That’s a whole heap of shit. The top entry has as many hits as the next three put together.
Ed Sheeran is shit. He makes Mumford & Sons sound like a thriving farmer’s market. He makes Coldplay sound like Throbbing Gristle. He puts One Direction into perspective. He is the grey. He is the grey. He is the grey in the middle of grey.
Bob Dylan winning a Nobel Prize for Literature is like David Cameron stating The Smiths are his favourite band. Why not Nina Simone? Why not Beyoncé? Why not FILL IN YOUR OWN FUCKING NAME?
Dave Grohl is shit. You don’t need to listen to Foo Fighters or work out to them down the football stadium or listen to their legion of desperate fans to realise this, just read the apologetic commentary from those too afraid to state the fact (and still think that somehow it’s OK he’s shit cos he’s “such a nice guy”), the apoplectic commentary from those who think they’re Making A Statement by coming out against them, the yawning knee-less praise from those whose idea of a varied and worldly musical taste means including a David Bowie album on their playlist of Coldplay, U2, The Killers, Marilyn Manson and (shudder) Foo Fighters.
The opening track, the Satanic Bride Of Crankenstein, could be classic Soundgarden. Indeed, I’ve long felt Melvins could have out-stripped Soundgarden in sales if only they’d kept a tighter rein on their imaginations and warped sense of humour – not for nothing did they have Gene Simmons of KISS play bass with them at Lollapalooza in 1993 and 1994. And there are other moments (in particular, the churning Brass Cupcake and heavy gravitational pull of Onions Make The Milk Taste Bad) where you feel the classic 1970s era Black Sabbath comparisons are more than justified.
The songs are becoming ghosts. They shift meaning, they move into new realms. Bowie as a memory star…oh god. Please excuse me. This song has just started playing in my headphones. Again.
First, why? Where is the pressing need for such a list in 2016? The rock canon was established long ago, by close to the same group of critics. This does not add anything to the dialogue. You could argue that it is worth doing because it generates discussion, or because it is entertaining. Well no. No, it does not. Not, it is not. Discussion is generated by intelligent, insightful commentary not near-mindless reinforcement of the status quo. Discussion is not complaining about how a group of people with different tastes to your own have different tastes to your own. Discussion is not the generation of more lists. This is not entertainment. This is stamp collecting (and frankly, stamp collecting would be a lot more fun).
Billy Corgan is shit. Slap-headed self-preening egotistical entitled Trump-loving grave-robbing narcissistic tuneless bombastic flatulent snowflake cunt. Do not believe the woefully impressed. For years, I have had to put up with people going, “yes, but his early work was quite good really, you know”. NO IT FUCKING WASN’T. Just cos you have the ears of a doormat and the taste of a McDonald’s Aus burger, just cos you prefer your music with no wit and no imagination, a spittoon of cultural appropriation and a whole heap of dog-turd guitar fret wank, it DOES NOT MAKE HIS EARLY WORK QUITE GOOD, YOU KNOW. A rip off of a rip off of a rip off does not magically transmute into art. It remains a rip off of a rip off of a rip off.
CHRIS MARTIN IS SHIT. He’s a beardy bland comfort zone for people with little life experience and zero expectations beyond the promise of the new La La Land DVD in the post from Amazon, a smug histrionic sweep of secondhand emotion whose primary concern is not LURVE or HOPE or… wait, why am I even discussing the music business with you?
On the one hand we have boring bland pop folky chameleon tattooed gent Ed Sheeran, a man to whom cultural appropriation is a way of life. He has nothing to say and he doesn’t give a FUCK who knows it. He composes the songs the way the rest of us file tax returns. His idea of love is cement. On the other, we have boring bland rock folky serious chameleon bearded gent Father John Misty, a man to whom appropriating John Grant is a way of life. He has plenty to say, but fuck me is it dull and tedious, and like Ed before him, he does not give a SHIT who knows it.
I remember sitting down to watch the new Bond movie Casino Royale – always an event in our household, even with Daniel Craig’s rippling man pout. The theme song started up. Dynamic, hard and metallic in the music, classic (Shirley) Bassey through and through. And then the voice came in… “Jesus fuck!!” I exclaimed. “It’s Chris Cornell!”