Well, if the album isn’t dead it’s certainly lying in intensive care with a cracked case and a terminal cross-hatch of scratches on the disc. Since the advent of iTunes, the trend has been that no-one under twenty buys CD’s any more, and why would they? The things get ripped straight onto computers and then what use are they? To load into your discman on the train? To slot alphabetically into your CD tower? I’m afraid this, along with lying on your bed reading lyrics in 6-point is relegated to the 90’s along with Vienetta’s and magic eye. Now we get an album cover gravatar and a tracklist destined to be corrupted by file sharing cowboys and DJ shuffle.

In the past singles have been used as an incentive to sell the album. Now, the concept of buying a CD single is laughable (They’re $10, if you can find them, when a single itunes track is $1.70.) Instead, kids are happily breaking up albums like chocolate bars to get the no obligation songs they like. At best, they may grace the others with a thirty second audition. This is why tunes need catchy hooks more than ever, for the iTunes preview – and songwriters thought radio edits were harsh.

Spare a thought for the poor musicians, who spend the best part of two years and tens of thousands of dollars painstakingly recording their six stringed super hits in 24-bit high definition, only to have it crudely crushed into an .mp3 and listened to through flat earphones. Those of you who take music for granted should realise the audio quality of an .mp3 compared to a CD is like going from a five course indian banquet down to a sausage roll. Music isn’t just about that awesome guitar riff or those pounding synth drums, it’s about the dynamic texture of the high treble frequencies blending with the mid-level tones and the soothing sub-bass. Just think of the loud shirted, poor postured producer who has sat at the mixing desk labouring for months to ensure the song reaches your ears with just the right blend of equalisation. Every time you listen to your ipod, he cries control tears.

So, is our lord and saviour Thom Yotke correct in peering down from his post-EMI pedestal and declaring the album dead for us non-visionary plebs who don’t have a spare two million strong fanbase to give our album away for free to? (Crazy Thom’s gone mad, he’s slashed his prices not his wrists!) Part of me says screw you dude. I’ve waited my whole life to be able to make an album. The rush of running a knife along the box and seeing the ribbed canvas of a hundred identical spines glowing back. To lie in bed listening to my own ideas and sonic creations purring through the cradle of compression and the gloss of mastering. I think of the hours I’ve dedicated to the finer details like liner notes, the font, barcode placement and gap before the self indulgent secret track – all of it will be demolished by someone grabbing a heap of shit off a mate’s ipod. Sure, that person may have otherwise never been exposed to your music, but do you really want to be dubbed ‘Unknown artist’ with your hit record ‘unknown album’ featuring the breathtaking single ‘track one.’

When I was fifteen I recorded my first album of songs ‘Ad-Liberation.’ This was done in my bedroom, on a little cassette walkman with a stereo microphone blu-takked to the indoor clothesline (how Radiohead record, I believe). I finished the songs, most of them seven minute power ballads about Jenny Garth, complete with mum knocking on the door in 4/4 time and ‘waiting for the cat to get off the lyrics’ solos. I gave the album a texta drawn cover, and the wax seal of any amateur production, extensive copyright information. It’s the professional equivalent of playing dress-ups, writing ‘all rights reserved’ and having no idea what it means. Released on tape, ‘Ad-Liberation’ fast-forwarded into obscurity when not even my biggest fan, me, could stand to listen to it any more, but it made me hungry to one day make the real thing.

I’m about to release my third Bedroom Philosopher album, happy in the knowledge that in this vintage obsessed era, my CD format is already considered retro. Though the album may be dying, music itself is thriving. It’s never been so accessible, and despite the file share explosion, there has been an apparent revival in young people buying vinyl. For now, it means that dad’s like me pushing thirty can proudly bang on about how great Radiohead CD’s were to Gen-i kids who can’t really hear and don’t really care. They’re too busy biting off more sausage roll than they can chew.

Having done a snap-survey of my friends I’ve concluded that for those of us that are single, it’s not easy. We’re all nursing a photo album of bruises in our hearts. We’re all staring longingly into the suburban sunset, waiting for the smooth arms of a perfect match to cradle us through this spiritual recession. We have so much to give and we feel like we are going to waste. We sit on public transport retina scanning from afar, while love songs poke us like senseless siblings. We glance at stockinged legs wondering if now’s the time to stand up, ride the bumps like a fate surfer and wander over with business cards in hand and a ‘hey…you seem really…nice…let me know if you want a coffee sometime…’ before thrusting our little rectangle mangle of a lifeforce into the clenched hand of the long-haired lovely, nursing shopping and a good book – innocent royalty in this fraction of a possibility.

How can we meet new people? Us loners. Us washed up lovers. How can we tune into the frequencies of those who would hold our arm as we picked out videos. Who would add a ‘kiss me’ to our things to do lists and watch the ground for us as we text-walked? What combination of words and actions could unlock the vault of chance that would lead us to a universe of warmth beneath covers and the body lock of sweetheart sweat – the autumn-fall of thoughts leading to the timeless utterance ‘I’m so glad I found you.’

How can we find those we’d be so glad we found?

We go to gigs, parties, we flick about on Facebook. Everyone looks occupied and unattainable. The beautiful people have their friends, their drinks in hand, they don’t need us and our overthought desperation. We over thought it already. Our sentences are like highschool clay, all fingerprints and lumpy joins. What could we possibly offer? We are on the outside of the painting looking in. Colours are creamy and expressions are effortless. It’s a dream in there. How could we approach? We are covered in shadows.

Within a typical day the average single person will create over 186 conflicting thoughts about love. They may tell themselves things like ‘this is a good time to be single’ within the same stanza as ‘I’m horny, everything’s fucked.’ This is normal, and is reflective of the human experience. We are wise-cracking muddles all wrapped up tight in string, like Kris Kringles waiting to be given to the right person. We are store-bought bundles of poetic observations, clever humour and kisses. Oh dear God we are good kissers. Did we mention this? Upon the well-timed mouth we’ll make you forget every insult you’ve ever been given. We’ll take you up in a hot air balloon and land you in a forest of flowers, make you biscuits of the ripest honey and read you the funniest and saddest story, in voices soft as rain.

You just have to find us.
We just have to find you.

RIDING AROUND ON THE 86, SO HUNGOVER.
GONNA GO DOWN TO JB HIFI, FLICK THROUGH INDIE.

Ya so um, last night we supported uh, Pose Tattoo, like they’re fronted by Sad Sanderson down at the Fitzroy anti-social club. Ya. It was alright man but you know the mixing was really bad. Like, my G & T didn’t even have lemon in it. You know like the band’s really gelling, like our hair, it’s just like we’re going through an 80’s thing at the moment. Anyway man sorry I couldn’t come to your gig the other night, I just didn’t really want to go. How was it? Ya, you smashed up your gear afterwards, that’s pretty rock. Oh, in a car accident, yeah right, that’s not so good man. Hey I had to go to hospital the other day too. It’s these new jeans man. I just couldn’t get my wallet out. Yeah. They had to cut me out. A local anesthetic.

RIDING AROUND ON THE 86, SO HUNGOVER.
GONNA GO DOWN TO PONY, PRETEND I’M IN KINGS OF LEON.

Ya, I just, I’m really busy you know, I’ve just got so much on my plate. I got this uh, tofu salad and it’s just going everywhere man. You know this whole like record contract and stuff I just, I don’t want it to go to my head you know the last thing I wanna do is become like a cliched character. Anyway man I better go I’m like running out of street credit but um, ya, it’s a shame you can’t come to my party. I know, I just didn’t invite you though. Laterz.

From the album ‘Songs From The 86 Tram’ released April 16 through Shock.
Single now up on iTunes.

For most guys, dance isn’t their first language. Leave them standing long enough in a nightclub and eventually their screen saver will activate. This is called the Terry Two Step. First shuffle left / then shuffle right / your arms shouldn’t leave your sides all night. Repeat until magically laid. What happened to all the ones we learnt in high school? The heel/toe polka, the pride of erin, the Mexican hat dance? It’s devolved into the Australian jacket dance, where blokes try and lure women by shifting around a stack of wallets. Break dancing will consist of tripping over as they walk to the bar while a frenzied pat down to find keys will be offered up as the macarena. The song says shake it like a polaroid picture, not fiddle with it like a digital camera! If the dance floor is musical speed dating then you’ve got to put your best club foot forward.

Shimmying is all smoke and mirror balls. Like most things in life, when in doubt, just act like you know what you’re doing. On the dance floor I become Captain Busy, throwing shapes and jamming genres together like Crunkenstein, the line between irony and earnestness up and down like a stereo equalizer. Spinning and kicking, sliding and dipping – i’m a mime routine of a horny octopus making soup on a bouncy castle. I enjoy the thrill of not really knowing what I’m doing, but thinking that I may appear like I do; the cosmic sex bluff of throwing some Napolean Dynamite VS Spike Jonze in the Praise You film clip spaz shapes with such rigour that they could be taken seriously, or better yet, sexily. Usually, this isn’t the case. I’ve been told that I make people around me dance out of time, like a rhythmic black hole. One girl said dancing with me was like being double bounced on a trampoline.

The urban discotheque can be intimidating. From the religious zest of the Nutbush to pro-am rockabilly swingers and Kate Bush interpretive rock eisteddfods, men can be forgiven for feeling trapped inside a show where they’ve missed all the rehearsals. What’s that saying? Every Good Boy Deserves Funk. Whatever your demographic I believe the mojo is within you, and there’s only one way to get it working again. Fellas, here’s a quick dance lesson from me: Move. Your. Fucking. Hips. Men have been blissfully unaware of their hips for centuries, yet wonder why they continue to groove like a depressed robot. The hip bone’s connected to the soul power. Once you’ve got your hips working then your legs will follow, and everything will gel. If dance is the language of the soul, then it’s worth seeing what your soul has to say. Sure, it might just be ’shit…shit…shit’ but anything’s better than silence.

My first memory of graffiti was in my hometown Burnie where someone had spray-painted ‘BAD DUES’ on the swimming pool wall. They were obviously such bad dudes they didn’t even need all the letters. Other haiku’s included ‘RAP MUSIC,’ ‘Karissa is a mole’ and a super smiley out of proportion woman about to rendezvous with a finger. When I was ten I took time out from a pleasant family BBQ to use a public toilet, only to read some explicit scrawls about pleasuring a clitoris. There was no internet safe search or shrink wrap plastic to protect me from this self-published smut. I traced the walls and found them to be full of inglorious and puzzling sentiments. Who were these profane prophets, putting the amen in amenities?

Stepping into a cussed up cubicle is like being inside a not so ‘beautiful mind.’ Similar to the scene where Russell Crowe’s maths theories sprawl out like vines, in the uriney toilet it’s more of a spidery throwback to The Shining. The manic, the frustrated, the crest fallen and the bemused, their all-work-no-play primal screams tattooed in hexed texta. After a couple of breath-defying sessions in ‘they smell how I feel’ unisex booths, I’ve identified the five main genres of faffiti as:

ANGRY: ”fuckin shoeless punx homos the lot of em” – Burnt out teacher turned pot dealer who’s ran out of paper and missed out on the open mic blackboard.
POLITICAL: “You tosser…it’s getting weird everywhere. We’re so lucky here. Ever imagined Stalin’s USSR or Nazi Germany, or the Chinese cultural revolution? Get your head out of your own ass you tragic person.” Political Science student coked out on no doz in the 9th trimester of his PHD riffing with a Kerry O’Brien hallucination.
PHILOSOPHICAL: “Always keep a diamond in your mind.” Drifter hippy girl big on spirituality and getting smashed – full of love, unreliability and Tom Waits lyrics.
POETIC: “By the flickering stars with my legs around his hips. The currency of love is being cremated.” Scholarly goth hip-gypsy calamity girl with long legs and dark eyes. A walking Nick Cave song who’s constantly ‘burning off’ and ‘workshopping.’
FUNNY: “What if the hokey pokey is what it’s all about?” Youth worker slash amateur comedian spends a lot of time with teenagers – communicates in Simpsons quotes and sees toilet wall as platform for positive change.

I have an admiration for anyone who takes the time to write a letter to the editor in God’s pool room. Being a democracy, other users have the right of reply. The silver pen statement ‘LOVE EVERYONE’ was met with: (except you.) The incongruous ‘I am in the ladies’ was backed up with ‘fair plan to u brother.’ While my favourite was ‘playing banjo is the key to happiness all your problems. On the bottom of the toilet door was this quivering sonnet:
‘all I had to do
was hold onto you
when the world spins so fast
and our grips cannot last
the force that holds us here
finally disappears. Xox’

I felt a pang of sadness, took out my pen to reply, but found that I’d been beaten to the punch.
‘LIFE SUCKS DICKHEAD.’

Sometimes words are enough.

Ah yes, like Scrooge McDuck used to flap wildly about in his columns of cash, the modern young thing can interpretive dance around shelves of perishable trinkets and wardrobes laden with long-lost fabrics, basking in the wealth of yesteryear. Boy/Girl, do we love vintage! If we had it our way, the whole world would be one big ‘the 60’s.’ Psychedelic pop art, milk in bottles, mint condition Stones records and no-one would have to go to work. We’d be too busy running barefoot through the sun drenched grass, on our way to the Sunbury markets.

For me, like many, a relationship with retro began as a child. Stomping about on orange and cream carpets, fighting with crochet pillows, being scolded for getting too close to the Royal Doulton tea sets – soothed by the bottle green pleats of Nan’s polyester skirt. Second hand stores existed within our first hand homes. Who hasn’t looked through the square window of childhood photos and seen a vintage catalogue. Your two toned blue Hawaiian t shirt, your Mum’s maroon cardigan, the yellow and chestnut diamond curtains – you’d happily buy it all. We learned to associate the bright woollens and warm vinyls of the past with a safe, adoring environment.

After rinsing away the brainwash of high school, we strolled independent through the bell-tripped opportunity doors. Baskets and racks, tables and shelves lay brimming like twenty cent smorgasbords. A museum of manufacturing seen through a Kodachrome kaleidoscope. If there are super foods then surely these were super things! Collectibles you could wear. Secrets you could sift. Modern antiques you could pick up and play. Treasure hunts, dress ups, shopping and charity all wrapped up in one glorious ball of wool. In a corruptible world, op shopping was our ideal private universe.

Ten years on and corruption has crept in like mildew. What was once an innocent love affair has been exploited into a vintage ‘industry.’ We are mere consumer demographic for big city boutiques; A-grade hoarders glued to E-Bay like arty pokie victims. Ironically, at a time when quality retro is supposed to be running out, we are granny blanketed with prize finds that have had the ‘treasure’ sucked off them like chocolate and the price tags privatised. Second hand has been sanitised for the mainstream. Like meat was once hunted and vegetables were grown, vintage was once ‘found.’ Now, it comes marked up and mark free.

Last year, in an attempt to keep up with this acceleration, my op shopping became more aggressive. I bled my internet trigger finger until my post box was choked with the 70’s ties I collect. I patrolled the inner-city circuit, budget blind and paying up to $20 dollars a piece. I chatted up store assistants and asked to look through the boxes out the back – on my hands and knees, rummaging through the retro rainbow, forever out of reach and drawing me forth. I was trying to collect an unlimited set. With the sense of discovery and bargain aspect gone, what was left? This was no casual afternoon browse, this was calculated retail therapy. I had mutated my hobby into a necessity, a distraction, a competition, an emotional drug. I was trying to buy my way back to better times. I was just another consumer filling a void. I had out retro’d myself.

With the commercialisation of vintage, it’s easy to lose sight of the wide-eyed wonder that drew us to it in the first place. I’ve recovered from my blow out, learning to put the mod in moderation. It helps to venture out to the country, where many op shops still remain untouched. They remind us that second hand cannot be measured in monetary wealth, but in that childlike elation where one’s trash becomes your treasure. The surprise hug from the past, somehow meant just for you.

I’ve always had an overactive imagination, and can’t remember a time when I didn’t spend at least half an hour hurtling through wormholes down the rabbit hole of my mindioli. Through childhood, this tended to be an exciting time, like a fairground for the subconscious. I’d lie there staring up at my glow in the dark stickers (the universe was blurry with my glasses off), enjoying the weight of a balled up cat on my feet, kaleidascoping friends faces with storybook scenery and a pencil case of colour. Teenagedom was reserved for a tour de farce of sexual fantasies and idea fireworks for stunts I could pull at school. With the 4/4 chug of my heart in my ears, a sound I’ve never been too comfortable with, I allowed my engine to power down, safe in the knowledge that I’d always manage to drift off.

As an adult something changed. Dark emotions weaved in like Pacman’s ghosts and screwed with the controls. My single mattress was adrift in space, galaxy’s outside my comfort zone. I was living in a Sydney sharehouse, directly next to a train line and under a flight path. One day a train and plane went by at the same time and the phone rang and I screamed. For weeks on end I’d still be awake at four am. I’d just left the warm arms of a long term relationship and was now tossing and turning like a rotisserie man-chicken – playing one man twister where every colour is BLACK! I drew the viscous circle of not sleeping and then worrying about not sleeping. My sticker-stars were replaced by the corrupt glow of the Internet, the only weight on my feet was unsorted washing.

They say the first thing you should do when you can’t sleep is get up. (James Brown often sang about this). My testament to this theory is a cache of virus ridden computers, a discography of ‘poor man’s Beck’ acoustic demo’s, half arsed attempts at Peter Carey novels and the kinds of snacks that would get you kicked off a cooking show. After alphabetising my medication, I’d return to my usual program of: whywouldshesayathinglikethat!maroon prism dissipates into yellow jelly bean! mustpaymobilebillcanborrowoffmum!sadlovelybushwalkmemorytreees!halfabuildingcrashedontogumboot!beatlesmelodylionsfacewaterslidebreasts! swimming in surf club burnt my steak beer with katrina tomorrow volcanic double faced clown crayon butterscotch scottishcloud stained glass whistling sandra sully! still not fucking asleep! 4:39! Tomorrows centrelinkkkk be at gig at 6sleep till 12no11no12okay1130 yes! No! don’t sleepin, mustsend email tofestivalbluepolesturningintohexagonflipsmeltsmillionsdarkness! can you have two wanks in a night?

The next day I’d awake like a smashed ant and try to conjure Edward Norton from Fight Club. At least he made walking around like a zombie look cool. (Scratch the blowing up credit card companies shtick…although…centrelink…*mumbles to self*)

Today, things are a bit better, and I’ve grown more confident in my ability to adapt. I’m tired of running at half capacity. I’m trying to funnel the fallout into a routine of exercise and early mornings. There are other practical things like no caffeine after four, getting up at the same time each day, and no Lolcats before bed. (SAD FACE). Others have suggested warm milk, BBC World Service and masturbation (all at once). I feel like there’s a world of meditation out there I’m yet to explore, and I think of my mind as a startled stallion that can be handled and tamed. Oh for rain on the roof, freshly washed sheets and snuggling deep under the covers. Oh for drifting into a beautiful dream where you’re flying high above the navy ocean, skimming the sunset clouds.

You’ve heard of the 40 year old virgin, now meet the 29 year old travelling virgin – oft attracting the same kind of playful derision from friends and colleagues that Steve Corell’s character does. Like him I am equally sheepish yet matter of fact about it. It just never happened, and now I’ve left it for so long that it’s become too bigger deal. I’ve missed the Contiki boat. Just as Steve’s friends assure him it’s not too late and start an intervention, I want someone to get me drunk and set me up with Thailand.

Travelling’s that thing that everyone does where they escape their life to feel the most like themselves and become more interesting with stories you can’t relate to. Travelling is an opportunity for people to come back to Australia and strut around like explorers with their Spanish fighting sticks, London hangovers, Vietnemese snake wines and American gusto. They can waltz around their home ‘village’ safe in the knowledge they’ve seen outside the square and have an unbreakable bond with the rest of the world forged through a quickie in a Bolivian backpackers.

I was raised with the philosophy of ‘we have no money,’ and jet setted around Tasmania in a caravan. I loved every minute of it, but didn’t think outside the triangle. As an adult, all my money was spent keeping my artistic ball in the air. I couldn’t shake the feeling there was work to be done here before running off to Scotland to crack a fat over architecture. As a comedian I was blasted with orders to go to Edinburgh Fringe and do a show, only to watch colleagues return, screaming about what a great experience it was, only to break down a month later with $10, 000 credit card debts. C’mon, I can lose that kind of money here.

When you’ve never been outside Australia, you spend most of your energy convincing yourself you haven’t made a huge mistake with your life. Here goes – part of me wants to wait until I pass the black belt of my personality so I can get better value for money – like rereading your favourite book and getting more out of it. I get my adrenalin rush from performing; I’m proving myself all the time; Touring Australia gives me an enormous sense of satisfaction and perspective, cruising through airports with loner superiority; I meet plenty of foreigners after gigs – at least one!

Me: New York seems amazing. From what I could tell from The Ninja Turtles Movie it has a lot of interesting characters.
Person: Where will you travel to first?
Me: (Thinks for 18 minutes) Uh, New…
Person: York?
Me: Zealand.

I think I’m going to break the ice with India. The sitar is my favourite instrument, Indian is my favourite food, I think Indian women are the most beautiful and apparently Bombay is stuck in the 70’s and you can get cheap custom made flares. I figure if i’ve left it this late, the only way in is the deep end. A massive dose of food poisoning, brutal scenes of poverty and a complete culture shock will shake me loose of this tiring precociousness. I can finally join the ranks of real adult mavericks who have taken the plunge, delving through the worlds chapters with glee – from the apple isle to the big apple!

ALTERNATE ENDINGS

Person: Where should I go in Tasmania?
Me: The airport.

As a teenager it was like cordial 2.0. This thing called beer that came in smooth blue cylinders. Charisma in a can! Like Popeye I could crack the top open and swallow one whole. As I opened my eyes the grimy rumpus room became disco spectacular. Faces seemed friendly, my jokes were ripe and my head filled with shampoo scents and creamy skin. With my fuzzy meters maxed out I could allow my curious hands to creep under tops and find soft beating chests. Childhood was gone and with this grown-ups drink in me I had found my footing.

By University my friends and I were worshipping alcohol weekly. We’d drain the glass batons and erect a shrine on the coffee table, lighting the cigarette lamps. If there was an art to this miracle drink we wanted to perfect it. With the upchuck of high school behind us, we synchronised our intoxication, erupting into pokie room dance routines, psychedelic singalongs and uncommissioned public transport pantomimes. Alcohol gave us giddy-sweet paper wings to fly high above society.

Hangovers happened. I’d awake with a gum sealed face and a vacuum cleaner emptied out on my head. But with a girlfriend to snuggle and a high-fivin’ greasy breakfast with friends it could be laughed off with the bravado of a scun knee from a bike trick. After a shower and video i’d be back on my feet, licking a bourbon to take the edge off. This was a time when my footprints were still on the edge of introspection.

Alcohol started running out of tricks in my mid-twenties. With the bubble of uni burst I was flat broke in big cities. I had my first time getting drunk by myself. On a Saturday night I flicked through photos while red wine sat by my side and watched me like a cat. Alcohol wasn’t lifting me up but had its arm around me. With my performer friends we’d still drink like professionals and laugh jaded at the sunrise, but some ingredient was missing. In 2004 my Uncle was struck and killed by a train. Booze had been his second skin, and he’d been overflowing with it when he’d passed out on the tracks. Novelty smashed like a bottle in the night.

Humans are strange really. We use stimulants to relax and depressants to have a good time. I’ve watched alcohol rust away the goodness in those I love. I’ve seen my family ride it like cowboys and tumble into darkness, only to have no memory the next morning. In a year when I’ve been at my happiest and saddest I can no longer take it for granted. It’s a drug with side-effects that I take to feel better about myself. So many nights I feel like I’m going through the same slow motions. I don’t get the rush I used to while the hangovers grow more unbearable. What used to be a headache is now an emotional shit-storm that opens the doors to my sadness I’ve worked so hard to close. It poisons my sleeping and takes Viking swings at my bank account. The world’s standard issue social elixir is failing me. I don’t know how many chances I can keep giving it or how many it deserves.

In 1999 my friends and I discovered George. They were fronted by the mesmerising voice of Katie Noonan, best showcased by first single ‘Holiday.’ We’d go to their gigs at the Gypsy Bar and sit cross legged in the middle of the modest crowd, happy to be sharing our island with fellow explorers. But people like to boast, and our secret location fell into the wrong hands. A few months later I awoke to find George’s album had gone to number one, accompanied by a truly sinister television commercial. Their next gig I stood up the back of the Royal Theatre while a Kon Tiki load of riff-raff scuffed up the sand, burped over the choruses and shouted out for singles. The next day I promptly took my 7-inches and magazine clippings and burnt them, chanting a simple cleansing prayer into the flames. George were dead to me now.

It’s a testament to the human ego, the way we make our role as fan completely about us. It’s as if the art is the spiritual putty we need to patch up our sense of self. It’s such a one-sided, long distance relationship, that the true motives often become confused. We’ve all had that hip friend asking if we’ve heard of The Obscures, their eyes burning with rage and glee when we decline. They are at once delighted that their secret remains safe, and exasperated that such genius remains undiscovered. How to solve the paradox of wanting a band to be big, but not too big.

Dan Le Sac’s song ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’ goes there. ‘Thou shalt not put musicians and recording artists on ridiculous pedestals. No matter how great they are, or were. The Beatles were just a band. Oasis, just a band. Radiohead, just a band.’ It’s true. Do you think your favourite indie artists are at home running commercial decisions past cynical Myspace fans? ‘Hey guys, even though we’ve struggled for ten years and are on the brink of a major record deal, after extensive messaging with SadGirl79 I think the best way to keep it real is to release an EP in eight years then all somehow die.’ With the decay of the music industry and the DIY Internet age removing the fourth wall, surely there’s a little more empathy and understanding towards artists. Whereas the use of Feist’s song ‘1234′ in a Mac commercial would have attracted cries of ’sell out’ in the 90’s, it was quietly chalked up as a valid industry manoeuvre.

I recently discovered Six Feet Under, only to find that for most of my friends that good ship had sailed about three years ago. Rather than be deterred I simply persevered and had a sense of rediscovering something beautiful, and have now joined the ranks of ambassadors for the show. Similarly I’ve gone back and found incredible peninsulas within The Kinks, JJ Cale and Boards Of Canada back catalogues. Sure, The Boosh, Kings Of Leon and MGMT are all over-inhabited, and there are those who’ll sit up the back of their Tavern screaming ‘I discovered them first’ to anyone who’ll listen. But the truth is, you’re the captain of your ship and if you feel like it’s yours then no-one can take that away from you. Alternatively – No band is an island.