The above phrase, the context of which we shall get to, is by Mark Sinker, semi-dormant link at right, one-time writer for the NME, one-time writer for and editor of The Wire, writer for Sight and Sound, of latter years appearing less frequently than we would like, a writer we always looked up to, someone who may be considered a more-low-than-highbrow but equally articulate English Adam Gopnik, someone who is able to draw together threads you had never thought of, and who regularly sends you off in directions you never expected to go, lover of Moomins, someone about whom Mark E Smith either did or did not write a song ("Mark'll Sink Us"), now masquerading around Freaky Trigger, The Poptimists, ILM and the like under the moniker P^nk Lord Sukrat Cunctor (go figure).
But why is he here? Because you can now read a piece of long-form writing by him responding to the death of Richard Cook, one-time writer for the NME, one-time writer for and editor of The Wire, whom I also, for many years, looked upon with awe and for crucial guidance (when I wasn't silently cursing his contrarian ways, viz. glowing reviews of The P*l*ce, of David Bowie's "Let's Dance"; it was so typical of him to take over The Wire and put Michael Jackson on the cover). Sinker writes typically astutely and candidly here of the nature of music, of writing about music, and of the perils of magazine editing. If you have ever been of the view that music criticism needs to be more than just a consumer guide, you would do well to go across and read it (hint: scroll down).
