My Least Favourite Thing About Twitter

It's revealed just how petty I am.

I love Twitter. I'm not one of those who dismisses it as a place where idiots waste countless precious hours – though I am an idiot and I do waste countless precious hours there. But I'm not deluded enough to think that all those celebrities I follow actually care about my existence – though I was shamefully proud when the great Robert Florence replied to one of my tweets (even though his reply was essentially dismissive and consisted of just five words).

But though I'm quick to latch onto the tweets of anyone I vaguely admire like some kind of demanding, entitled limpet, I'm equally quick to unfollow even my most beloved of individuals the second they say anything with which I disagree.

I unfollowed childhood hero Michael Rosen when he said something mean about HMV. He laughed at all the “crocodile tears” being shed over its closure. No, I thought. That's a lot of people out of work and it's now utterly impossible to buy new music anywhere on the high streets of so many UK cities. Goodbye, Michael.

I unfollowed Pete Fowler – responsible for some of the best album covers of the past 20 years – after he made a few unsavoury comments about Alt-J. Alt-J made one of my favourite albums of last year, and I really don't care that Pete Fowler didn't care for it. But he was actively wishing death upon them and doing so apropos of nothing. Goodbye, Pete.

I unfollowed Luke Haines – songwriting genius – after I realised that all he ever did was sneer that music's not as good as it used to be. I know he's a celebrated misanthrope, but what sort of moron openly revels in the notion that rock music might be dead or dying? Goodbye, Luke.

Unforgivable on my part, though, is that I unfollowed Tom Cox after he said something nasty about Blur during their 2012 Brit Awards performance. Tom Cox wears tweed, is bearded, lives in Norfolk and writes witty and captivating articles and books about cats, folk customs and nature. He and I would undoubtedly be the best of friends if we met in real life. But all it took was a subtle suggestion that Pulp are better than Blur, and that was it. Goodbye, Tom.

I would much rather have not learned that about myself – that I'm so unwilling to expose myself to opinions that are even slightly different to mine. I like to think that I'm reasonable, open-minded and mature. But the second someone says something at all disagreeable? Whoosh – it's playground politics.

Still. It's one thing to simply unfollow those I admire before thinking ever so slightly less of them. At least I'm not painstakingly and obsessively documenting everything I hate about the world whilst ostensibly compiling a list of the 100 Worst People On Twitter.

The 100 Worst People On Twitter must be one of the worst websites to ever have existed. And in making that assessment, I include any right-wing atrocity or bad-porn ring you could care to mention. The world is a sad, horrible and merciless place as is. It's almost unbearably depressing that there are some people out there who seem to think: “Hey, you know what this world needs? More negativity!”

This is cynicism for the sake of cynicism. They claim to be looking out for those that “represent something bad beyond their Twitter account. The insularity of the British media classes. The sinister creep of threatened masculinity. The banality of modern alternative culture.” But I know this not to be the case.

How do I know this? Well, there are two people on the list who I really quite admire. Let's look at Charlie Brooker first. His writing is fresh, imaginative and energising – especially when he tries his hand at fiction. I can, however, fully understand a lot of the criticism he gets.

The 100 Worst People On Twitter, though, attack him on the grounds that he had Shoreditch hipster Nathan Barley listen to Supergrass.

Meanwhile, their no-holds-barred denouement of David Mitchell opens with this curious sentiment:

“The obvious point to make with David Mitchell is that he, Webb, and commisioning editors made the mistake of thinking that being able to memorise some words on a piece of paper and repeat them, sometimes while pretending to do things, meant that was enough to make you destined for greatness in the field of writing, because the words they read happened to be funny.”

Sorry, every actor that ever lived. But your ancient craft is nothing more than “being able to memorise some words on a piece of paper and repeat them, sometimes while pretending to do things”. That's all you're doing. So stop pretending you're talented. Because according to the good people of the 100 Worst People On Twitter – who, as you know, are the sole arbiters of acceptable behaviour – you're essentially worthless.

OK, these are two people I admire, so perhaps I'm naturally defensive. That I'm familiar with their work, though, means that I'm able to identify where these guys have just cherry-picked irrelevant and unrepresentative nuggets from extensive careers to support the thesis that Mitchell and Brooker don't really deserve to live.

It stands to reason that if they've taken this cherry-picking approach with these two, then they must have done with everyone. Which means that the roastings of those celebrities who I actively unhealthily dislike must be equally as ill-informed and vindictive.

But the worst thing about The 100 Worst People On Twitter is the sheer hypocrisy of those who compile it.

The introduction to their piece on David Mitchell suggests that they have no time or respect for actors or acting. Similarly, their piece on Charlie Brooker makes explicit their contempt for video games, for people who like video games and for people who write about video games.

But oh, heaven help those who have anything bad to say about hip hop!

According to these guys, if you don't like hip hop, you're definitely racist. Oh yes.

If you disagree with me, you're essentially evil. Now that's petty.

The amount of energy, research, redrafting and resentment that must have gone into writing much of what's on The 100 Worst People On Twitter genuinely makes me despair. Why would such conscientious individuals – such obviously talented writers – put so much effort into something that will only ever be used by people to justify their vindictive hatred?

One of the worst effects the internet's had upon creative types is that it seems to have kickstarted a tendency to sneer at the worst of everything (as opposed to seeking out and celebrating the best).

If you're looking for the worst humanity has to offer, you'll doubtlessly find it on Twitter.

But even if you're not seeking outrage, Twitter can disappoint you. How horrible it is to learn that those who you admire don't agree with you 100% of the time!

And that's my least favourite thing about Twitter. It's like a terrible funhouse mirror that makes humanity look much uglier than it really is.

The revelation that I'm so petty is just the start of it.

Making A Cup Of Tea For Everyone In Belgium & Other Heartwarming Scrapes

In the first decade of the noughties writers everywhere were apparently struck by a desire to have a wacky adventure that just so happened to involve a lot of tax-deductible travel. It resulted in a strange sub-genre of personal quest/travelogue books that to this day dominate charity shops and the humour section of Waterstones.

The adventure was often passed-off as a silly bet, and it invariably transformed into a journey of self discovery. The results were mixed. In some cases you got a genuinely engaging and often hilarious travelogue of intrigue. Mostly, though, you got the literary equivalent of JP from Fresh Meat – droning on about his gap year whilst describing everything as “literally well-random”.

Dave Gorman is the first name that comes to mind. With his Googlewhack Adventure, America Unchained and Are You Dave Gorman? books, he certainly struck upon some truly original ideas. His work is let down, though, by a tendency to take himself – and his self-imposed projects – far too seriously. Each of his books at some point spirals into a really quite terrifying meltdown. You want to reach through the page and say, “Dave, maybe you should calm down a little?”

If Dave Gorman took things too seriously, Tony Hawks had exactly the opposite problem. He travelled Round Ireland With A Fridge, played The Moldovians at Tennis and tried to have a number one single in any country, anywhere. Tony Hawks is a mild-mannered and mildly-spoken man who you might remember best as the “host” of Better Than Life on Red Dwarf, or as the uptight rapper behind The Stutter Rap. His books, though, were painfully obvious attempts to highlight just how quirky he believes himself to be. I gave up after A Piano In The Pyrenees, in which he struggled to wrest anything approaching humour from his relocation to the French mountains.

Then there's Tim Moore, who is funny. Really funny. What sets Tim Moore apart is that, like Bill Bryson (whose travel writing arguably inspired this curious sub-genre), his books are less self-consciously “wacky” projects that happen to involve a lot of travel and more straight-laced travel writing that just so happens to be utterly hilarious. Tim Moore drew comedy not from an absurd situation or idea, but from wry observations about the perfectly normal world around him. He's not a man that places himself in strange situations and begs you to laugh. He's a skilled comedian with a subtle delivery, excellent timing and an impeccable eye for detail. Moments from Frost On My Moustache, French Revolutions, Spanish Steps and Continental Drift are amongst the funniest scenes I've ever encountered in any medium.

So what would you call this sub-genre? The Humorous Travelogue? The Personal Project (With Hilarious Consequences)? The Comedic Wanderer? I don't know, but I was quite sure that the genre had exhausted its potential, and I was convinced that I'd exhausted all the enjoyment that could possibly be drawn from the writings of grown men with too much time on their hands who really should know better.

But then I read The Know-It-All by A.J. Jacobs.

An American journalist and editor of Esquire, A.J. Jacobs endeavoured to read the entire 2002 Encyclopaedia Britannia back-to-back. The Know-It-All is a document of his efforts, and it really is a lot funnier than a literary marathon has any right to be. More than that, it's frequently fascinating, often touching, sometimes sad and shocking and, ultimately, it could even be described as life-affirming.

In reading The Know-It-All, not only did I learn a lot of lethal facts for future deployment, I believe I also stumbled across exactly the reason why so many efforts by Dave Gorman and Tony Hawks failed in their efforts to amuse and engage. Their ideas might have been variously wacky and fascinating, but all too often they approached their projects with a sneer and a smirk. The books can therefore come across as so cynical as to be alienating. It's like they're saying “I know it's stupid, but you're the one who bought this book, aren't you? Have you any idea how rich this made me? And I got to go to China, too. Joke's on you, moron.”

Jacobs, though, seems perfectly aware of his limitations, and doesn't ever shy from sharing his shortcomings or anxieties. At no point does he present himself as the noble or begrudging hero caught up in something beyond or below him. And when his self-imposed task starts to dominate his life, you really do get a sense of how unhealthy his obsession is becoming, and how difficult he himself is becoming for all of those around him.

When Dave Gorman or Tony Hawks complain about their projects, I can't help but roll my eyes. The “problems” about which they complain are even more trivial than first world problems. Jacobs's quest, though, is framed in a narrative concerning father-son rivalry, hypochondria, new parent anxiety and a fear of death, decay and dementia. It's real, it's human and it's affecting to no end. Every time I put the book down, I found myself thinking of Jacobs – hunched over his well-thumbed EB, eyes straining in the darkness, whilst his brooding wife lay neglected, asleep and alone next door.

The sheer scope of his task and the none-more-human element raises this book so far beyond the cynical adventures of Dave Gorman and Tony Hawks that you may as well compare Anna Karenina to Twilight. If you put a thousand Hawks in a room with a thousand typewriters, you'd have to wait years before any of them cranked out anything even half as insightful and touching as this:

“I know that everything is connected like a worldwide version of the six-degrees-of-separation game. I know that history is simultaneously a bloody mess and a collection of feats so inspiring and amazing they make you proud to share the same DNA structure with the rest of humanity. I know you better focus on the good stuff or your screwed. I know that the race does not go to the swift, nor the bread to the wise, so you should soak up what enjoyment you can. I know not to take cinnamon for granted. I know that mortality lies in even the smallest decisions, like whether to pick up and throw away a napkin...I know that you should always say yes to adventures or you'll lead a very dull life. I know that knowledge or intelligence are not the same thing – but they do live in the same neighbourhood. I know once again, firsthand, the joy of learning. And I know that I've got my life back and that in just a few moments, I'm going to have a lovely dinner with my wife.”

The Know-It-All is a celebration of life, of humanity, of knowledge, or learning, of reading, of family, of friends, of food and of brilliance. But in celebrating the brilliance, it can also makes those who can only dream of such lofty heights feel proud of their life and achievements. It champions eccentricity, yes – but never for the sake of eccentricity. It made me laugh, but it also made me feel gifted – lucky to be breathing and genuinely happy to be alive.

Piano In The Pyrenees, though? That just made me want to read something – anything – else.

David Bowie - The Next Day

Today I was finally in position to do something I thought I'd never do. Something that music lovers have been doing for four decades. I was able to buy a new David Bowie album on its day of release!

I'm quite wary of listening to it. I hate listening to things for the first time. I never trust my first impressions. They're far too tempered by prejudice, precedence and expectation. I much prefer the curve of gradual appreciation and the ultimate feeling of warm familiarity to the shock of the new. This doesn't mean that I'm adverse to trying new things. It's just that I cannot think of a single album that means anything to me that clicked immediately on the first listen. It takes time to absorb and inhabit music. The first listen isn't something to be treasured. It's something to get over with as soon as possible.

I'm sort of the same with films. There are many films – like Wreck-It-Ralph – that are instantly appealing. But those that we deem to be “classics” are often so-called because they bear repeat viewings. And the main reason they bear repeat viewings is because they're layered – you can't take-in everything in at once. “Classics” are often subtle slow-burners, so I'm always wary when it comes to watching any film that has anything approaching a reputation for the first time.

So I don't want to comment on David Bowie's new album just yet. Nothing I say now can be at all trusted. But if you're really interested in what I think, come back to me in a month or two.

I do believe, though, that there aren't enough hours of existence remaining for me to ever learn to love the album cover.

The Next Day has one of the worst album covers I've ever seen. A crude white box placed over the iconic “Heroes” imagery. Whilst the image underneath has a lovely silvery sheen to it, this still looks like the sort of thing that could easily have been produced on MS Paint in less than a minute.

Things improve a little on the inside. There's a black-on-black square that reminds me of the sort of designs that adorn Autechre albums. It contrasts nicely with the white square on the CD itself, creating a sort of triptych with Bowie's moody disembodied head in the middle.

The lyrics are printed on a colourful fold-out that somewhat resembles one of those posters you used to get in those brown bags dotted around Manchester. In fact, on the inside The Next Day is really quite beautifully designed. Which makes me wonder – what was he thinking with that cover?

It may be awful to look at, but I don't think it's devoid of meaning. The cover is horrible, but the inside is striking. Is this a “comment” on the album itself? A sort of “don't judge a book by its cover” message?

Or is it a sad statement concerning the phasing-out of physical formats in favour of digital? As a collection of MP3s, The Next Day's cover will only ever appear as a small inscrutable square on a media player. Does Bowie think that people have stopped pouring over album covers? Did he see no point in putting any effort into album covers if they're ostensibly going to be ignored?

Most likely, the cover of The Next Day is probably supposed to represent some kind of interplay between the past and the present, or between perception and reality. I wonder if these themes are covered in the lyrics?

This is why I don't like initial listens and why I don't trust first-impressions. There's always too much to take-in.

In any case, the cover of The Next Day is not exactly unprecedented. For one thing, it can be listed alongside Earthling and certain editions of Lodger as an album on which Bowie's face doesn't appear on the cover. Similarly, the artwork of 2002's Heathen featured swathes of paint thrown against canvasses and pages torn from books. The only difference, really, is that here Bowie's sabotaging his own work rather than that of another artist.

So whilst the cover of The Next Day is hideous, it's by no means without meaning. I therefore don't think it can necessarily be described as “lazy” or “throwaway”. Just "ugly" and "unappealing".

As for the relative merits of the music? I can't wait to find out!

Things That Exist

Presenting Things That Exist - a brand new blog all about things that exist!

If you're interested in contributing, do get in touch.

Dancing To Architecture Part 3 - Disapointed By Idiocy

Why is it so disappointing when the people we respect and admire turn out to harbour wilfully obtuse and misinformed opinions?

I'm not talking about the soul-destroying moments when it transpires that a beloved children's entertainer liked children a little bit too much; or when your idolised prog rocker is a member of the Countryside Alliance; or when a seemingly-sensitive country singer has sympathies for either Bush. That's a different matter entirely.

I'm not even talking about the head-shaking disbelief felt when a thrilling literate rock band proclaims that Radiohead lost their way after The Bends; or the bemusement felt when your trusted writer of spellbinding spiritual wonder proclaims that there's no magic left in music; or when your favourite psychedelic wizard uncle attacks your favourite indie rock preacher.

No. I'm referring to the moment at which someone you believed to be a sensible, open-minded and forward-thinking purveyor of genuinely interesting music turns out to be just as unimaginative and regressive in their beliefs as your average middle-aged hack.

Earlier this evening, Patrick Wolf appeared on Steve Lamacq's Round Table on 6Music. For those unfamiliar, Patrick Wolf is a singer songwriter who, in 2004, seemed to be a viable alternative to the dominating glut of the sort of landfill indie that romanticised crack, Stellar and squalor. Steve Lamacq's Round Table is a show where they ask musicians to comment on a series of new singles. 6Music is the single greatest radio station that ever has or will exist.

Anyway, they played Steve Mason's latest single. For those unfamiliar, Steve Mason is the erstwhile singer and guitarist of The Beta Band who has also recorded as The Black Affair, King Biscuit Time and under his own name. His music is often heart-stoppingly beautiful, and he's apparently come close to doing something awful so many times that his every single release is undoubtedly a gift to be treasured.

Patrick Wolf didn't like Steve Mason's latest single. Now, had he just said “no, I don't like this,” I'm sure he and I could still be friends. But no. He went further. He suggested that it's completely without any merit, giving it 0/10 and saying something along the lines that “music like that shouldn't exist in 2013.”

Some might say that Steve Mason's latest has something of a 60s vibe about it. I'd disagree. I'd say it sounds timeless, soulful, organic – and it just so happens that a lot of 60s music also happened to sound timeless, soulful and organic. But that's not the point.

The point is, since when has Patrick Wolf been the arbiter of what sort of music “should” and “shouldn't” exist in any given year? If a song's well-written, meticulously structured and of such touching poignancy that it strikes a devastating chord for some, then surely it doesn't matter in the slightest how it sounds? Also, ten years from now, nobody will care what year a song was released. Instead, they'll judge their song on its own merits, beyond any notions of relevancy. You know, like normal people do; Those who listen to music without an agenda but because it gives them a reason to live.

Also, Patrick hinted that the reason such music “shouldn't exist in 2013” is because it sounds a bit like the music of the 1960s. For someone who makes music that sounds like it could have come from the 1760s, such a comment goes way beyond being “a bit rich” and enters the realms of “downright hypocritical”.

My ethos is that there's so much good music out there that it's a waste of time to dwell upon anything you don't like. I therefore apologise for the negative tone. But it's interesting. If some anonymous moron on an internet board said something similar about the music of Steve Mason, I could write them off as a reactionary, misinformed troll. If one of my friends said such a thing, I could at least talk to them and point out the flaws in their argument.

But Patrick Wolf?

I suppose what's irritated me is that I thought he was above such opinions. I thought that somebody who made such imaginative music might be a bit more imaginative in their outlook. You know – a bit more open to the idea that there are alternative ways to look at the world. Yes, I appreciate the irony that I'm attacking someone on exactly the same grounds, but come on – what right has someone who's music could belong to any decade from the 1760s to the 1980s to attack a song on the grounds that it has a 60s vibe to it?

Wind In The Wires and The Magic Position are great albums, but I've not heard any others. It's a shame, though, because I know that this single moment of poor judgement on Patrick's part will forever colour my future enjoyment of his music.

It's immensely and unforgivably hypocritical on my part too, I know this. I suppose that people are just precious and protective about some things – and in some instances it really is the case that it's one rule for some and a different rule for others.

Which just goes to show that you must be really careful when writing about music. Writing about music is not the same as talking about music. When you talk about music, you can at least pass off your statements as being transient. They belonged to the then and now. Writing, though, has a real permanence about it. Because anything you write has the potential to outlive you, it belongs to the ages.

Music is an intangible and intensely personal entity that, at its very best, represents the absolute pinnacle of human endeavour. It speaks to different people on different levels. Everyone has a different relationship with music, and any song that's ever been written has the potential to change someone's life – for better or worse.

How could you possibly put something so powerful into words? How could you ever do something so all-encompassing and transcendent the justice it deserves with something so comparatively banal as words on a page?

Or a screen, for that matter.

So there you go. All Patrick Wolf did was give his ill-thought yet honest reaction to a song, and, having written about it, suddenly I'm questioning the very idea that we should ever attempt to put in words the indescribable power that a good (or bad) song can have on us.

That proves one or all of the following:

1. I think too much (but I already know that to be the case).
2. That you really can get so defensive that, with just a few words, former allies can become enemies.
3. That music creates such complex feeling and ideas that it can, at times, lead to moments of intense confusion.

So, either I now hate Patrick Wolf, or myself.

I still love Steve Mason, though.

The Driller Killer - Perception vs Reality

I saw The Driller Killer for the first time last night, and I've since decided that you must not form opinions, conclusions or ideas about anything before you yourself have taken the plunge. There is never any substitute for watching, reading or listening to something yourself. Of course, you can gorge yourself on images and synopses, but nothing will ever compare to that unique connection created between you and any given work of art should you ever grace it with your full and undivided attention.

I've heard it said that, when questioned by the Pythons over whether they'd actually bothered to watch The Life of Brian, those self-righteous moral guardians replied along the lines of “You don't have to see a pigsty to know that it stinks”.

But this isn't about close-mindedness. It's about the discrepancy between perception and reality, and it happens to me all the time. I'm not in the habit of forming opinions in advance of experience, but I can't help but harbour ideas about things. And, in my defence, The Driller Killer does itself no favours.

For a start, there's the name. And the poster:

And the tagline: “There are those who kill violently!”

And the whole video nasty connection.

OK, The Driller Killer is a nasty film that leaves you feeling grim, grimy and in dire need of a wash. But, despite a superfluous lesbian shower session and a completely unnecessary scene that details the butchering of a skinned rabbit, I'd hardly call it exploitative. Rather, it comes across as a low-budget labour of love which, at times, veers deliriously close to the art-house.

There are some moments of extreme violence, but even those seem tame by today's standards. The remainder of the runtime is taken up by a dark, dank and claustrophobic account of desperate New York City low-life. It's like a cinematic interpretation of a Lou Reed song, or a loose adaptation of a forgotten Bukowski.

It's a visceral thrill, with talking paintings, performances that are either terrible or faithful to a whacked out state of mind, and scratchy footage that's so grainy I'm sure it would be rendered unwatchable on a HD TV.

But what I really wasn't expecting is just how punk rock is The Driller Killer. I don't use the term “punk rock” to describe something that's self-consciously anarchic. Rather, it evokes a snotty glue-sniffing frazzled sort of energy, with an in-house band called The Roosters who would be amazing (so long as they weren't living next-door). At the start you're even instructed that “THIS FILM SHOULD BE PLAYED LOUD ”.

An extreme close-up of a life I'd never want to live myself but which I find utterly thrilling to visit, I would never have expected so much from The Driller Killer. For so long I've been happy to think of it as an exploitative, ultra-violent video nasty. Instead, it's a DIY low-budget Taxi Driver with an incredible soundtrack.

I might never have gone out of my way to see The Driller Killer, but I'm happy to have learned, in the best way possible, that everything has the power to surprise you.

Another recent incident of reality eclipsing expectation came last Halloween when I finally got round to reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.

Thanks to seemingly every adaptation ever, I had certain preconceptions about Frankenstein that involved lightning, a hunchbacked assistant, deranged cries of “IT'S ALIVE!” and a lumbering monosyllabic hulk of a monster.

So imagine my surprise when, upon initially confronting his creation, Frankenstein's monster replies in these words:

“All men hate the wretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things! Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and you at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut in the maw of death, until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends.”

That's right. Frankenstein's monster isn't a shuffling green giant with bolts coming out of his neck who communicates with one groaned word at a time. He's an athletic, acrobatic, eloquent philosopher who manages to teach himself how to talk, think and reason just by observing a family from a distance.

Again, I was quite happy with the images that sprang to mind when someone said “Frankenstein”. The reality, though, is infinitely preferable to my perceptions.

Then there's Phileas Fogg, who never once uses a hot air balloon in his journey Around The World in 80 Days. And Captain Nemo, who doesn't travel to a depth of 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea. Rather he journeys a distance of 20,000 leagues.

My dad hasn't seen Titanic. Every time he's asked about it, he jokes “I know how it ends!” The implication is that there's no need to see a film if you know the ending.

I've passed over so many books of which I've already seen the film adaptations. Similarly, there have been many times when a preconception has made me somehow reluctant to watch a film or listen to an album.

It has been proven to me, numerous times, that even if it doesn't differ so much, the experience always outweighs the expectation.

I wonder how many life-affirming, mind-expanding, soul-enriching or just plain entertaining experiences I've denied myself as a result of skewed perception?

Dancing To Architecture Part 2 - Gateways To Obsession

Continuing my dubious denouement of Nick Hornby's 31 Songs, I'd like to call your attention to something.

No, please, stay with me. This is interesting. You might like where I'm going with this.

This is Nick Hornby in reference to his love for Rod Stewart. Ignore his irritating and outmoded tendency to refer to all music that isn't jazz or classical as "pop music" and look at this:

“...the people who stick with pop music the longest...are those who entrust themselves at a tender age to somebody like Stewart, somebody who was clearly a fan himself. Those who fell for The Stones got to hear, if they could be bothered, Arthur Alexander and Solomon Burke and Don Covay...Zeppelin fans might have been moved to seek out Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf.”

Remember, Hornby believes that those whose opinions differ to his don't really like music. Witness:

“The antecedents of Yes and Genesis were Pink Floyd, and before that nobody much, really, and that was, in retrospect, part of the reason I didn't like them very much. The music felt airless and synthetic, and it seemed even then as if all the prog rockers would rather have been classical musicians, as if pop were beneath them, somehow. They led you up a blind alley; there was nowhere to go.”

OK. Ignoring, for one moment, the fact that Pink Floyd's very name is derived from two old bluesmen (the work of Pink Anderson and Floyd Council could therefore be considered as highly valid antecedents to Pink Floyd), what's wrong with a rock musician aspiring to be a classical musician? Nothing much, really.

Hornby claims to dislike prog rock because it's a “blind alley”. Once you've listened to the big names, there's nowhere else to go.

This is nothing short of absolute horsetwaddle. Beyond the classical and avant-garde composers from which prog rockers ostensibly took their cues (Hornby evidently believes that such music is beneath him), it's important to remember that a major antecedent to prog was psychedelica. Psych is to prog what punk is to New Wave; and psyche is an ocean of considerable depth into which millions of intrepid musical obsessives delve every day.

With psyche, you've got a vast pantheon that thrived on both sides of the Atlantic. For just the very apex of the iceberg, think of The Kinks, The Beatles and The Who in the UK; Jefferson Airplane, Jimi Hendrix and The Grateful Dead in the US. Each of those bands offer a unique entry-point into a vast world of new musical discoveries, and you'll have a vastly different experience depending on where you happen to start. The Grateful Dead alone must surely have enough material to keep you happy for life.

And every single one of these musicians took inspiration from expansive swathes of roots, folk, country, blues etc; again from both sides of the Atlantic. Also, going on at the same time was a vibrant scene of bands who might only have recorded and released one single before fading into obscurity. So if the past holds no interest for you, why not explore the present? Nuggets is just a tiny, tiny bite of something immense. That's why they called it Nuggets. And trace a path forwards from Nuggets and you get to garage rock, punk, New Wave, indie...

So you see, even if you use Pink Floyd as an entry-point, you've got enough musical exploration to be getting on with to nourish you for a lifetime.

From this we can draw two conclusions. First of all we can reiterate that Hornby is a pretentious bore who, when you apply even a base amount of scrutiny to his assertions, clearly doesn't have the slightest idea what he's talking about.

Second, we can conclude that, if you like music enough, it really doesn't matter where you begin. Any band, scene, musician or genre can act as a viable entry-point into an obsession just as deep as Hornby's. Just as deep, but if you grew up with internet access, your love will likely be a lot more open-minded.

To illustrate my point, I'd like to talk about my own entry-point into what I already know will be a lifelong obsession with music (and not just “pop music”).

I believe I started with Radiohead. I still consider them my favourite band, and one major reason as to why I continue to value them above all others is because it's now possible to view them as the centre of an immense hub from which everything else I love stems. I could likely trace any band or musician I value back, in some way, to my early love for Radiohead.

It began when my brother bought the Paranoid Android single from a street vendor in Glastonbury (the town, not the festival). That song, and the two b-sides (Polyethylene pts. 1-2 and Pearly) would sow some highly potent seeds, but things wouldn't take off in earnest until the release of Amnesiac. You And Whose Army?, heard on a Q best of the year CD, was unlike anything I'd ever heard before. You could say it blew my mind.

I saved up for, bought and immersed myself in the album. It was the start of something beautiful, and I freely acknowledge the role of the internet in kindling my love. I would scour online archives for hours for any material pertaining to Radiohead, and as I went I was making an unconscious mental note of any and all bands or artists listed as influences or descendents.

In this way I got into Aphex Twin and, as a result, most everyone on the W.A.R.P roster. Brian Eno, too, and Jeff Buckley. Remixers such as Four Tet and Zero 7. Krautrockers such as Can, Faust and Kraftwerk. Contemporaries such as Martin Grech, Beck, Sigur Ros and Clinic. In recent years I've started to discover the daunting but enthralling world of jazz. Call me a philistine if you must, but I entered via the very sounds referenced by Radiohead – John Coltrane, Charles Mingus, Miles Davies – the same names that get everyone into jazz, surely; but I know that I might never have even considered making the leap were it not for Radiohead.

But perhaps most importantly, my love for Radiohead made me pay more attention to the music to which I already had access. Adventurous 90s guitar bands such as Blur, The Auteurs and Super Furry Animals wouldn't hold nearly as much sway over me were it not for Radiohead; whilst my parents' Pink Floyd and Genesis albums (on which I had basically been raised) suddenly seemed a lot more interesting.

So I got into prog rock. I even considered Radiohead to be prog rock. For a long time, I referred to myself as a prog rock fan. I still do, but for a long time I was all about the prog. The proggier the better.

And from there – well, see above.

If the potential for deep musical appreciation is within you, it doesn't matter in the slightest where you start. If it's in you, through an insatiable need for sustenance, you'll eventually find your way to achieving that ideal state – a love for music that's free from the artificial constraints of time, space and cool.

Nick Hornby thinks he's there, but he isn't. How can we tell? Well. Because he doesn't see how genres he dislikes (classical, prog etc.) can be worlds in themselves – worlds which are, importantly, inexorably linked to that which he values so much. And even if they aren't linked, they're no less valuable. And because he can't see that, well. I hate to say it, but it might be the case that he doesn't really like music at all.