As Steven’s friends and family, we put this urgent plea on his blog to his readers. If anyone knows where Steven is, please contact us immediately and notify us of his whereabouts. He disappeared on the night of the Brit awards leaving only this cryptic message on a piece of paper in distressed handwriting.
“And the winner is... Adele, and the losers are us.”
It is then understood that he proceeded to his local bar where he drank until closing time, his movements afterwards are not known. He recorded his conversations in the bar and left the recorder with the bar staff, we are hoping one of his readers will be able to decipher his comments and help us find him. What follows is a transcript of that tape.
Sometime around 9pm
Barman “I think you’ve had enough to drink”Steven “I don’t. Fuggin’ Brits! What do they think they’re doing giving that award to fuggin Adele! S’a bucha bullshit is what it is.”
Unknown accomplice “Fuggin’ right, it’s just a nonsense.”
S “It just depresses me, my friend, depresses me very much that we live in a musical climate where you get someone who warbles pathetically and plinks a few piano keys like every fucker did in the fifties, and suddenly just because their base level talent rises a few paltry millimetres out of the wretched marsh of that of the general music charts level and suddenly they are fuggin’ having to invest in more and sturdier shelves to hold all the awards. I’m reminded of when people say “he’s smart, for an American” in that she only stands out because the bar for excellence is set so low that Satan trips over it in his wine cellar. She’s just a tedious banal old... cow with a morsel of actual talent that doesn’t need to be teased out from between the chords by a fuggin’ computa’; Christ fuggin’ knows what would happen if the fuggin’ Brit judges ever got wind of a Budgie album, it’d blow their fuggin’ minds. Sure Adele does sing her own songs but, really? [repetition] Really? Really? Is that all it fuggin’ takes? Is that how low you have to stoop in this world to get a fuggin’ award? Not just that, Ed Sheeran, he’s as lively and unpredictable as a staring contest between two trees... did you read the Guardian piece about him? His album is a twelve bore shitgun, thirteen if you count the bonus track! [laughs] and Coldplay... uurgh... and the fuggin’ Foo Fighters? What the holy fuck? Just a buncha dismal turgid bricks being awarded... and all the fuggin’ bullshit arseache about ‘indie success’ with Adele and Sheeran... fuck off! all that their success means is that large indies are now just as fuggin’ ball-less and bone idle as the big four fuggin’ arsehole labels!"
B “What is the problem? So the awards were terrible, it’s just a popularity contest y’know”
S “It isn’t even that, it’s a fuggin’ pat on the back for selling a million records and keeping the fuggin’ charts afloat. Nobody realises that the machine is bleeding to death. The Brits symbolise every fuggin’ thing I hate about the music industry. Rewarding financial success and masquerading financial success as art success when actually they’re mutually exclusive. Music should fugging move people and challenge them, even people who were slightly interesting like Rhianna are now totally fuggin’ toothless now.
UA “Whoa, whoa! Rhianna?”
S “Okay, okay, that’s gonna require a bit of diagramming at a later date. She was more interesting than fuggin’ Adele!"
[the conversation goes on like this for nearly five hours] Around 3am Steven left the bar.
[Sound of door creaking]B “You okay buddy?”
S “I’m good, I’m gonna go home and pass out... and get up in the morning and lay the music industry to rest, write the mean-spirited cold-blooded down bummer I wasn’t quite ready to lay down today”.
Steven was never seen since. He has regularly posted crumpled cryptic handwritten notes to the effect of parts of this conversation every day since his disappearance. Here are some of what content was decipherable.
“Fucking [indecipherable] Blur! The Brit awards ended with a song from 17 years ago... tells you that the music industry really is kneeling on a concrete floor trying to hold its guts in like that goregrind video I once saw.”
“Maybe now, after that, after we’ve handed best artist and best album gongs to the sort of records that record shops until ten years ago would rather have gone on strike than sell, and now fly off supermarket shelves and are referred to as ‘product’ in filthy marketing meetings, maybe we can just straight up and say it; the veneer of interest in music as art has been stretched so thin that it has now become totally transparent; maybe now we’ll be able to look ourselves in the eye in the mirror in the morning and just say it. We are a nation of frightened insincere freaks to scared to get hipped onto anything that won’t confirm the way we think the world works”
“You hold the key to love and fear, all in your tremblin’ a-hands”
“Fear not for my safety family, friends and dear readers. I am merely convincing myself through long, energetic and thorough periods of MC5 backed self-reflection to convince myself that the human race is worth remaining a member of”
“Hey, if you bought Adele’s album I’m actually glad; at least you weren’t behind the wheel of a car or in a voting booth where you could have done some more lasting damage”
If you know Steven’s whereabouts, please contact us here and let us know he’s okay. The police won't help us, they say rock and roll writers do tend to vanish for a bit around this time of year.
Written under duress by Steven(‘s concerned family and friends).