Having actually included MAGNET as one of my favorite things (and I promise that’s not sucking up, I really love the publication), you can imagine how chuffed I was at the prospect of a guest editorship. Over the past, well, several years of the Sharp Things‘ existence, Eric Miller has been a friend and an advocate, even when no one else was, so I’m honored to be able to ramble on a bit about a bunch of shit that I dig, because I want everyone to know about it and, more significantly, because it makes me feel important. 😉 Over to you, me …
Even though it smells like sausages, London is my favorite city on earth. My home is NYC, so I suppose that, by default, I should be suffering such guilt right now. But, having endured the Big Crapple for almost half a century, I feel that I’ve earned the right to be critical. There’s a lot to be critical of, although we finally have a liberal mayor who doesn’t hate teachers (my wife is one) and who probably wouldn’t attempt to buy a third term, if he were to stick around for a second. NYC is fast becoming the shining example of class disparity. The folks in the middle are being pushed out, and the working classes are being pushed away entirely to make room for an ever-growing influx of finance types. But we’re not here to talk about NYC (hmm … maybe we are), anyway, London, right? Yes! Having visited the city more times than I could count and having a significant number of good pals there, it does feel like a sort of home away from home. Meaning, I know it. I know my way around there. I even know some shortcuts. While I never actually lived there, the more I talk to people from here who’ve settled in there, the better the stories get, and the more jealous I feel. When I go, I love taking long walks alone, plotting my course through the parks, to the record stores, into certain pubs (my fave is Spaniards, near Hampstead Heath) and back again through other neighborhoods. My friends who call London home will read this and likely say, “What a quaint, poncy bastard,” to which I give you a preemptive, “Fuck you!” London, there’s no better place on a Saturday afternoon than Rough Trade East down around Old Street. The whole area is teaming with all sorts of stories, but you get the impression that the store is the epicenter of indie music as we know it and that it somehow contains every record and book about records ever written.
