Joe Sparrow : Embrace nostalgia carefully to build the community you love (and thought you’d lost)

If the past is a foreign country, as L. P. Hartley said, then the nitty-gritty of what happened – the conversations, the opinions, the mindless trivia – live in a dusty cabinet in the furthest corner of a foreign museum. This is the stuff that’s ignored, lost and forgotten by most, but the devoted will work their way down the corridors to peer through the glass just one more time. 

This is nostalgia.

Nostalgia is revitalising. Or nostalgia is dangerous. Nostalgia is like drinking: a little at the right time can lift the spirits and reconnect your ego with your values, your past joys and triumphs. Too much, too often, is deadly to your vitality, muffling your connection with now, and stifling happiness. That is also nostalgia.

When we look backwards, it’s only natural that we see the landmark events, and skip from one to another to design the simplest story which lets us understand how things happened back then. Life’s too big to stop and sift through all the ins and outs of every conversation that happened.

Or is it? 

To extend the tortured museum metaphor, we’re all highly-knowledgable expert curators of a very, very specific niche in the Museum of Everything. Your niche can be whatever you like: the various haircuts sported by J-Hope from BTS,  the Automeris subfamily of moths, late Victorian-era Canadian Anglican bishops, the early records by Swedish recording artist Robyn, whatever. 

In these areas, we find the chit-chat, the debate, the details, the minutiae, innately fascinating. This is also nostalgia.

True nostalgia is a prism to view a very personal past that reveals the path to our very personal future.

Revelling in the minutiae of your niche, done right, is the good kind of nostalgia. And reader, I indulged. 

Feeling slowed down to a crawl by the lumbering weight of an extended period of hard work, I self-prescribed a strategic slice of nostalgia, and bought, for €2.90, the July 1st, 1995 issue of Melody Maker, the deceased UK music weekly newspaper. It came in the post, two days later, in a plastic wrapper. It had never been read. It still smelled, faintly, of new ink.

A reminder: good nostalgia is *niche*. I don’t need to justify this purchase. 

The Melody Maker doesn’t mean much to most people any more. A weekly music newspaper that always lingered in the shadow of its more famous rival the NME, the Melody Maker’s wiki page is now a whistle-stop summation of a 75-year publication. 

But, every Thursday between the years of about 1995 and 1999, I would walk to school or college a slightly different route, in order to pass a particular newsagent who received their delivery of ‘Makers in the morning, and I’d lift an inky copy off the pile, plop 75p down on the counter, and head to school, reading the first few pages on the way.

(See – that’s a nostalgic passage right there. No mention of the rain that accompanied the walk, no mention of the dreaded rugby game that awaited on Thursday mornings, no teenage angst, nothing. Nostalgia is an escape drug, remember.)

A quick eulogy follows for the Melody Maker.

I guess I chose to read the Melody Maker partly because it wasn’t the NME, and partly because it was a grab-bag of contradictions. It openly criticised the bands that I loved (the scathing review of Oasis’s “What’s The Story…,” ended with the words, “they sound knackered,” and I went out and bought it anyway), yet it still had all the interviews and photos of these same bands that I hankered after, because the paper knew which side their bread was buttered. 

Writers like Simon Price, Neil Kulkarni, Everett True et al were outspoken, and disagreed with each other in amusingly colourful language. The articles took every opportunity to divert me from the drudge of the new Meanswe@r single to the visceral thrills of then-emerging music like jungle, “speed garage” and US hip-hop. (The best-reviewed album on 1st July 1995 was Mobb Deep’s brilliant “The Infamous”, an LP that had, until yesterday, escaped my ears for 23 years.)

In short, Melody Maker immediately shaped my teenage years, how I viewed the thing I loved most – music – and, because of that, the rest of my life. 

Now, in an age when I receive music news and reviews from a million different drab sources, weekly music newspapers are an antiquity. In 1995, it was one of a small handful of sources for music news: two weekly newspapers, a few monthly mags, and a scattering of trusted radio shows.

Re-reading Melody Maker now reveals the pros and cons of this one-stop shop. 

On one hand, everything is in one place, curated by thoughtful experts with strong opinions, and with a remit to keep exploring for me, the reader. It’s funny, informed, and feels true.

On the other hand, where are the unfiltered voices that we now hear loudest of all via social media – those of of the artists and the listeners? Where is the unfettered opportunity for each and every DIY artist to promote themselves on an equal footing without becoming part of the machine? 

You can choose which of the above is the “pro” and which is the “con”.

The other thing I learnt by re-reading MM through adult eyes is that it was written with the various communities it served in mind. 

It was written not to merely scratch the itch of the new, but to nurture the lives of groups of people, to stretch them, to change them – because that’s how communities work. They revel in a central passion, and mutate and grow. The MM made readers part of one or more of the gangs represented in its pages.

Today, extreme capitalism has won: we’re all atomised from each other, and everything we say or do is expected to be as a lone individual. Caveat Emptor. Doing things for a community – any community – is not de rigeuer. Communities are about togetherness – and fear is more easily monetisable. Social media influencers shilling slim-tummy teas and appetite-suppressant lollipops are not about togetherness.

Yet nostalgia is, above all, a warm feeling of connection to a clique of people who think and feel like us, and allow us to rail against the normies with our mutual fascination of something that’s ours. Nostalgia allows this: it’s safe, it’s already happened, the contemporary details can be parsed and defined. In the right doses, it’s guaranteed pleasure.

And this is where the details become important. My Melody Maker contained gossip, photos, chatter, bickering and tiny nuggets of period info that you can’t find anywhere else. Their importance felt vital on July 1st 1995, but not in the fullness of time: they have been rightly edited from the bigger story of the period. 

Except… that they were all utterly fascinating to me when reading them today, and would be to anyone else who’d feel the thrill of discovering the first printed mention of a “new song” by Pulp called “Sorted For E’s And Whizz”, complete with mis-heard lyrics, buried in a brief review of Pulp’s now-famed 1995 Glastonbury set.

Nostalgia is a drug. We shouldn’t have too much. But also: everything in moderation, including moderation. Nostalgia is re-living the excitement of when passions were new. And the excitement felt around new passions is the feeling of nostalgia years before it becomes so.

You’re building your future nostalgia right now without realising which parts you’ll be nostalgic for. In that way, nostalgia is happened today, while you’re *holistically living in the moment*, not just when you’re looking back.

And the excitement of nostalgia really does require people to be excited with, however loosely, however remotely. So where do we go to be nostalgic with our gang today? Social media allows us to shout into the wind in the hope that we’ll connect with people like us, but does it really work?

Social media also shoots new looks, ideas, and bandwagons instantly to every place on earth, and it enforces a worldwide smoothing of cultural foibles. It’s hard to imagine a niche music/social scene like – god help us – Grebo happening now, because it’s easier to define yourself by pushing against a small-town local scene than against the global MOR-cabal. 

Social media weaponises nostalgia – but this is not good nostalgia, because good nostalgia is defined by the community that loves Niche Thing X. Nostalgia defined by the gang becomes about an investment of time and money as a consequence. If commerce uses nostalgia as a sales tool, the tail is wagging the dog.

We can reclaim nostalgia for us. But it requires the communities to scrape everything into a pile. Music nostalgia, for instance, is scattered wide across the internet and beyond: tit-bits buried in obscure fan forums; borderline-conspiracy-theory deep-dives shoved into fan-sites that haven’t been updated since 2006; illegal scans of out-of-print books and magazines tweeted and forgotten about; sub-pub-quiz-trivia permanently and uselessly etched in people’s brains.

Everything is out there: the scattered gang members, the desire for a pleasurable wallow, the snippets and tit-bits and chatter, the excitement about springing from our established passions to similar-but-different new ones. 

Bringing it together requires treating music and books and movies differently: each item a narrowband channel that encourages wider exploration. The details of the past can be brought around the object – all the trivia described above could be pinned to the song itself; a totem pole of context, of excitement, of nostalgia. 

Then the community can rally around the thing they love – and jump into the future, together, confident and fulfilled.

Joe Sparrow : Oasis’s “lost” third album: Forever… And A Day


In the new Supersonic documentary, Noel Gallagher reflected that Oasis should have split after their conjoined-twin moment of peak popularity: Knebworth and Be Here Now. He also finally admitted what the rest of us have known for years: the songs Oasis cockily threw away as B-sides should have been used for their third LP instead.

Noel’s right on both fronts. I wondered how things would have panned out had Oasis not released the notorious edifice that masqueraded as Be Here Now.

Use your imaginayyyy-sheeeeeee-uuuurn and jump back to the heady summer of 1997: shortly after Tony strolled into Number 10, and just before Lady Di checked out forever. Here’s what their third, final LP might have been.

For the title, I used a lyric from Don’t Go Away, one of only two Be Here Now tracks that made the cut into this alternative-history LP: Forever… And A Day. (The ellipsis is in there because of Oasis’ habit of dropping wonky punctation into titles.)

Here’s the album as a Spotify playlist. I mocked up the cover from a behind-the-scenes photo of the Be Here Now shoot by Microdot.

Oasis’ Third LP: Forever… And A Day

Whilst shuffling tracks in and out of contention, I wondered what a third Oasis LP meant in 1997. After (What’s The Story) Morning Glory?, after becoming household names and tabloid fodder, after their songs became the rallying call of the ignored majority, and after 4% of the UK applied for tickets to Knebworth.

It turned out that Be Here Now, with cocaine largesse and swagger in the place of tunes, was not what people wanted. In those unusually upbeat and confident times, I think the public simply hankered after more Oasis: a band whose music mirrored those fleeting feelings.

This alternative LP is mainly composed of songs of glory, gumption and grit; songs that howl from the speakers, like Acquiesce. But it also has Noel’s two most touching and tender songs: Talk Tonight and Half The World Away. “Something for the mums,” as a hypothetical full-page Sun review might have tactfully put it.

Appropriately for a band who faced the terrifying might of the UK’s tabloid press and the obliterating power of universal fame head-on, it also has, in Listen Up and It’s Better People, reflective songs that express emotion beyond “let’s fuckin’ ‘ave it!” 

Making the Cut

All the songs off the peerless Some Might Say single are on Forever… And A Day. Even though Noel has spent 20 years denying it, Acquiesce is the only Oasis song that addresses the siblings’ oil-and-water relationship. It’s also the only song where they share lead vocal duties, to astonishing and beautiful effect; it was a shoo-in to open the album.

By the way, the Don’t Look Back In Anger and Wonderwall packages of songs are each almost as good as Some Might Say. Imagine how brutally euphoric the band must have felt to release these 12 songs within a year and to happily consign three quarters of them to gather dust as B-sides.

So there’s a strong argument that the (What’s The Story) Morning Glory? singles box set is in actuality the “real” secret third Oasis LP. Minus songs from that album and live versions/covers, this version of the third album would line up like this, and it’d have been pretty great:

Step Out
Underneath the Sky
Talk Tonight
It’s Better People
Rockin’ Chair
Round Are Way
The Swamp Song
The Masterplan

And entries from Be Here Now itself? A paltry two songs made it on the lifeboat: I Hope I Think, I Know, and Don’t Go Away. They made it because they are good songs, but mainly because they are unusual as their main intentions were not, apparently, to be over-loud and over-long.

B-Side Here Now?

There are no B-sides from any Be Here Now singles on this LP, simply because they’re really poor. It’s painfully sad how they pale in comparison to the B-sides from the first two Oasis albums.

Oasis had recorded covers as B-sides before, and they either felt appropriate (I Am The Walrus) or wry (the even-better-than-the-original Cum On Feel The Noize). Covering “Heroes” and Street Fighting Man is lazy at best, ego-driven at worst – and they’re utterly disposable.

Stay Young almost made it – it has a lovely Liam vocal – and Going Nowhere was jostling too, due to an uncharacteristically gentle horn section. Ultimately though, both suffer from the same dull, flabby, plodding anonymity that clouds most post-Be Here Now Oasis songs.

The depths plumbed are surprising: Flashbax, from All Around The World’s flip, is just average – lazy lyrics, pacing akin to lichen growth, and the drab chord changes you hear at every open mic night. I Got The Fever is anonymous and, in an act so far beyond absurd that it’s essentially rock ‘n’ roll treachery, it nicks the main lyric from Phil Collins’ In the Air Tonight.

Compare the gee’d-up The Fame with Headshrinker (from Some Might Say). The latter is shrill with punk-with-a-capital-P snot and amphetamine; the coked-up Fame is the sound of one big mouth shouting into the void.

Cocaine is one hell of a drug.

Side 2

But what treasure they buried on B-sides before that descent. Step Out is the great “lost” Oasis song, pulled from What’s The Story at the very last minute, and subsequently hidden on the Don’t Look Back In Anger single.

It’s easy to forget how slipping on an early Oasis song provided the equivalent fizzy-blood rush of the best night out, the thrill of a speeding car, or the skin-bursting pleasure of a last minute goal. Step Out is this feeling, over and over.

As Pete Paphides pointed out at the time, in one of the rare accurate, underwhelmed contemporary reviews of Be Here Now, despite their bluster, Oasis had no peers when it came to expressing feelings of vulnerability and limitation.

Don’t Go Away nails this in simple prose: “Damn my education/ I can’t find the words to say/ With all the things caught in my mind.” The ability to articulate working-class frustration was core to Oasis’ appeal, and Don’t Go Away might have been the last song where they truly captured this feeling.

A note on Headshrinker: it’s included as the “Ringo track” at the end. It’s my list; some things don’t need justifying.

And finally: the Official Anthemic Oasis Album Closer. All Around The World *almost* survived because Oasis had been playing it since 1992 and Oasis lore stated that it was always destined for the third album.

But it’s a dud compared with the gloriously superior Masterplan. If this LP was real, and plonked into nearly a million homes within a week of release, maybe this song would have challenged Champagne Supernova as the arms-around-your-aunty song at weddings all over the UK.

I wonder how Oasis might be considered today if they had left no more than a trio of perfect albums in their wake. Noel says they’d be held up alongside the Beatles. On this evidence, for once his words might not be hyperbole.

Ten songs. 45 minutes. Forever… And A Day. History re-written. Almost perfect.


My Big Mouth is my personal favourite off Be Here Now, if only for the sledgehammer effect of 34(!) overdubbed guitars, but it was painfully cut at the last-minute: it sounds a bit hollow when pressed up next to Noel’s killer B’s and Liam’s sweetest vocals.

I left off Noel’s 2016 re-work of D’Yer Know What I Mean, even though it’s a huge improvement. I’d love Noel to re-mix the whole LP…

I momentarily toyed with including Noel’s Chemical Brothers collaboration, Setting Sun, a truly excellent song which would stick out like a sore thumb.

Joe Sparrow : Oasis minus the fun

This is the first of a trio of blog posts that try and grapple with the quad-headed beer-sloshing Manc-monster that was Oasis; partly because the Oasis documentary, Supersonic, is about to be released, and partly because I’ve been on a tragic nostalgia trip and feel the need to flush out my synapses.

Unlike every book on Oasis I have read or could imagine, the Definitely Maybe 33 ⅓ book is deliberately dry, overtly scholarly and entirely — entirely — humour-free. This is an achievement worth dwelling on.

Oasis were a living, breathing smorgasbord of hilariously knuckle-headed rock ’n’ roll escapades: a band, remember, who were once thrown out of Holland before they even stepped off the ferry onto Dutch soil. An argument between Liam and Noel about this incident was so weird and amusing, the recording was released as a single. It got to number 52 in the charts. Even now Noel is now primarily revered for his caution-to-the-wind interviews.

So to ignore all this in order to tell the Oasis story is a bold move. But the dryness has a function for a book that investigates Definitely Maybe from a communitarian perspective. It asserts that Oasis are both a catalyst for, and function of, working class ambition and togetherness. It proposes that Definitely Maybe is one final hurrah of a social group of people in the UK whose voice is now throttled forever.

It turns out that the humourlessness is essential to the book’s success.

(Sometimes the rampantly academic analysis in the 33 ⅓ book leads the argument awry. Do the frequent references to water in the LP’s lyrics hint at a broiling undercurrent of working-class social unrest? Or is it the words of a band – whose lyrics never dug deep in the search for meaning – who happened lived in a notoriously rainy city? HINT: I lived in Manchester for a decade; the year-round drizzle sapped my will and led to dreams of escape, too.)

I’m still not sure if I actually enjoyed the book. It’s not a knockabout laugh-riot. But the parts that caused my to eyes roll also opened them wide, forcing a profound realignment with what Oasis originally meant, before all the chaos and carnage of their runaway success.

And that’s the most important thing about Oasis – what they stood for in the eyes of the people. Not the tunes. The songs were amazing, but they were a vehicle for the point of Oasis.

Oasis mean something to millions of people. Unlike almost any other cultural phenomenon in the UK, when they arrived fully formed and looking for a fight, they wholly represented those millions of people: their hopes, dreams and disappointments. Oasis connected on a subliminal level to the ignored people who form a huge slice of the UK. Oasis means we can vicariously live our lives as rock stars. Oasis are for people tired of seeing the same people from the same social strata being handed the same glory. Oasis fuel the dreams the rest of us dream.

These dreams – of fucking off from the post-industrial-town council estate and showing the world what they could really do, especially if they were given a skinful of beer, some decent clothes and a baggie of grotty coke – had a unifying message: “we’d show them, if only we had a voice.”

Oasis were that voice. Unless you’ve played darts in a dreary pub full of young men with quasi-mod haircuts, Stone Island parkas and an unerring eagerness for a scrap in the car park, you can’t fully understand Definitely Maybe. Perhaps these same frustrated masses channelled the same exasperation into votes for Brexit, too.

And when you put it like that, not all of Definitely Maybe sounds like much fun. Maybe that’s why the book isn’t either.

Joe Sparrow : Blackstar, Big Exit

I can’t remember the last time I truly dug into an album — straining to understand each word, trying to unlock each decision and quantify every sound — as I have with David Bowie’s Blackstar.

It feels horribly glib to say that death was a marketing masterstroke by Bowie; and yet the album is so carefully constructed to frame the end he knew was coming, that it’s probably not as gauche as it might sound.

After overcoming the shock of his death, any prior analysis of Blackstar immediately evaporated. And then, any shock – from the realisation that the true context had been hidden in plain sight all along – was tempered by a feeling of jarring clarity. The control and gracefulness of the LP, and how it addresses death, was obvious.

Compare Bowie’s end with that of another rock star, Lemmy: both were loved and praised since their death, but only one reached the end still innovating, reaching, gambling. Only one entirely controlled the dialogue around his exit.

Most artists’ later output is unremarkable. Instead, Bowie gilded his reputation by producing an album which dallies with invention in a manner unlike any of his work since the late 70s.

And then there’s the lingering feeling that Blackstar — the album, the media and the message around it — is like a puzzle box: something important sits at its heart. But what is it?

There is a lot in Blackstar that knowingly harks back to 1977’s Low. For me, these echoes of Low make Blackstar’s finality even more beautiful and difficult. Low was the first Bowie LP that I really loved, and it’s still my favourite. On Low, a combination of bizarro pop and startling innovation negate the honky-tonk theatricality that dulled my connection to some of his work.

Aside from sharing an overtly experimental approach, Blackstar’s open connection to Low is intriguing. Warszawa’s synth sounds prop up the woozy Lazarus; an immediately recognisable harmonica hook from Low spikes the gut-wrenching final track I Can’t Give Everything Away.

The harmonica hook is taken from the song which marks the point where Low enters a wholly unexpected state. It initiates the transition from art-pop album to otherworldly soundscape. The song is called A New Career In A New Town. 

My neck hairs prickled when the penny finally dropped: Bowie was not simply using his glorious past to frame his present art as on his previous album, he was leveraging meaning from his whole career to frame his future. A new career in a new town.

Whatever lies beyond the end — an afterlife, utter nothingness, anything in between — Bowie is exiting with the nod and a wink of a man comfortable with himself and intrigued by what lies ahead.

As far as a final message goes, Blackstar is almost unbearably beautiful; as a piece of pop music addressing death, it’s an unparalleled statement; as a brazen appraisal of his whole career, it’s breathtaking. His parting gift is a powerful fillip for us all: be fearless, be true to yourself, step into the unknown. I can’t imagine how my approach to life will ever be quite the same now.

I always wanted to meet David Bowie. And in a weird way, after diving into Blackstar, I feel like I have.

Joe Sparrow : The Sandinista! Problem

Classic LPs without context can be excruciatingly hard to “get into.” When I first listened to Exile on Main Street, I found, to my astonishment, that I just couldn’t get into it. This inability was, frankly, a bit befuddling: it’s Exile On Main Street! What am I doing wrong?

I’d listen again and again, but find myself quickly lost in the sheer density of the smoke-and-booze-soaked tracks, and give up. I only persisted because I’d read enough articles which spilt superlatives over Exile on Main Street like blood in a slaughterhouse.

This isn’t the only album where I’ve experienced this feeling: like being the French exchange student in a room of hard-accented English-speaking school-kids. You kind-of understand what’s going on, but all the in-jokes are meaningless. And why are they wearing their ties that way? And why do they prefer Miss Knowles over Mr Brown?

Here are some other LPs that are hard to get into:

  • Sandinista!
  • Brian Eno’s Ambient series
  • Wu-Tang Forever
  • Loveless
  • Duck Rock
  • Metal Machine Music

The key to unlocking these dense, focussed, complex experiences is context: internal and external.

Internal — the question of how the transcendent moments of the album relate to the LP as a whole — is less bothersome: it’s something that comes with time and patience.

External context is more important in terms of access: how the album came to exist, and how the band reached a point where they made it. This part is the story, and it’s this part that stirs people into giving the album a chance in the first place.

In the end, it all clicked. Out of frustration, I’d listen to Beggar’s Banquet immediately prior to Exile… again, and gradually, it began to make sense, albeit without being able to fully enjoy it.

And then one day — appropriately half-way through Shine a Light — it all became stunningly clear how perfect the album was, and what every song meant within the context of all the others, and I sensed how the album came to be, at that point in time, by those people. It felt slightly magical as phrases, riffs and choruses started to fall, Tetris-like, correctly into place.

The thing is that Exile on Main Street isn’t really designed to be an easy LP to get into,  and this is especially true 40-odd years later. It’s a double album, for a start, and double albums are by definition obtuse and overwhelming.

This bothers me even more today, when the playlist is king, and the focus is almost entirely on individual songs. Who has the time or inclination to listen to a 20-track LP, in a world where every song should be a stand-alone hit?

Initially — and for many fruitless years — Sandinista! felt like a complicated mess. With perseverance, I started to see Sandinista! as the technicolour cousin to the Clash’s previous work. Where their prior LPs were relatively straightforward and black and white (and brilliant), Sandinista! is ultra-confident, lithe, experimental and funky. It’s a better album, and it’s more difficult because of it.

This experience is paralleled in a comparison between Beggars’ Banquet and Exile on Main Street: both brilliant, both stuffed with perfect songs, but where the first is essentially an album full of pop songs (albeit dirty, gritty ones), the second is imbued with a soulfulness that sets it apart.

Individual songs might be automatically timeless, but albums — especially challenging or exceptional ones — are not. And yet albums offer the richer listening experience. They need work and patience and understanding. What is the best way to embed context into music for a new generation of listeners?

Joe Sparrow : Against The Grain: Grand Royal Magazine

I recently started a new job and had to share some #FunFacts about me with my new colleagues.

Racking my brain for suitable candidates was a much more fraught experience than I expected. Banality and humblebrags lurked at each turn, primed to translate my initial contact with 80 new workmates into a flurry of get-a-load-of-this-jerk emails.

The faintest whiff of desperation clung to my choices, all the same. One of them was this:

3) I have spent a moderately embarrassing amount of money collecting all but the first issue of Beastie Boys’ Grand Royal magazine. (If you have a copy, please email me! :) )

Besides that heinous bracketed addendum, something else odd happened. It turns out that Grand Royal is a secret handshake: prising open societal loopholes and thrusting co-conspirators into a world of boyish* enthusiasm over odd stuff. 

New colleagues who I’d not even met, let alone learnt the names of, sidled up to me in the kitchen, initiating wide-eyed conversations about weird hip-hop cuts, Stüssy T-shirts and limited edition Adidas footwear. One conspiratorially rolled up his sleeve to show me a blue, limited edition wristwatch that had a photo of Mike D in a captain’s hat on the face.

I cooed pathetically over it; all because I’d mentioned a magazine that was published, sporadically, over six increasingly odd issues at the end of the last millennium.

Some people who didn’t know anything much about the B-Boys asked about Grand Royal, interested in the furtive conversations they’d seen. The first issue — I explained —  is almost impossible to get hold of, as they only printed a few thousand, and you don’t really see them outside of the USA. 

About once a year, they pop up on eBay, I continued, and I was bidding on a copy once, but I bowed out when bidding topped £200. (It turns out that one true hero has put the PDF of issue #1 online now.)

These interested parties often pronounced the magazine “Grand Royale”, with an “E”: Grand Roy-al.

I don’t correct them, because I too mispronounced it this way in 1997 when, in the Hanley branch of Mike Lloyd Music (RIP), I first saw a copy of Grand Royal (possibly issue 4, but maybe issue 6), which I later regretted not buying.

Also, I remember feeling silly when someone cool corrected me: of course it’s Grand-Royal-without-an-“E”; I must be conflating the name with that “Royale with cheese” bit in Pulp Fiction.

But looking back, I wonder if that connection between the Beastie Boys’ magazine and QT’s 90s movie behemoth is some sort of holistic proto-logic, surfacing from the depths of my consciousness.

Look at the similarities: Grand Royal and Pulp Fiction both are cultural grab-bags penned by outsider auteurs; cut-and-paste scrapbooks of hyper-aware creative madmen.

Bear with me here: on one hand Tarantino breathes life back into John Travolta, Little Green Bag, and Jheri Curls; on the other, three hyperactive hip-hop heads fund ten page Demolition Derby special features, cut-out-and-keep cardboard jeeps with protruding bass units, and interviews with Russell Simins pretending to be Russell Simmons.

Brimming with the skittering confidence of auteurs at their creative peaks, both QT and the Beasties transformed the obscure into the ultra-cool, and flipped the old into the new; all through a weird cross-cultural alchemy.

Grand Royal’s wild mix of this, that and the other has rarely been replicated in a magazine format, and it’s probably not even been fully replicated on the web — the perfect home for this kind of verge-of-ludicrous scrapbooking.

Today, maybe the curated best-of-the-web über-blogs like Boing Boing and Kotkke, or the quasi-gonzo output of Gawker, are closest in spirit to Grand Royal.

Some of the Grand Royal-isms — like bizarro meta-interviews with Weird Al — would (and do) comfortably sit on Gawker: this is a huge media platform that runs a blog written by a dog, after all.

However, I can imagine others — “Joey Buttafuoco’s back To School Wear For ’93” — being greeted with furrowed brows and short shrift.

Grand Royal was blogging before blogging: whatever the Beasties wanted in the mag went in the mag. I’m pretty sure some stuff they didn’t want in the mag went in too, simply because it had nowhere else to go and they figured it was the right thing to do.

This approach seems a simple reflex action today, when populating your Tumblr feed with whatever makes you you is a frictionless, instinctive action. But in 1996, it was a fairly revolutionary tactic, particularly on an international, high-profile platform.

Grand Royal ultimately could not sustain itself: three rich pop stars propped it up and then they moved on to new whizz-bang ideas.

And now, surely it’s time for a Grand Royal rebirth: 2015’s world of push-notifications, oddball niche Twitter streams and chuck-it-online-and-see-what-happens Buzzfeed listicles seems specifically designed to deliver Grand Royal’s mad excess in a way that might finally pay off. I’d subscribe in a  heartbeat.

*I know, I know, “boyish”. I’ve not met any women who are Grand Royal aficionados, but they are obviously out there, and I’m looking forward to greeting them with the same secret GR handshake.

Joe Sparrow : I thought I got a tiny glimpse into what being a woman in the music industry is like, but of course I never will

Not long ago, the brilliant, award-winning singer-songwriter Beth Orton mentored a group of 14 emerging musicians, singers, songwriters, and performers.

The week of learning and songwriting culminated in a one-off collaborative gig at Band On The Wall in Manchester. Beth was inspirational, the participants were bold. It was great.

The pride at making the project happen successfully was palpable at the end-of-week show. Happiness radiated from the stage, and was reflected back at them. Praise rippled through the crowd; press coverage was deservedly wide and glowing.

One of the key elements that immediately hooked me in was its unique specification: all participants were to be exclusively female.

I worked on the PR side of the project, and on the very first day, I made sure I found an excuse so that I had a semi-plausible reason to visit. I slipped into a few of Band On The Wall’s rooms. Tentative rehearsals had begun, and I lingered a little longer than I usually would.

The songs and sounds were already eye-openingly lovely, after only a few hours of the project beginning. The atmosphere was happy, productive, open and enlightened.

Everyone was working in supportive harmony. It was so different to so many events in the music biz, which can sometimes be fraught, or the people stand-offish, or both. I stepped into the lift, effusing about how great the whole thing was, and then a thought stopped me mid-sentence.

It was this: apart from me, one member of staff and my colleague Liam, everyone in the building was a woman.

The staff, the organisers, the in-house PR people, the interns, the head of event organiser Brighter Sound, the participants, the sound and tech people, Beth Orton: all women, all busy milling round, working hard, learning and laughing.

I’ve spent a few years both working in and hanging around the edges of the music industry. When you go to where music is happening, women are always the minority.

Something was fundamentally different here.

It felt different, it looked different and it sounded different. Warmer. Experimental. More kind. Less bull-headed. I wandered around, a minority for once, and a couple of things struck me.

Firstly: this feeling of being a minority might be a tiny — minuscule — taste of how it feels to be a women in the music biz. Except without any of the hassle, the testosterone, the aggro, the misogyny and the judgment.

(So, of course, my experience wasn’t anything like it at all.)

And secondly, a reminder of how easy men have it: not only in the music business, but in life.

In the midst of a euphoric after-show party, I spoke to one of the artists who took part, and she told me that what she had found most liberating about the all-woman environment was not the fact that it was “giving women a chance” — a slightly patronising idea, in truth — but that the whole project had been so intensely, overwhelmingly supportive.

“There was no competitiveness,” she said, “we just worked all day to help each other achieve things that we didn’t know we were able to do.”

She then told me something that made me sad, and then told me something else that made me sadder. She said that if men had been able to take part in the mentoring week, she probably wouldn’t have applied, because of the unspoken pressure women feel in a room of men.

I paused.

Then she told me that she’d already identified a vulnerable younger artist she wanted to help and protect from men in the music business, “because, well, you know what those men are like.”

I do know what those men are like.

I wondered if I’d done enough over the years to provide a supportive environment for women, and had to admit that I hadn’t. Not many of us had.

Joe Sparrow : ALBUMMED

The Album is Dead. No, really, it is. Everyone’s saying it.

Just this week, Taylor Swift’s label proved how deader-than-disco the album is, first by refusing to allow her new album on Spotify, and then by stroppily pulling the rest of her collection from the service.

Newspapers said that she was, “Taking a stand against streaming revenues.”

She wasn’t.

Actually, by acknowledging that she’d make more money in the first few weeks by flogging CDs and downloads at $8+ per unit, she was hammering the last few nails in the coffin of the old album system.

Look, people aren’t stupid – even though the recording industry cartel treated us as such for decades – and the reason why people want to stream stuff and not buy it is obvious: why pay a lot for one thing, when you can get more of it, more easily, for cheaper?

Yet Taylor Swift has proven that at the highest level, the old mindset prevails – get ’em to pay the old amounts for the album. We’ll make millions!

And why not –  it’ll work, for a bit, for artists the size of Taylor Swift. She’ll sell a million LPs – to parents of kids who want the album, or to obsessives, or to people uncomfortable/unaware of streaming.

Meanwhile, the rest will wait for her album to pop up on Spotify in a few inevitable months, and in the meantime, they’ll watch “Shake it Off” on Youtube – the biggest streaming platform which generates less money per stream than Spotify – and then will go and stream Lorde’s album or something instead.

I’m more concerned about what an album is, and what it means if it actually is dead.

Which, err, it isn’t.

Besides wondering what happens to the, “what was the first LP you bought?” conversations, the Death Of The Album postulation has all sorts of other problems with it.

Will the majority of people buy LPs in the future? No. Will they just want playlists of their #fave #bangers?

Yes – just like they always have. That’s why the Now! That’s What I Call Music CDs always sold zillions, and why mixtapes are still a thing.

Album buying will be a large-niche activity for ten thousand, discrete, intimate reasons which will never be satiated by a Spotify playlist.

Here are two of them.

1) Teleportation. Whenever I listen to Underworld’s “Second Toughest In The Infants” – which I listened to a lot when I lived in New York City – I’m instantly and viscerally yanked back to the cold winter streets of Greenpoint’s grubby tip; and I can feel my hands pulling the collar of my ludicrous red dress coat close to my lips against the dry, biting air.

Malcolm McLaren’s “Duck Rock” teleports me back to hanging around on the Subway stations of the G Line.

Primal Scream’s “Vanishing Point” plops me back into the hot summer of 1997, vibrant with teen energy.

And so on.

2) True understanding. The difference between digging into an album and simply adding songs to a playlist is the difference between owning a volume of poetry and enjoying a single poem.*

I never liked Sarah Lucas‘ art. My friends at art school thought she was a genius.

Meanwhile, I struggled: she was the YBA I Couldn’t Figure Out. I got her work. I admired it. But I didn’t love it.

And then, a few months ago, I saw her retrospective at the Whitechapel gallery in London.

And there it was, piece after piece, filling the room: sexually-charged penis sculptures flopping against concrete sofas; sinewy sculpture shoved up next to stained matresses; teak tables supporting limp, cold fried eggs; thick grease smudging graphically obscene wallpaper.

Hits mixed with album tracks. Killer next to filler. Pop classics rubbing up to odd misfits.

The show made her ideas blindingly obvious for the first time. In a context she had invented, pushing it all into one space. It all made sense.

*I loathe poetry, but a metaphor is a metaphor

Joe Sparrow : Everything, everything

My friend Neil is listening to to every single mp3 he possesses, in artist alphabetical order, and then tweeting about it.

Neil has a lot of mp3s: he started months ago, and he’s only just reached the Manic Street Preachers. He’s got a long way until he reaches that Zwan LP he now regrets downloading.

Significant obstacles have arisen en route: he’s a Eurovision fan and owns an mp3 of every single Eurovision song entry ever, which made for a harrowing couple of weeks spent listening to borderline insane Greek disco songs from 1974 et al.

From the outside, reading his tweets, a number of concepts have been brought viscerally to life. Mainly that methodically working through a vast list of songs, many of which the listener feels utterly ambivalent about, is an almost diabolical exercise in self-abuse.

But it also made me think a lot about ownership, especially of music. (By “ownership”, I don’t mean music that has been purchased, just music you can reach out and hold – whether CD, vinyl or on a hard drive.)

It strikes me that the mere act of selecting to keep music “offline” is slightly defiant act today. It’s almost comical that clarifying the “offline” part is needed here, such is the ubiquity of streaming music now.

Forgotify was set up because someone discovered that over four million of the songs on Spotify had never, ever been played – and in a fit of sympathy, they built a website that ensures you are the first person ever to stream one of those songs.

Forgotify has been around for months now. There are still over four million unplayed songs on Spotify. That’s how much music there is on Spotify.

What does “owning” the music even mean now? You don’t need to, unless you’re enormously paranoid about the possibility of your favourite Shampoo LPs being deleted from the internet. (Neil owns all the Shampoo LPs, by the way, but not because of paranoia.)

I guess, as Neil is finding out – and revealing via Twitter – that the simple act of owning things that matter to you scratches some deep itch.

And, as Neil is also discovering, ownership is a reminder of past decisions made: downloading the entire Bowie back catalogue sounds like a great plan until you reach Tin Machine.

But mainly, it is a reminder of the value of a finite collection over infinite possibilities.

You could feasibly save tens of metres of shelf space, and giga/terabytes of disk space if you converted the songs you love into a simple playlist to be streamed.

But where is the fun in that? And would you really add Boom Bang-a-Bang to it?

Joe Sparrow : The Kids are all right

Idly spooling through products on Amazon, trying to find something cheap to make my order up to £10 and thus claim free delivery, I felt a weird flashback.

“Ten years ago,” it occurred to me, “I would choose a bunch of CDs online, click ‘order’, and wait four days for them to arrive.”

“How gauche,” I thought.

What was most odd about this recollection was that I didn’t even consider the ten years or so before that, when the act of finding and purchasing music meant that I – a wan teenage schoolboy – would walk to Mike Lloyd’s record shop after school, and physically flick-flack through CDs.

I could afford about one a month. CDs were about 15 quid.

Thus I only very occasionally gambled on an album because of the cover, or an odd band name; on the whole, I went by the reviews in the Melody Maker.

Looking back, I can see that a lot of the emotion I have amassed for LPs released around that time was invested in the subsequent walk-up to the counter.

I’m about to spend all this money on this CD I haven’t heard: what if it’s only a 6/10?

Those days are so far gone, I don’t even reminisce about them any more.

This is what progress really feels like, fifteen years on: nothing at all.

Last year, for a day a week, I taught a hundred-odd 18-year old students on a Music Business course.

The lessons were a two-way street: I revealed how much money they will realistically make in comparison to their feverish rock star/yacht-moored-in-Ibiza dreams, and they opened my eyes to how kids their age regard music.

It was great fun, and extremely bracing work; although sometimes I wondered if we were a mutual focus group established to cause each other occasional twinges of disappointment.

So how do #teens find music now – and what do they use to listen to it?

Well, the latter question was easy: they use Youtube and Spotify, and that’s it.

None – literally none – choose to listen to music radio even once a week, although some admitted that they tell people that they do.

None pay for Spotify. Some pay for bonus editions of LPs they‎ already like.

And how do they find the music in the first place, in an era of ubiquitous, instant album reviews that cost nothing to read and are written for nothing?

Generally, they all mumbled a bit about “Facebook” and “recommendations from friends” but none had a really firm, tried-and-true method.

Some thought they might have used Spotify playlists now and then, but on the whole all of them voiced what felt like a collective shrug – as if even they didn’t know how they discovered music.

Is it possible to enter a post-music-discovery age? Will careful pondering and considered exploration go out with a whimper?

Or are they being induced to listen to new music in a brand new way, so subliminal, so sneaky, so in tune with now that they – and the rest of us – haven’t even noticed what it is yet?

Is this what progress feels like whilst it’s happening: nothing at all?

all posts

11The Target Shoots Next
10The Target Shoots First
23Some things I have written for Music Ally
22MONTAG: an infinite magazine

6Embrace nostalgia carefully to build the community you love (and thought you’d lost)
23Selected posts from MONTAG Issue 1

15Spot the gif-ference*

9Oasis’s “lost” third album: Forever… And A Day
28Oasis minus the fun
24Blackstar, Big Exit

25The Sandinista! Problem
28Gifting Music
6How NYPD Blue is the Instagram of cop shows
24Against The Grain: Grand Royal Magazine
9Simon Cowell, political agitator
11I thought I got a tiny glimpse into what being a woman in the music industry is like, but of course I never will
29Gray’s Papaya
5Surf’s Up; or Surf’s Everywhere, all the time

22Everything, everything
8The Kids are all right
19Why I (almost) killed A New Band A Day
4I just figured out why I love pop music…
29Music streaming, scarcity and breadth vs. depth
26Scale x Time: How Spotify Works Right Now [Part 1]
18Are Sleaford Mods the best band in the UK? (Yes.)
7Bearable wearables
4Narrow and deep: the undead album, and seeing work in context
16Super-local socialism and disappearing Diners: New York City’s cowardly rush for gentrification
15A couple of paragraphs from an email I wrote to a friend about Tommy Ramone’s death, and rock fetishism