Necrotic Toxicity

Thursday, November 23, 2006

That Mick Hucknall is a berk is not, I believe, widely disputed. As is often the case with popular personae non gratae, the roots of the general animosity of right-thinking persons towards him are now difficult to trace: perhaps he violated some influential opinion-former's Pekinese some time back in the 1980s; perhaps he is merely a hapless victim of the anti-ginger racism with which the mousy-haired dullards of this nation perenially delight themselves. It probably all goes back to an NME interview with Julie Birchill in a pub in...oh, fuck knows where, somewhere in London I expect. Hounslow? Do the likes of Julie Birchill and Mick Hucknall conduct interviews in pubs in Hounslow? Wherever it was, no doubt her squeaks of fury agitated the canine population for miles around while Hucknall expounded his blindingly original philosophy of nicking the best bits of black people's music and turning them, via a unique and mysterious process of sonic alchemy, into mass-market dross for mousy-haired dullards to cop off to.

Reading Hucknall's defence of the extension of the term of copyright to significantly beyond the useful lifespan of most human beings (e.g. about 25 years), it is freshly apparent that if by some happy accident he were to be segmented into millimetre-thick slices the word "berk" would be found inscribed in each one, like a - oh, I don't know, help me out here: Suppose that a technology existed for injecting letters into a solid body, such that if one were to segment such a body into millimetre-thick slices the same word would be found transversely inscribed in each one. Such a technology would provide the perfect metaphor for the kind of deeply-ingrained berkishness I am attempting to describe. Perhaps this is all too much of a stretch. If so, I propose that you attempt to imagine Mr Hucknall with the word "berk" stamped - or, better still, branded - on his forehead. With some sort of stamp or branding-iron. Now do you see what I mean? If all else fails, simply try to imagine Mick Hucknall himself. That's the kind of berk I'm talking about.

The reckless fatuity of Hucknall's argument is blazingly self-evident, so I will not attempt a detailed refutation here. No, my purpose on this occasion is simply to point and laugh. Hucknall is addressing Guardian readers, whom he apparently believes to be socialists. The best - indeed, the only - way to convince a socialist of the merits of an idea is to demonstrate that the idea is itself a socialist one, such that if one were to segment it...I mean...well, anyway. Here, according to the Gramsci of the music industry, is why copyright is a socialist idea:

Copyright is fundamentally socialist - it is radical and redistributive, subversive even. How else would you describe a form of property that anyone can create out of nothing? Copyright's democratising effect is seen most clearly in the music business. Anyone who can speak, sing, rap or hum and operate a simple sound recorder can create a copyright song. Imagination is the only limit.

"Copyright's democratising effect is seen most clearly in the music business". C'est à crever de rire. Or, to borrow Larkin's words: "A perfectly vile and foul / inversion of all that's been". Not that borrowing Larkin's words is an activity Hucknall would approve of, unless appropriate monies were made over to the Larkin estate on each occasion. As for this business about creating property "out of nothing": one can only suppose that Hucknall regards the musical terrain he plundered to create his own "copyright songs" as some kind of terra nullius, ripe for expropriation. Then again, the whole piece has the distinct feeling of having been ghost-written by music industry PR goons. It says a great deal about Hucknall's credentials as a berk of the highest order that one is nevertheless prepared to believe that he wrote it himself.


Blogger bat020 said...

Re "Suppose that a technology existed for injecting letters into a solid body..."


9:30 AM  
Blogger meika said...

who he

2:10 AM  

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