Leaders
Rat Attack
Just because we’re paranoid doesn’t mean we should listen to the advice of millions
Many thanks to reader James Turner who emailed in to tell us that if you tap ‘The Stool Pigeon’ into Wikipedia the top two hits are ‘Lesbian American History’ and ‘Tropical Gangsters’. Classic stuff, although we’d have been even more thrilled if someone had written something like this about us: “Conor McNicholas is a revolting, spoilt, middle-class dullard who is editor of IPC-run music magazine the New Musical Express. He sold the magazine down the river in the early 2000s by focusing on inconsequential tabloid rubbish and loads of boring identikit, indie-schmindley, pseudo-rebellious bands. He also bears an uncanny resemblance to a rodent, but has never let this get in the way of his magazine’s worship of groundbreaking artists such as Dominic Masters.”
Ring-a-ding-dong! That went up (and down) shortly after their spat with Morrissey - a balls-up of quite magnanimous proportions. Mozza digs his own graves these days. All McNicholas had to do was run a simple Q&A, without comment, and hand Moz a spade. But he couldn’t help himself. A most unattractive double by-line botch-job of a story got printed and it’s become a perfect metaphor for what a confused state the magazine is in.
Music fans have a history with the NME and that’s why such an extraordinary amount of hatred is directed at Conor. It’s often unfair, but sometimes interesting. In bleak times, people close ranks. Hearing McNicholas on Steve Lamacq’s show recently talking about records in the first person plural - “We like this…” - was weird. It suggested he doesn’t have a brain of his own, but it also seemed cultish. Believe us, you don’t even have to buy an NME freelancer a drink before they go off on one about how the mag is now run like a paranoid, closed regime. They’ve totally lost it and yet they refuse to listen. They’re sinking fast, and they’re doing so alone.
Spare a thought for little Tim Jonze, though. The poor boy never stood a chance. But, because it was funny, let’s repeat Mozza’s killer dis: “When I first caught sight of him I assumed that someone had brought their child along to the interview. The runny nose told the whole story.”
Cash Cow
Let me know if there’s anything else we can do to humiliate ourselves
While we’re in the mood for pompously slagging off our colleagues in the music press through the clever prism of Wikipedia, take a look at the entry for Clash Magazine, or Cash Magazine as we hilariously like to call them. Highly entertaining. “This article has multiple issues,” it says at top. “Its neutrality is disputed.” Cash in an attempt to gratuitously promote themselves? Surely not. A few issues ago we revealed that they take payola - i.e. labels can pay for them to write about their bands. Another leaked email reveals they’re at it again. Nothing ethically erroneous this time, just more evidence of how staggeringly low those loonies will go to flog their rag.
Some background first: the public relations machine in the music industry is powerful. It’s their job to try and make you write about their artists and hopefully in a manner that’s agreeable to their bosses at the label. To get stories done you have to play ball to an extent, but there’s a very definite line. For example, you NEVER let them read your articles before they’re printed. Unless you’re a sucker.
From Matthew, Cash Magazine deputy editor: “Morning guys, please find attached the content from Clash, issue 24. It’d be great if we could use some of this for future marketing purposes, promo campaigns and push to get this up on the bands’ site, MySpace, Facebook, Bebo etc…
“Can you send onto (delete as appropriate) manager, label, product manager, online PR department?
“We can send a PDF once we are closer to our street date.
“Let me know if there is anything else we can do around this feature and get in touch if there’s any online content we could use on ClashMusic.com to take this activity any further.”
Wrong! Seriously. And, quite brilliantly, nobody laughed harder at this gift horse than the PR people themselves. As one who forwarded on their email said: “Yeah, like we’ve got any use for the inane, nipple-licking crap they publish.”
Unsurprisingly, Cash were advertising for an ad salesman recently. Now there’s a job of death.
Hobson’s Choice
Anyone fancy popping over for a Kit Kat and an episode of X-Factor?
In this paper a while back, Pigeon scribe Cyrus Shahrad wrote, “We’re all liberals these days.” Fair point, but it’s becoming more and more embarrassing to admit you’re a card-carrying member of the cause. You’d imagine that liberals would cherish independent thinking, choice and individuality. Not so much anymore. If you have your reasons for questioning, say, theories on global warming, you’re exiled from the group. And, as the Scottish comic Arnold Brown once said, “That’s how fascism started.”
In its greatest form, liberal fascism is called The Media. A good example of a single proponent is rapper Scroobius Pip, hero of the kinds of people who buy organic carrots and turn their TVs off at the wall as a lifestyle choice. When I first heard his track ‘Thou Shalt Always Kill’, I was excited. That’s really funny, I thought - a clever piss-take on people who think they’re liberal but won’t allow others to have their own opinions. But now I’m not sure. The lyric, “Thou shalt not question Stephen Fry,” seems like a joke but, “Thou shalt give equal worth to tragedies that occur in non-English speaking countries as to those that occur in English speaking countries,” certainly doesn’t. It sounds like some proper preachy bullshit spoken by some cheese-head who doesn’t have a damn clue what he’s talking about. As does nearly every other line in that idiotic song.
If I want to watch Hollyoaks, drink Coke, judge a book by its cover, pimp my ride, use poetry to get in a girl’s pants, read the NME, express my shock at the fact that Sharon got off with Brad at the club last night by saying, “Is it,” I fucking well will. Because I like independent thinking, choice and individuality. I like to make my own mind up and I DON’T LIKE BEING TOLD HOW TO THINK.
The funny thing about the track is that it ends with this line: “Thou shalt think for yourselves.” Excellently ironic closing gag, Scrooby boy.
Anyway, I’m off to find out whether you can hear an English accent in Knightsbridge and, no, Tower Hamlets Council don’t recycle orange juice cartons. I checked.
