Tom Cox in The Sunday Times.

That Kraftwerk article was rotten. Simon Hattenstone on Daniel Bedingfield in today's paper is very good though I thought.

Why you cheeky, bed-wetting young tyke; one brief and obviously misleading Dead Kennedys reference aside, he's quite clearly far too feeble, shallow, fickle and lacking any real sense of commitment to anything to possibly be any older than about 35!

Striking a defiant blow on behalf of the punk generation, whilst clinging grimly to his zimmerframe with his other hand....

"...my favourite self-made compilation CDs — Families with Beards: August 1972-June 1973, and Songs About Sunny Things: January 1968-June 1970"
*dies of whimsy overload*

Not to mention clearly being every bit as vital, relevant and cutting-edge.

also note: the tapes 1972-June 1973, and Songs About Sunny Things: January 1968-June 1970" were from a time before he was born ! what a complete plank !

Dead, with any luck. Certainly not writing I hope.

he'll be on tv programmes giving his inside knowledge of rave culture and the hardcore continuum probably...

It was a so-bad-it's-funny read and gave people plenty to complain about. In that sense it's more entertaining that a boring write-up of some up and coming band.

HEADLINE: In with the nu

One of the strange things about writing about music for a living is that people tend to assume you know a lot about it. The truth is, most pop and rock critics are fakers, opinion-surfers who have only ever picked up a guitar for the sole purpose of looking at themselves in the mirror to see if it made them appear any less of a nerd. Most of the time, we sneak by on a mixture of train-spotter's memory and passion, not quite believing our luck, but just occasionally, we get found out, and always by someone outside the industry. An old friend, for example, will track us down, send us their demo and ask for our professional opinion on production methods, or an intimidatingly technical music-based college course will request that we give a guest lecture.

Like many rock writers, I've had a few of these requests over the years. They have always made me feel partly flattered and partly phoney, but mostly scared. As a result, I've always made a point of hiding from them. In spring last year, however, one came along that I just couldn't help being intrigued by. A friend of my parents, Jenny, was worried about her teenage son, Peter, a walking cloud of nu-metal melancholy whose school grades were suffering thanks to his all-conquering ambition to be a rock star. Could I give him a six-month musical "education" to help him make a more informed decision about his future?

What on earth, I puzzled to myself, did I have to offer a 14-year-old? It struck me that teens these days are self-aware to an almost comic extent. I, on the other hand, was keen to be as unaware of them as possible. I didn't understand their loud, self-hating music, I didn't understand their shapeless trousers, and I understood the numerous metal chains that hung from them even less. But the more I thought about Jenny's proposition, the more the ostensibly unattractive things about it started to seem curiously appealing.

It had been only eight years since I was a music-obsessed adolescent myself, but I realised, at the age of 27, I had completely forgotten what that was like. Sure, I owned the latest Destiny's Child album and various modern records by ageing Americans with too much facial hair, but did I really know anything about Puddle of Mudd and System of a Down, apart from the fact that both had silly names and vocals that sounded like someone projectile vomiting? No. And I hadn't wanted to.

But finding out something about someone who managed to draw some pleasure from their music - now, that seemed interesting. Teenagers were a mystery. Obviously, I wouldn't spend the entire summer with Peter. He had his real schooling to think about and, for a kid who dressed exclusively in black, a surprising number of social commitments. Instead, our curriculum took the form of a series of day trips. I would pick him up in north London and we would zoom off to meet one of the "subjects" of our lessons. These subjects would, on the whole, be marginalised folk musicians - partly because I took evil pleasure in taking Peter out of his natural environment and partly because I had been told that Paul McCartney was "too busy getting married" to see us. We would also visit rock landmarks - the petrol station where the Rolling Stones were arrested for urinating in public, the tree that killed Marc Bolan, Syd Barrett's lost Cambridge. Mostly, however, we would talk and argue over the car stereo.

Before meeting Peter, I had been noticing, dimly, a change in my listening habits.

Nothing radical, I'd thought, just a subtle shift from the spiky to the smooth that had left me unashamedly leaving a copy of The Best of the Steve Miller Band on the coffee table where previously there might have been Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables by Dead Kennedys. Okay, so I was going seriously adult-oriented rock, but it wasn't as if I'd woken up one day and declared: "Yes - I decree that Make Me Smile by Chicago is the best song ever written." It had just sort of crept up on me, and I certainly hadn't realised just how adult-oriented until Peter and I started to spend time together in the car.

Having failed in my mission to ease Peter into my favourite self-made compilation CDs - Families with Beards: August 1972-June 1973, and Songs About Sunny Things: January 1968-June 1970 - and watched him surreptitiously slip on his Walkman headphones, the two of us reached a compromise: for every two albums that he put on by Linkin Park or Slipknot, I would be permitted to play him something from my youth, but only if, in Peter's reckoning, it was "heavy enough". When I had been Peter's age, "heavy", in teenage parlance, still had a Neil from The Young Ones-type meaning to it: like, way out. But Peter's use of the word meant exactly what it said - the guitars on his favourite self-made CD, This Compilation CD Will Self-Destruct, sounded like a lorryload of corrugated iron.

For me, music had become something that you put on in the background while you did the washing up. For Peter, it was much more intense. When he placed Eyeless by Slipknot on the stereo of my Ford Focus, he would stare fixedly at the CD player, as if it were about to reply to some existential question he had handed it. I'd probably done something similar, a decade ago, during scuzzy anthems by bands such as Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 and Mazey Fade. Now, those songs would probably just sound like some kitchen utensils falling down some stairs.

Perplexed, I spoke to Dr Neil Todd, a psychology professor from Manchester University. "One reason young people like loud rock music is that it activates a primitive acoustic sense we've inherited from our ancestors," he said. "This is hard-wired to the dopamine system area of the brain, which mediates hedonistic behaviour. This system tends to reduce in sensitivity with age."

I was still confused, but as my travels with Peter drew to an end, a minor revelation occurred. I was scared of modern teenage music fans, sure, but I'd always felt, on some deep level, I had them sussed: they were hollow replicas of their forebears, I thought - rebeloids who had their alternative culture mass-marketed to them. But what I hadn't considered was that, no matter how self-aware they were, they couldn't fully comprehend this. Peter wasn't going to believe that the adolescents of the four preceding decades had had a more vital music world to exist in just because boring old people like me told him so. He couldn't comprehend that he might find silky pleasure in Hall & Oates's Maneater in a decade's time - he probably hadn't even thought about what he would be listening to next year. And if this didn't mean I understood his musical yens any better, at least it meant I felt happier in not understanding them.

As we parted at his school concert, Axe Demons, he was still a teenager: the eternally innocent, malleable thing that always ensures any talk of the collapse of the music industry is exaggerated. The industrial metal band Rammstein had been his favourite earlier in the year, but now he preferred Slipknot. I, meanwhile, was an ex-music writer: the sort who tries to make sense of and stay in touch with him - then, if they've got any sense, realises they are too old and no longer listen to music in the correct fashion to make such analysis possible. I liked the Steve Miller Band more than ever. Whether this was what his mum meant by an "education" is still very much up for debate.

Educating Peter is published by Bantam Press on August 4

Good work.

kind of sums it up

"SO-DI-UMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!"

Could I give him a six-month musical "education" to help him make a more informed decision about his future?
Tom Cox: "There are great possibilities in insurance, Peter."

What on earth, I puzzled to myself, did I have to offer a 14-year-old?
If you had to ask....

Before meeting Peter, I had been noticing, dimly, a change in my listening habits.
Tom Cox: "I had noticed my tastes were deteriorating..."

This Compilation CD Will Self-Destruct
Dear Peter
you are too cool for the room, even if you are a ninny with too much love for Slipknot.
Signed, Lord Custos.

...sounded like a lorryload of corrugated iron.
Yesss! YESSSSS!

But what I hadn't considered was that, no matter how self-aware they were, they couldn't fully comprehend this.
Tom Cox: "...for they are microbes, and I, mr Musocologist...a living Demigod!"

Peter wasn't going to believe that the adolescents of the four preceding decades had had a more vital music world to exist in just because boring old people like me told him so.
This reminds me of what a family friend, who is currently 78 years old would say: "Everything after Sinatra is derivative crap. Its all flat notes and the same drum beat over and over and over again."

...he was still a teenager: the eternally innocent, malleable thing ...
Why does this this line strike me as oh, so Paedo?

...that always ensures any talk of the collapse of the music industry is exaggerated.
Tom Cox: "Which is odd, considering I keep saying that Everything after Steely Dan is derivative crap. Its all flat notes and the same drum beat over and over and over again."

...too old and no longer listen to music in the correct fashion...
Use you EARS! Stop sticking the speaker up yer ass or into your nose. Use your EARRRSSS!

I liked the Steve Miller Band more than ever. Whether this was what his mum meant by an "education" is still very much up for debate.
His mum sez you got an F-

NOOOOOOOOOOOO

a walking cloud of nu-metal melancholy

However, this is a nice line.