It's The End Of Music. Har har, only joking, there's always the hunkin' UK garage 'revolution'...
Rock’n’roll, then: born 1956, died the year 2000, aged 44, 397 stone, exploded on the bog through the sheer embarrassment of its final purpose upon planet Earth as a televisual advertisement for Commercial General Union. Mortgages, in case you hadn’t noticed, are the new rock’n’roll and to prove it our beloved Charlies offer up their marvellous, Dylansome, ‘moothie’-puffin’ opus as sacrifice on the ‘groovy’ marketing man’s flaming pulpit of material consumption with zero dignity and absolutely no STANDARDS whatsofuckingever as our beloved Tim mewls, beautifully, dem Subterranean Homebase Blues. From the Manics‘ ‘Nat West-Barclays-Midland-Lloyds’ to this, in eight years. Meanwhile, across the planet, there’s an actual political riot goin’ on and music, for the first time in history, is less its soundtrack, more its disapproving dad twitching behind the curtains of his splendid triple-glazed middle-aged spread in the Cotswolds. It’s all over. It’s The End Of Music. Har har, only joking, there’s always the hunkin’ UK garage ‘revolution’ to dance like a pervy deck chair doing the in-out groin-quake to so that’s alright, then, hmmn?