The Proposition: The Hoi Polloi Are Ruining Music

Having discussed this matter at length over many a fine Cognac at a local gentleman's club, it would indeed appear that the hoi polloi are destined to destroy popular music for the rest of us.

The very fact you're reading this in print and it’s not flanked by a paparazzi shot of some stray-titted Essex tart means you are probably not one of them... and if you are one of them, put the paper down and get back to work: fag break was only 5 minutes.

Safe to say it's best to keep things simple for the lower echelons of society and, in typical Soviet style, their music is safely retailed under the umbrella of "rock and pop", with only a vague acknowledgement of deviations like "that mad heavy metal" or "techno techno" (generally for bullying/boy racing purposes).

Subtly nuanced genres like minimalist electro, darkwave and nu-skool, East Coast proto-jazz are entirely wasted on them. Likewise many of the clever social trends emerging from some of our more esoteric and mentally taxing genres, including Bobbin Bicycles, NHS specs and public protest, now merely elicit scorn from their poorly educated throng.

Joe Bloggs' traditions epitomise his Philistine attitudes. Anyone unlucky enough to witness that maelstrom of mundanity, the riff-raff wedding, and find themselves in the function room of a bowling club, watching their second cousin drag his bottle-tanned new bride around the dancefloor to Angels by Robbie Williams, knows exactly the kind of unwitting disdain these people have for music. As the sliced oven-pizza and chicken drumsticks gradually cool, cheese footballs accumulate around the perimeter of the room whilst a drunken Aunt chases toddlers with a balloon and a middle-aged male relative bellows a garbled approximation of Dancing Queen, a half-empty pint in each outstretched hand, his belly peeking nosily through the straining buttons of the hired shirt. All the while the classics keep on coming. Hi Ho Silver Lining. Things Can Only Get Better. Dancing In The Moonlight...

And somewhere on Mount Olympus Apollo, God of Music sobs gently.
Such a noble art form trampled underneath trainers, steel-toed boots and strappy heels. Surely this is not why we spent thousands of years mastering the intricacies of harmonics: so a couple of munters called Jodeeiy and Gari whose eyes met across a tepid mug of coffee in a call centre in Motherwell can call bloody Dakota by Stereophonics "their song" and cling listlessly to each other’s love handles, waddling back and forth in a drunken grapple every Friday night?

As anyone who has ever bought an oversized Arran sweater from American Apparel knows, this is sacrilege. The lower ranks will never enjoy the pride of sneering one's way to victory in a heated Thurston Moore discography reappraisal. Nor will they know the glory of eBay victory in the race for a copy of German free jazz pioneers The Peter Brotzmann Sextet's classic 1969 album Nipple.

I mean, for goodness' sake, look at the plebeian musical "greats". Theirs is an abysmal legacy. Those prize oafs Oasis have gradually drawled the English language into submission and, thanks to Johnny Rotten's admission that the Sex Pistols were only in it for the money, it even took private-school graduate Joe Strummer to bail out the credibility of punk music. How ironic.

And that's another thing. Irony. Man oh man do they not get irony. I mean, we're talking about a populace that actually embraces heavy metal at face value! The knowing wink behind handlebar moustaches and alcoholism is totally lost on them. It’s staggering to think that, for many, denim jackets are actual, non-satirical modes of everyday dress and boiler suits are even used in manual labour. Truth be told, across the decades the only real benefit of their preoccupation with pop music has been in getting the proletariat back into camouflage trousers to remind them they should really be in the army, or suits to get them ready for court.

Clearly we have to share a world with these people – for the time being anyhow – but why do we also have to suffer under their yoke? It’s bad enough that their votes count the same, but why must they decide what the country's popular music is too? We all know who it is buying all that shite that comes out around Christmas. Tell me the last time you saw a Shane Ritchie single in a Bang and Olufsen stereo? Exactly. Never. That single went home in a carrier bag next to a 4-pack of Tennents' Super and some Findus Crispy Pancakes... Just as it will again this year unless something is done soon.