Pop has become a conservative art form and an old man’s game

It is coming to something when relatively young pop stars die not of drugs or misadventure but, essentially, of old age and decay. Frankie Knuckles, the house DJ and producer, breathed his last recently at the age of just 59, and several ageing ex-clubbers of my acquaintance told me that it was the end of an era. But it always seems to be the end of an era these days, and very rarely the beginning of one. We read that the New Musical Express, that inky irritant to generations of music lovers who bought it every week even if they disagreed with every word it printed, now sells about three copies a week and is in danger of going under. Indeed, if it weren’t for the annual NME awards, which have become a useful counterpoint to the ghastly Brits, IPC would probably have pulled the plug a while ago. The awards make money; it’s just the magazine that no one has any use for.