Your New Nobody
Band of the Year
Colour TV
This year I crawled past five decades on this increasingly awful planet.
I’ve lived more than half of the time allocated to me.
By my reckoning two thirds of my life is now gone.
I have memories to share, and stories to tell.
But I am, by any measure, irrelevant.
Any meaningful contribution I might have made has already been made.
My hopes and dreams are now for my daughter, not for myself.
What a bundle of joy I am.
Amongst all of the things that really don’t matter, the thing that matters most to me is music. Fiddling while Rome burns, innit.
It’s always been the music that mattered to me.
There are people who think I am a Satanic figure because of the bile and vitriol I spew in the direction of commentators, influencers, tastemakers, and even musicians.
They think I am motivated by bad intentions.
They believe that I am jealous of this or that.
They think I’m just a prick.
Only one of the three is even remotely accurate.
I am motivated by the very best of intentions - to protect something that has, quite literally, saved my life on more than one occasion. Something that has shone a light powerful enough to penetrate the abyss into which I have fallen. Something that has warmed me when I have felt as cold as the grave.
I don’t believe in jealousy - it is an ugly thing. I celebrate the successes of others. I look in awe and wonder at the drive, desire, and deliberateness of those who scale heights I could never reach.
I am a prick.
This year only one band has come close to meeting my exacting standards for what used to be “indie” music.
Like Christ they have arrived to help us all atone for our sins.
They are here to chase the money lenders from the temple of pop.
No loaves and fishes, but something more sustaining - heart and soul.
Hallelujah.
Just as Jesus wept, so have I.
I have wept at the veneration of the vulgar over the vulnerable.
I have shed tears over the elevation of the boorish over the broken.
I have cried into my already tear soaked pillow at the lauding of the lads over the emotionally lame.
I have climbed and looked for the mountain top where I might be transfigured, where my face might shine again.
All in vain.
All in vain.
I remained a lone voice in the wilderness.
Satan creeps close from time to time and whispers in my ear.
“There is no hope, only this hopeless dirge. Give yourself to this gaggle of false prophets. Accept the fact that this is all there is.”
I was sorely tempted.
But I remained hopeful.
Even when I heard music that Northern Uproar would have turned their noses up at I remained true to the faith of my fathers.
I must confess though that this year I did find myself screaming aloud “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”
And then I heard His voice.
My prayers answered.
My faithfulness rewarded.
Colour TV.
They had been near me throughout my travails in the wilderness.
I had sung their praises.
Hailed them as the Messiah, not just naughty boys.
This year they have proven themselves to be the light and the life.
Three singles of near miraculous wonder.
Three singles that proved, beyond doubt, that they were real.
Like Thomas I had perhaps doubted…but these songs were the equivalent of feeling the wounds in the hands of the resurrected Christ.
Rocks upon which a testimony could be built.
Three songs.
Father.
Son.
Holy Ghost.
You do the math(s).
At this moment in time they are the boy Jesus - astonishing their elders, and the Elders, with their pronouncements. But soon they will gather their disciples behind them, build an army of followers, perform miracles, and establish a new faith for the faithless.
Blessed be their name.
Glory.
Fortune.
Favour.
Blessings.
Restoration.
Love.
Amen.
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