I like good music. The definition of 'good' in that sentence is 'good to me.' I like what I like. This has, as some of you may know, meant an under-reliance over the years on the opinions of the asses, oops I mean masses, and a huge reliance on my ability to dig up obscure and rare noises from around the world.
So, by and large, apart from one or two exceptional years, the charts haven't bothered me for a couple of decades. Occasional 'popular' artists have produced good recent singles (Kylie, Britney spring to mind) but, for me, that has been it.
Except, except, except for what I have just added to my collection. For all their glamour-puss, porn-star shoed waggisheness, every time I hear a tune by them I am impressed. OK they are manufactured. OK they have the strength of the session-seasoned backing band behind them. OK the song-writing has been bought at a price. OK the interviews are not even dusting the skirting boards of intellectual stimulation (what am I on?). I haven't dared open the lyric sheets. But know what? I don't care. It's The Sound of the Underground and Chemistry in Tilley mansions this weekend and the rest of you can go hang.
The toes? They tap. The fingers? They drum on the table. Two for £10 at HMV in Bath. It'll hardly keep the wolf from the Cole's door now will it?