Everett is the greatest music writer alive, probably. One of the most essential, at the very least. People roll their eyes when I say that ‘cos heaps of Established Professional Music Writers hate him, like any Established Professional hates anyone who exposes the lie of their inflated sense of self-importance. Alright, how about this? Everett is a tough boy, wild and innocent and dangerous as hell. The most dangerous music writer alive.
Or the greatest zinester without a zine. Besides his own writing, Everett’s got a knack for attracting the talent on the fringe who, whether through a shared lack of tact or disgust with tradition, aren’t welcome in the mainstream. Everett’s circle are the greatest music writers alive, too — the greatest music writers you’ve never heard of. Miss AMP, kicking_k, Stevie Chick, Lee Adcock, Neil Kulkarni, Scott Creney. You’ve only gotta read Plan B, the greatest music magazine to ever run, or Collapse Board, the greatest music blog to ever post, to figure that out. Tiny presences against the titan shadow of the mainstream, daring to ask if music writing could be art too, and not apologising for it. Endangered species, being starved out.
I’ve been tryna think of a way to tie them all together. It’s not just that they write about themselves, an accusation too blunt to take seriously, but that their identity, their personhood is all over the page. They all puke humanity and Everett most of all. Whether you reckon music is personal or communal it always involves people, you and me and our experiences. In its best and most rapturous forms, music is never spreadsheets or graphs or credits. It’s humanity. That’s where everyone should start. Does it move you? How? If it doesn’t, forget about it. Have no truck with indifference. It’s deadening.
And other ostensibly music reviews.