Whenever our old friend Nicholas Currie wants to tell us how, you know, *radical* and *sexual* and *dangerous* his music is compared to all those *repressed* and *parochial* Brit-rockers (hmmm … Fran Healy hollering his way through “Turn&[…]

I Hate Music appears to have a kindred spirit in indieshite, which promises to be unremitting in its venomous bile and loathing for anything and everything. [link from us|against|them]
And coincidentally, it occurs to me that I have no idea whether T[…]

For so long, as a matter of moral principle, I despised DMX. Hated the blatant simplicity of his music’s production values, hated the way his every emotional response was intoned as a blood-red tabloid headline, hated the way he played into th[…]

I don’t know why I find myself listening so obsessively to Max Tundra’s skittering electro-jazz, since its air of aimlessness and slight self-satisfaction clash with my current aesthetic of self-promotion and self-belief. It has overtones[…]

I drifted away – the Guardian reviews the Festival Of Drifting. The mysterious asterisk next to the name of the event is actually the rating out of a possible five stars; one star, the paper tells me, means “terrible”. Is it just me[…]

Having “the rock” is often assumed to be a singularly male obsession. We chicks have got more important things to worry about that strapping on a set of leather strides, damaging our sleek body curves with ungainly guitar straps and stand[…]