seen in a full-body skeleton outfit, as if to throw their collective appearance off kilter and confuse even further. On drums, we have Mr America, aka Chad Smith – looking like the spitting image of Will Ferrell and usually dressed in a sleeveless blue denim boiler suit, complete with baseball cap and a motorcycle loving, basketball supporting, can-we-just-finish-the-show-so-I-can-grab-a-beer-and-some-nuts demeanour. Then to come round in full circle, on stage left [no longer] stands John Frusciante – easily the coolest member of the group in terms of effortless style, he embodied a casual grunge fan’s aesthetic, often with long unkept hair and chequered shirts. His look could have worked well, were it not for the bizarre contrast it created between him and his bandmates.

Taking such deficits into account, it is really not surprising that in their youth the Red Hot Chili Peppers often used to take to the stage naked (or wearing a singular gym sock to hide their dignity), as at least this would provide a more collective image and remove any confusion regarding their abomination of styles.

The relationship between style and substance has been a recurring theme throughout the history of rock music. While some bands or artists effortlessly strut the tightrope, maintaining just the right level of each and in such a way that it comes across as the most natural thing in the world, others seem to struggle with their balance – occasionally over compensating in style and subsequently placing their musical output in second place. I wish to raise American rock band KISS as exhibit 'a' in this argument. Perhaps the only band whose likeness could be recognised world over, but in 99% of cases, not a single song from their twenty studio album back catalogue can be recounted. A serious case of style over substance certainly, and I’m using style in the loosest possible sense of the word. The New York Dolls are perhaps another band which falls firmly into this category. While their musical style may have paved the way for the punk invasion, (a movement born from the very notion that having something to say against the establishment was far more important than any musical ability) their main achievement was successfully setting the visual trend for new wave and glam metal which would take the music world by storm ten years later in the 1980s, when everyone would be attempting to imitate their flamboyant clothes and pretty-boy, androgynous appearance.

 

Throughout the history of music, we have seen many different struggles and various outcomes in the battle for style and substance. There are even bands that have held both in the palm of their hand for a time, for example; Kings of Leon. Having emerged in 1999 with a rugged, mysterious and intriguing appearance and an easily recognisable, individual sound to boot, within ten years they had sold out on both; their closely-shaven generic faces producing even more generic music to be played on repeat within every generic bar and club the world over. A sad thing to witness from a band that initially had such a buzz of promise and excitement surrounding them. Another potential outcome to be aware of; and one that should be avoided at all costs, is that one’s look could go a little too far into the realm of individual style and join the ranks of Cher, Freddie Mercury, Elvis and Slash in becoming a gimmick; the subject of countless poor fancy-dress attempts and tribute acts in a bizarre and surreal turn of events which must be akin to watching what was once your own style, growing it’s own legs and running off to join the circus. It is arguable as to whether this is better or worse than having no style at all – Travis, Stereophonics, Elbow; I’m looking at you.

In making such observations, I am not pushing for a music industry that is more centred around style and vanity than it already is – as indeed, these things cannot be forced anyway. I also wish to highlight that in talking about style, I am by no means referring to physical appearance, as this is a different kettle of fish all together and particularly irrelevant in the musical sphere where talent and charisma can transform anyone into the most sexually enthralling person in the world. I’m talking about a general aura of style and cool that some people are bestowed with, and others unexplainably lack. The Red Hot Chili Peppers are a fine example of a band which hasn’t needed four incredibly cool members in order to propel them forth, as their music has done that for them. But it is worth questioning whether artists that possess both style and substance have more power at their finger tips, and will have more to say in the bigger picture of musical history. For example, at the mention of The Velvet Underground, David Bowie, Jarvis Cocker and Annie Lennox, one’s head is not only filled with a compilation of incredible songs and the sound of their respective voices, but a visual representation is also conjured, and when done properly – like in the cases of those mentioned above – the line between their visual and musical legacies become blurred due to their impact on so many aspects of our culture.

While a band or artist will always have music as its legacy - and rightly so - there is definitely the potential to excel further and add another dimension to the music and output as a whole. In an era where manufactured music is everywhere, one can take solace in the fact that what I talk about is something you are either born with or you are not, so there will always be a place for those with both talent and style in the music industry. In the present day we can thank the likes of Kasabian, Pete Doherty, Florence Welch and The Kills for continuing this trend.