Keeping It Real

Some ones been giving indie a bad name and while I generally relish any kind of bile leveled at those fine protagonists of pap, casting their gangly, jangly shadow across an overpopulated musical landscape; lets not get bogged down in terminology, as indie is, for the most part defunct by the fact it’s ‘major’.
Howls of ‘mortgage indie’ berate those bands on a quest to sell out and cash-in , puking pops pick’n’mix cocktail all over the shop, two parts brit-pop, one part 80 ‘s drive time, a dash of 90’s Seattle and a lovin spoonful of sugar for the bitterest pill of cynicism. Nevermind.
Authenticity and the music industry have never been mutually exclusive, quite the opposite, but all that is a well trodden path in this column, everything is not as it seems and y’alls should know better. To have a passion for something does require a level of criticism, panning for musical gold, sifting crap from cream is all part of the fun and while some records are built like a PowerPoint presentation for the benefit of a bank balance, this fretting over it’s origin, form, credibility to find its actual worth, only distracts from whether the song is good or not.
As much as Baddona and Cowell dress it all up in lights, cameras and re-invention, engaging us in an all out assault on the senses to sell the songs, is all part of the same argument. We know more about an act than we do their music, spilling onto tabloid pages before a chord is struck, distorting the ‘voice’ and romancing us with a cinematic version of events - building a story to fit the market. In the same way, ‘keeping it real’ is an overrated angle, keeping it right is mostly forgotten.
Guitars have bloated the scene for several years, to the point it’s like the only way to make music, that rock’n’roll standard ad infinitum and in another throw of the postmodern dice mutate into nu-rave and artrock, becoming so angular it might slit its own throat. Maybe these voices of descent (‘landfill indie’ was also a good one) wanting something ‘real’ might be missing the point but blow a wind of change. I’ll hold out on a revolution for now but whatever the future holds, guitars or not, can we just have some more fucking cracking records please? Like mine, available in all good stores now (hmmm, might not get away with that).

XYZ - August

Noel Gallagher’s a dick inee?, asking J-HOVA for a scrap round the back of the cow sheds for the hearts and minds of a 150,000 strong army. There was only going to be one outcome, but he should have read the Hip Hop Instruction Manual before waging war on an entire culture.

Page 1. Point A. ‘We know how to rock a party’.

Having said that Hip Hop is in a bit of a state, like the way rock went in the eighties, messy, well trodden and full of more shit than the Pyramid stage swill on Friday. A culture, which in at its core is inclusive, allowing all to partake in all of its many faceted outlets, now looks more like a Happy Meal promotion. The all singing, all dancing way of the dollar. No great surprise there, it’s just the final, predictable chapter in a beautiful story of talent, empowerment and politics. But as we turn the final page to find out whodunit – Who Stole The Soul?...I’d like to think it’s as yet unwritten.To have Lil Waynes ‘Lollipop’ the full stop to thirty summat years of the most focused and determined art form in my lifetime is just plain daft.

For all it’s pointless, skewed notions of what empowerment is, the sexism, occasional racism and lambasting of all those other ‘fears’ as truth, the language of hip hop will always remain an essential forum. There’s never one defining argument as a thousand voices respond and bring it to the cypher. Self-policing democracy in action, but for those who hold the spotlight, some remain silent. Yo, Bum Rush The Show!

Some declare Hip Hop dead before claiming the crown to its saviour, only clamouring for the same flattering glow of those dead presidents that Fiddy counts in his (fucking) Candy Shop. But for every blustering gob-shite, there’s a Rising Styles or Slip Jam B that doesn’t need to roll on chrome 22’s to prove its worth. Keeping hope alive, like.

No doubt, the ‘hip hop moment’ of Glastonbury was the first few chords of Wonderwall. See, Noel forgot the second rule in The Manual too –

‘We know how to do ‘beef’’

,and while that frustrated little man and his band of hairy Muppets ,dummies flying everywhere, demand ‘their festival’ back (that bloke from Kasbian wants his say too – see you in the comedy tent!); Jay Z performed hip hop to all of its glorious strengths and weaknesses. Elating, empowering, funky and yes, occasionally pointless

But, don’t look back in anger, eh boys.