Wells Said

When I started to read the NME as a teenage longhair aspirant, I thought Steven Wells was the worst thing in it by a mile. When I stopped reading it a few years later, I thought he was the best thing in it by a mile. He’s on good form, and on solid ground, here:

At the heart of the rock’n’roll myth is the rootless troubadour, possessed of nothing but his guitar and his dreams, heading nowhere and leaving a trail of broken hearts and unpaid bar bills in his wake. And the irony is that we have an entire raft of adult-orientated magazines dedicated to the anal examination of rock’s rich tapestry and these mags and the websites that ape them are a forum wherein the least rock’n’roll creatures on the planet – balding white suburbanites with mortgages, unhappy marriages, huge stomachs and enormous,
carefully annotated vinyl and CD collections — can nitpick and bicker about which long rotted or ancient rock’n’roller most fits the glorious live-fast-die-young-and-leave-a-good-looking-corpse archetype.

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