John Peel was the Patron Saint of independent music, a fucking lovely guy who went out of his way to promote up and coming and bands. A man that despite being sent records day after day after day, had no qualms paying full whack for a cd or piece of vinyl at a gig or in a record store. It was the least he could do. I miss him, and I never even knew him.
Plan B is a fantastic magazine put together by a bunch of very good writers who really care about music. About independent music. Love goes into it. More than equal to the amount of stress and sweat it takes to put something like it together. And now it too, like the great John Peel once did, supporter of all that is independent, will die - and a huge outcry will be heard.
There's a massive difference between the two things of course.
For a start, John Peel died of natural causes.
I have never been able to afford to buy records regularly. I don't download illegally. Can't be arsed with it. So the people largely to blame for the independents not being able to afford to put advertisements in Plan B, and thus allowing it function as a magazine, are the people who have money, who HAVE diposable incomes, who have PARENTS with disposable incomes, and have now chosen not to spend their money on records, but to instead spend it on more clothes, more gig tickets, and more expensive toys for themselves. They're living the fucking sweet life and gorging as much music as they like.
People who can AFFORD to buy records regularly, but instead choose to download torrents, are like a load of middleclass kids walking round Waitrose, stuffing their pockets full of tins, and jars, and packets, and bars. They're not even that selective. If it doesnt taste good they can throw it away.
Maybe Waitrose can take it, but unfortunately the corner shop at the bottom of the street can't, and yet more and more people are just helping themselves in there when they could easily afford to pay for that Snickers. But nope, 15 in every twenty people who go in there now grab their bread and milk and walk straight out past the shopkeeper with it under their tops.
And whats worse, many are lovely to the shopkeeper to his face.
John Peel, i am sure, would call these kind of people, cunts.