I saw a copy of The Melody Maker for the first time in many years. Not a pretty sight these days, and even worse to read. Max Jones must feel sad when he sees things such as I encountered in one of their record reviews: 'DO NOT ENCOURAGE THIS SHAPELESS, LIFELESS SHIT IN ANY SHAPE OR FORM'. Their capitals.
I abhor the lack of vocabulary and imagination, but suspect that if the writer was referring to most of the so called popular music of the last 30 years, he should be encouraged in his unrestrained condemnation of it. The Melody Maker, for several decades in the vanguard of British writing about jazz, has been given over to the dirty toenail brigade these many years.
In truth you can count the number of contemporary British jazz magazines on the fingers of one fairly badly chopped up hand.
A couple of the newer magazines seem to think that they need a jazz equivalent of Page Three in The Sun to draw the attention of an otherwise less than hysterical readership. They call it British Jazz Awards and take...