If I cared about the state of indie music now, I'd despair. Not for nothing was the term "landfill indie" coined. Band after band whose arrival in my life is about as welcome as a free sample sachet of fabric conditioner.
So it's reassuring in a funny way to find that, 20 years ago, when I almost half cared, indie music was almost as shit as it is now. Yes, the House of Love had a handful of half-decent pop songs, but persisted in hiding their light under the bushel of dirge-jangle production. The only other song I remember from this collection — the only one that was new to me — was Momus's Complete History of Sexual Jealousy (Parts 17-24). Oh, and Felt, as I've realised after years of denial, are quite good. As for the rest… don't get me started. My Bloody Valentine before they got a clue, of historical interest only, and Primal Scream never had a clue.
Don't get me started, either, on Alan McGee and his ego-empire. I subscribe to The Guardian's music RSS feed which is interrupted irregularly by McGee and his hyperventilating views about this or that. Just because he struck lucky with Oasis (and didn't I hear that he was in rehab during the crucial period when Oasis were taking off and only returned to his job when there was nothing to do but count money?) he's deluded himself, and several people who should know better, into thinking that his opinion counts for tuppence.
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