We have a strict hierarchical structure here at Americana-UK Towers (actually we don’t but this is for illustrative purposes). At the top sits The Editor – a surly cove if crossed and a great believer in “do as I say not as I do”. You don’t fuck with him. Imagine our surprise this week, then, when Sub-deputy-co-vice-editor Little Tommy Wotnot (he used to be Big Tommy Wotnot but lost a considerable amount of weight due to the fact that certain rival Americana based websites fed his ego rather than his belly) popped up with a most disheartening message. At our Annual General Conference, which we snappily title “What The Fuck Do We Do Now?”, we usually have a long series of in-depth conversations/negotiations/complications whereupon we decide courses of action, the direction of travel for the site and how to deal with the menace of shite music that people insist on foisting upon us.
This year we agreed certain motions such as ‘The website should be published in English” (Tommy voted for French), “The website should exist to continue to promote Americana, alt-country and alternative musics” (Tommy voted for death metal/rap crossover) and “The website should be a welcoming place for those seeking a safe, non-judgemental and informative haven vis-à-vis their musical tastes” (Tommy voted to ban Jainism and remove all subscribers who refused point-blank to offer him oral relief). In his keynote speech at conference Tommy suggested various courses of action including not publishing Americana related music reviews, not publishing Americana related music videos and not publishing Americana related music news. This, he opined, would see us at the forefront of Americana music publishing and put to bed, once and for all, the lie that we exist primarily as a repository for Americana music in the UK.
We listened intently to his oration and took his words on board. In the subsequent vote he unfortunately only garnered one response (from little Stephen Pillock) which resulted in a spoiled ballot. In the bar afterwards many delegates went up to Tommy and said “Fuck’s sake, son. If you don’t love us why don’t you leave us? Can you not give us some love?” At this point the bile that Tommy had collected in his once considerable spleen exploded and our dry cleaning bill spiralled through the roof. Apposite then that this tune popped up on our jukebox at that very moment:
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