Whilst struggling manfully with David Copperfield - you can tell Dickens was paid by the chapter - I came across quite possibly the earliest historical instance of music journalism.
The passage opens as Young Copperfield, sent packing by his mother and a predictably-evil Stepfather, arrives at boarding school. To make matters worse, the School's Master performs something of a flute receital, which David C reviews in the paragraph that follows:
"My impression is, after many years of consideration, that there never can be anybody in the world who played worse. He made the most dismal sounds I have ever heard produced by any means, natural or artificial. I don't know what the tunes were - if there were such things in the performance at all, which I doubt - but the influence of the strain upon me was, first, to make me think of all my sorrows until I could hardly keep my tears back; then to take away my appetite; and lastly, to make me so sleepy that I couldn't keep my eyes open."
As one listens to, let's face it, ANY of the Muse back catalouge, it is difficult to feel that Dickens was not only eerily prophetic in his description of Mat Bell(end)amy; but also that such a catty, relatively self-indulgent critical response - to which this post may be willingly catagorised - has become the common currency for journos.
In many ways it's quite sad, but in other, stronger ways, Muse deserve literally every shard of shit we can throw at them.
The passage opens as Young Copperfield, sent packing by his mother and a predictably-evil Stepfather, arrives at boarding school. To make matters worse, the School's Master performs something of a flute receital, which David C reviews in the paragraph that follows:
"My impression is, after many years of consideration, that there never can be anybody in the world who played worse. He made the most dismal sounds I have ever heard produced by any means, natural or artificial. I don't know what the tunes were - if there were such things in the performance at all, which I doubt - but the influence of the strain upon me was, first, to make me think of all my sorrows until I could hardly keep my tears back; then to take away my appetite; and lastly, to make me so sleepy that I couldn't keep my eyes open."
As one listens to, let's face it, ANY of the Muse back catalouge, it is difficult to feel that Dickens was not only eerily prophetic in his description of Mat Bell(end)amy; but also that such a catty, relatively self-indulgent critical response - to which this post may be willingly catagorised - has become the common currency for journos.
In many ways it's quite sad, but in other, stronger ways, Muse deserve literally every shard of shit we can throw at them.
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