The phone rings. I pick it up.
"Hello, this is Terry from Uncut Magazine. You were previously a subscriber."
"We don't like to lose our readers. We're offering you the next three months of Uncut for only £5."
"No, thank you."
"Oh. Can you tell me why you stopped subscribing to Uncut?"
"I was just bored with it, basically."
"Oh. Thank you for your time."
I am amazed this magazine is still going. Those of its readers who aren't stopping their subscriptions must be dying off. Yes, Allan Jones has 8 million stories to tell, but they're all exactly the same. Allan gets pissed with Nick Lowe or Elvis Costello or Ian Gomm or Wreckless Eric or Billy Bremner or the bloke who played the drums for Ducks Deluxe. Big deal, Allan.
The magazine's obsession with so-called "Americana" was bordering on the insane. Bands who get audiences of three perennially single middle aged men wearing Bob Dylan 2005 Tour t-shirts and reeking of onions were getting double page spreads! The reviews always included "stunning" returns to form by artists who peaked in the 1960s and whose new albums were recorded on life support machines. The covers featured close ups of male artists so old that we were actually on a government register as corpse fetishists.
So, no, I didn't take up Terry's offer. For music was my first love. And it will be my last.
But it's gotta have some life in it for gawd's sake.
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