By music fan Tom Logan
ONCE, I would read of the albums of the year and take careful note, cross-referencing lists and rewarding the most appealing albums with a purchase.
Now, though, that process is redundant. Because, thanks to Spotify, I have heard all the albums of the year, and they are a right load of shit.
The Kendrick Lamar album everyone’s rating so highly? Shit. That SZA album where the vocalist redefines confessional R&B? Shit. The epic sonic soundscapes of that War On Drugs album? Double shit.
Once I could say “The critics have reached consensus on the excellence of this,” as I smilingly bought Tame Impala from HMV, take my CD home and try to believe it. Sometimes it even worked.
But now, listening to each new album the day it is released, the scales have fallen from my eyes. “Heard it,” I think, as the Guardian counts down Thundercat and The Horrors and Father John Misty. “Heard it, heard it, heard it, bollocks.”
The old world was a better world. I wish I could still believe in Lorde and LCD Soundsystem and Kelala when I see them in these top tens, instead of bearing the sad knowledge that they’re a pile of wank.
You might say I’m old and bitter, but why should I be bitter? I get all my music for free and my meals too, because I still live with my mum, which is actually a very convenient arrangement for a 46-year-old man. Anyway have you heard Lana Del Rey’s Lust for Life? It’s brilliant.
Just kidding. It’s SHIT.
