The prospect of the new Paul McCartney album does not set my pulses racing, still less that of the Beatles museum on Savile Row that’s opening next year. If I walk into a shop and hear a Beatles track playing, I might walk straight out again, because I know the song too well and resent being held in its grip for three minutes. The Rolling Stones also have a record in the pipeline. I used to love the Stones and probably would again if I revisited them after being denied access to their music for 20 years, but for now, they’re a cultural incubus, like Harry Potter. As for new stuff by new people, I’ve lost the thread. The last time I was really enthused by a pop record was about ten years ago when I heard what turned out to be ‘An Awesome Wave’ by Alt-J playing in a north London pub.
In that same pub, I recently said to some friends – most of whom would have taken the NME every week in the late 1970s – ‘I’m trying to get into jazz.’
‘We all are,’ came the baleful reply.
‘It’s more dignified,’ I said, ‘more age appropriate. I don’t want to be one of those old guys who has “Stairway to Heaven” played at his funeral.’
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