Wednesday, June 24, 2009
KNICKERLESS
The whole world is reeling in shock over the announcement that NME editor Conor McKnickerless is leaving the job after twenty seven fruitful years at the helm.
This is Conor:
Oh, hold on, that isn't Conor at all - it's one of them other mop haired *young* people in their thirties - that's television and radio's George Lamb. This is the Rill Conor:
This is Conor:
Oh, hold on, that isn't Conor at all - it's one of them other mop haired *young* people in their thirties - that's television and radio's George Lamb. This is the Rill Conor:
Conor has said on Twitter that he's "sad to leave, but it's time to move on to pastures new", and that he has "other irons in the fire" and "the sky's the limit" although he's "gutted to leave behind so many work colleagues who are worth their weight in gold" who have "become like family to me".
It emerged that he is now taking over the editorship of Family Circle - the magazine that always used to be at the supermarket checkout with baked Alaskas and summer pavlovas on the front cover, before it was replaced by Heat and its bewildering headlines about nonentities from Big Brother who are looking *curvy* in their bikini on holiday.
Conor has said that he intends to lift Circle back to the dizzying heights of its 1970's success with "the sort of bland generic journalism that has become familiar to readers of the monthly Sky magazine".
Um, anyways, Conor is editing Family Circle and music journalism has been left BEREFT.
A shame really, as British music is stronger than it has been for years. With exciting but polite new young bands such as The Dibs, The Dabs, The Dobs, and crazy bohemian flame haired "ladies" such as Florence Machine and Danny La Roux, who can really distill the excitement and sell it to nice fifteen year olds who still think going to see shit bands in shit venues is the best thing that life has to offer?
It seems appropriate that McKnickerless is leaving the NME just before indie music's blue riband event - Glastonbury. It almost seems like a protest resignation. Glastonbury is supposedly an underground festival, but this year's headliners - Joan Baez, James Taylor and Buddy Guy - make a mockery of the idea that it appeals to the young and disaffected of Britain.
The NME must lead the way and appoint an urchin from the streets who loves and knows music inside out so that there is a Brave New Dawn.
No, I haven't got a fucking clue either. I can remember when the NME used to be a broadsheet called The New Musical Express And Jazz Magazine and there used to be a 500,000 word dissertation on Cold War Paranoia by Ian MacDonald in the middle, or a diatribe by Mick Farren where he stated that "Rock 'n' roll is like The Titanic, man, it's sinking, and the only band that's gonna save us is Ducks Deluxe" etc., etc.
Shoot me. I'm old and in the way.
Labels: Buddy Guy, Conor McKnickerless, Family Circle, Glastonbury, Ian MacDonald, James Taylor, Joan Baez, NME
