Marcus Berkmann

As in real life, it’s considered faintly reprehensible in music to have a sweet tooth. Greens are good for you, and so is The Velvet Underground, but right now I’m thinking about going up to the shop at the end of the road and buying a packet of Maltesers, having just listened to a Take That album. I can’t believe I have just written those words. If you had told me ten years ago that not only would I voluntarily listen to a Take That album in 2008, but that it would also be my own copy, which I had bought with my own money, I think I would have assumed that some form of early-onset dementia was about to take hold.

The Guardian had an interesting — and, frankly, terrifying — piece the other day by Nick Coleman, the Independent’s long-serving and shamelessly cerebral rock critic. I used to know Nick slightly: we talked drivel on the same radio show for a while a dozen years ago, and he wrote a piece about my first cricket book, in which he described me as ‘faintly posh and indefatigably sunny’, a combination of words that makes my girlfriend fall about to this day. Actually, I liked him a lot: he has an incredibly dry sense of humour and loves music to his core. And a terrible thing has happened to him. Without warning, or apparent reason, he has lost his hearing in one ear.

Where do you find your music? Yes, I know, you go to the CD rack and there it is. Or, if you are as obsessed as some of us, you go into almost any room in the house and there is a pile of the stuff, because you can’t get rid of any of it, even the long-unplayed mid-period Elvis Costello CDs of everyone’s worst nightmares. But that’s not what I mean. Where do you find your new music, the stuff you haven’t heard before? There’s a vast quantity out there, waiting to be discovered. Where do you go looking for it? If you have very mainstream tastes, of course, you’re fine. The major record labels, although collapsing in a heap around us, persist in launching new artists who they hope will appeal to millions and millions of people.

One of the rudest things you can ever say about a pop record is that it’s overproduced. We have all said it at some point in our lives, often before the age of 20, when you must repeatedly demonstrate to your contemporaries that you can hear the subtle differences between, say, Deep Purple and Boney M. In the punk years and afterwards, ‘overproduced’ was often used to describe any record that had been produced at all. In the late 1980s, though, overproduction became the norm. Bands like Tears For Fears were famous for spending weeks perfecting a computerised drum sound, when really a long holiday on a beach somewhere would have done them more good. More recently, overproduced has become a euphemism for ‘this band is using considerable quantities of cocaine’.

I see Squeeze have reformed and are touring again. In fact, there don’t seem to be many bands who haven’t reformed and aren’t touring again. Out there on the road: that’s where the cash is. There seems to be a particular process here. 1. Band splits up in a spirit of mutual enmity and recrimination. 2. Principals embark on solo careers of varying success. 3. World forgets about band. 4. Principals, interviewed in rock press, express undying hatred for each other. 5. Accountant has quiet word in ear. 6. Fifty-date world tour is announced. It’s strange to think that, 20 years or so ago, bands toured to promote the record. Now they make a record to promote the tour. Is anyone really interested in a new Rolling Stones album?

Oh, to be an Early Adopter. They are the marketing man’s friends. Oh, to be an Early Adopter. They are the marketing man’s friends. Early Adopters buy only the latest thing, they are up to the minute, maybe even up to the second, these crazed opinion-formers whose reckless compulsion to spend all their money on rubbish keeps the global economy ticking over. You can’t compete with an Early Adopter, and who would want to? Myself, I am a Late Adopter. I don’t own a mobile phone, I can’t drive and I only acquired a DVD player last Christmas. (And didn’t plug it in for six weeks.) In July it was my birthday. What did I want? An iPod, of course.

If this column has any overarching theme, it’s that critics know nothing and shouldn’t be trusted. (Which obviously applies to me as much as to anyone.) But this intransigent suspicion of mine does create difficulties. In the never-ending search for the next fantastic record I didn’t know existed, I will look anywhere and consult anyone for advice, which in practice often means scouring the reviews by punters on Amazon. Book reviews on this website, as all writers know, are usually contributed by our friends, our rivals, our enemies and our agents, but the record reviews are much more varied and informative.

It’s always a problem, comparing a new band with others who have gone before. Critics have to do it, defining the new in terms of the old, because there has to be some way of describing the indescribable. But I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been caught, having read somewhere that someone was the new Squeeze or XTC or Nick Drake or Electric Light Orchestra or any of several others. Gullible fool that I am, I believe every word. You buy the CD without pausing to listen to the little 30-second snippet of each song they offer you on Amazon (because you know they never sound right and will only put you off), the CD arrives, you tear it open in a frenzy and it’s just the usual underwritten indie sludge that sounds a bit like The Velvet Underground.

The Spectator’s pop critic looks back on 20 years It suddenly occurs to me, with a jolt, that I have been writing about pop music for The Spectator for 20 years. This makes me the fifth (or possibly sixth, since I am bound to have forgotten someone) longest continuously serving columnist on the magazine, which isn’t bad going, as one or two columnists I know have been carried out of here feet first, promising to file their next one by Tuesday lunchtime with their last worldly breath. It’s all the more bizarre as it stems from something said a quarter of a century ago by a friend of mine called Peter, who these days doubles as a highly respected indie rock guitarist and a rather more louche publisher of philosophy books.

How pleasant it has been to hear songs from the new Norah Jones album on the radio these past few weeks. Soft, deftly performed, vaguely jazzy in that way that everyone likes, these latest songs sound almost completely indistinguishable from the songs on her first two albums. And why not? Those first two albums sold 31 million copies between them. She might have recorded a thrash-metal album this time round, or a symphony for banjo and orchestra, but fortunately for EMI, whose share price depends almost wholly on the performance of this record, Norah has her shtick and she has stuck with it. Each new song wafts through your head like a warm summer breeze after half a bottle of wine on an empty stomach, and when it ends you suddenly wake up, feeling a bit sick.