Last week, like a little belated Christmas present, I received my first bad review. I read it with a touch internal schadenfreude and kind of wished the author had been a slightly more scathing. As Sophie Ellis Bextor once told the NME in the last nineties, ‘I’d rather be Marmite than butter.’
There were a few things I disagreed with throughout the review, which I won’t list here – people are entitled to their own opinion (even if it is complete bullshit). And I must admit, it was quite fun having discovered I’d irritated someone I’d never met. But within it, I found a bigger issue, an issue that bugs me when I certain reviews – the reviewer trying to figure out the point of the piece, as though that validates it.
It’s art, dude, there is no point.
You take away from it what you will. If it makes you angry, great, if it makes you happy, even better. At least it elicited some sort of emotional response. But there was no conceited game plan when writing Pills, it was something that I had to write. And if you don’t understand shit like that, you don’t understand art.
Anyway, that’s your fill. Baby well, dog well. I’m still living in Australia. Was asked how I was liking Sydney after a year. I replied, ‘It’s a place, I suppose.’
But yeah, I’ve been writing again. Not with any particular point in mind. Just because I needed to. Maybe I’ll give you something new soon.