Jarvis Cocker could not be more correct. A review of Hunter Davies’ latest batch of Lennon scraps:
Britpop (I can scarcely believe that I typed that word of my own free will) perhaps comes in useful for once at this point. People of my generation felt this obscure pang – this feeling that we’d somehow missed out on something amazing. So we tried to make it happen again – but exactly the same. You cannot do a karaoke version of a social revolution (good fun trying though). What changed in the interim? Why was Br**pop doomed to failure? Too many factors to go into here, but one was: too much information. Too much reverence. Wearing the same clothes and taking the same drugs will not make us into Beatles. It will make us fat and ill. And books like this (along with many others, I admit) are what make that mistake possible. The Beatles didn’t know they were the Beatles. The Beatles didn’t have a plan or a blueprint to follow. They followed their impulses and vague hunches and somehow left a legacy of 213 songs with scarcely a dud among them. That’s all the information you need, really. But now that relatively modest body of work has been overshadowed by all the “previously unseen” and “the making-of” nonsense that becomes necessary if you want to flog people the same thing year after year.
