I promised myself I wasn’t going to read US websites this year, so the heck am I doing reading the Pazz & Jop essays?
Writers have been observing that sincere rock-gesture is no longer possible for my entire adult life, or possibly longer.
One of the first rock songs I can remember loving is the title track from a Bowie album with deliberately arch distancing quotes around the title, an album released when I was six years old.
Oh, isn’t “Pazz and Jop” an excruciatingly horrible joke-title? It sums up everything wrong about Christgau and he isn’t even there anymore.
Meanwhile, I was in J&B Hi Fi in Leichhardt on Monday night, and it seemed like they had every record in indie history except for Born Sandy Devotional.
Music is the art form in which my tastes are the most parochial; I’m not comfortable with this because I dislike that sort of thing intensely in other fields, but the older I get, the more it seems that the only bands I really care about are the Australian ones.