In between constructing a Shepherd's Pie that Satan himself would be proud of, synching up my ipod with ical and other Sunday type household chores, I've been doing some research on great writers. No, that's not right - great journalists would be closer to the truth. I've been trying to figure out what allowed guys like Lester Bangs, Cameron Crowe and Nick Kent to sit at the top of the tree like the untouchables. I've still not put my finger on it but I'm getting closer to the bottom line. Anyway. there's a cool article from the Wired archive that begins as follows:

ISSUE 153, November 1996
Editor: Tony Herrington

Reading through Meaty Beauty Big & Bouncy!, a recent collection of "Classic Rock & Pop Writing from Elvis to Oasis", I sense my heart sink, the sky cloud over, radar going haywire with dull and familiar sightings. Despite that sub-title, the book isn't a celebration of music journalism per se, but rather a homage to certain breeds of music journalist. On one level, the selections of Editor Dylan Jones bolster the notion of the latter-day music critic as a pop-celebrity mortician, laptop wielded like a coroner's scalpel, eviscerating the bloated organs of one wrecked pop-life after another.

You can read the full article here, it makes for interesting reading. Being a magazine whore of the highest order, sometimes I sit here and wonder how some of these 'writers' get a gig at these - oftentimes - very high profile publications. I picked up the new edition of Q this week. I haven't picked up a copy in years and maybe like some of you, I simply assume that their writing is the best the UK has to offer. I'll post later about my findings (like you give a shit) but the one thing I do know is that given how small the world is these days, nobody's name is dripping off my tongue as one I recognise let alone respect.

The one thing I do know though, is that there's a small part of me somewhere poking me with a stick to start that bloody list. More later...