What I did last night instead of going to see The Necks play live

I thought about how good The Necks sound on record, and how refined I would have felt watching their refined, exploratory jazz at the Old Museum where bats fly out from under the rafters. (I tried to find a review to link to so you could engage viscerally with their music without the tiresome bother of having to click on a YouTube video but as their music – which is intriguing and rather haphazardly fun to experience – mainly seems to attract a particular type of male dickhead critic fan, The Guardian excepted, I decided better of it.) I would have felt so fucking refined, though.

I thought about how much I love that Hinds video. You know the one. Such enthusiasm is usually infectious.

I listened to the sound of cicadas, piercing so loud.

I noted that frogs don’t stop croaking if you clap your hands twice.

I played Song of the Day 121 and Song of the Day 123 to Ed G, the man behind that great Indiewolf, Wolf-Wolf and Pearbear review for Collapse Board so long ago. I thought he’d appreciate them. He appreciated them.

I amended a history of Collapse Board.

I missed Hinds.

I miss Hinds.

I thought about how when I saw The Breeders play two nights after Beyoncé, all I could think of was “they’re not Beyoncé”.

I thought about how music criticism isn’t about the good or the bad, the mediocre or the wonderful. It’s about the stories.

I took a photograph of mushrooms.

by Everett True

My name is Everett True. I am a music critic. This is what I do. I criticise music. The clue is in my job description – music critic. I do not consider myself a journalist, as I do not research or report hard news. I do not consider myself a commentator as I believe that everyone should be a participant. I criticise people and in return I am not surprised if other people criticise me. It is part of the whole deal of being in the public arena. I am Everett True. Believe in me and I have power like a God. Quit believing in me and I no longer exist.