NME used to be great. It used to be life-changing. I used to buy it then soak up every word on my school lunch breaks. My favorite cover had Justine Frishmann looking so fuckable I almost lost my mind in a teenage, semen-driven dementia. I've read it since I was 14. it was one of the few constants in my life. it rocked. it ruled. it was like the big brother with the cool taste in music that I never had (I do indeed have a big brother, who is a certifiable genius...except when it comes to music. I was forced to listen to so much suede and meatloaf I considered writing to amnesty international pleading for help. hell, the UN. security council should have bombed his room citing humanitarian reasons for subjecting me to that shit). the NME. was sexy. it was funny. it was clever. it was intelligent. it was like a bible to this boy stuck in the middle of nowhere with friends listening to poison and warrant and thunder and GOD HELP ME GET OUTTA HERE BEFORE I SHOOT UP THIS PLACE THROUGH FRUSTRATION AND BOREDOM!!!!.

Then it all went wrong. sales fell through the roof when britpop snorted itself into oblivion. melody maker - the NME's sluttier sister - had a brief affair with glossy pages then folded and the NME turned into Smash Hits in a vain attempt to widen it's readership... only to have the readership turn away with a sigh and a collective disgruntled shrug of the shoulders wondering what the hell Craig David and the sugababes were doing in there. What the fuck happened to rock and roll??? well, it never went away. The NME simply decided not to cover it and instead, each year it would invent new scenes and champion a select number of bands. Don't get me wrong, The Strokes are good. The Vines have their moments. But do we really need to read about them every week? Do I care if Craig Nichols of the vines has a MacDonald's fetish? What, are we some fucking target market? Have the editors sunk so low that they're using their paper for product placements now? Rock should be sweaty and sexy, not shiny, glossy and fitting into some perfect IPC corporate ideal.  They will take a good band and claim they are the best thing since nirvana. Every year. Well, they can roll up their shiny covered, major label obsessed (really, check out the number of bands in there that are on the majors, it's alarming) jamrag and shove it up their arse. We now have Careless Talk Costs Lives.

It started a year and a bit ago. It's perfect. It's like NME used to be, back when it had a soul and a heart. In this modern-day, rock magazine traffic, gridlock hell (where did all these rock magazines come from all of a sudden? bang?? x-ray???), it's like a musical blowjob in a trusty old beaten-up van. but with air-conditioning. and a fridge full of booze. And a kick-ass stereo.

The man behind it all is Everett true (he who brought sub pop to the masses) and, damnit, the country should get a new public holiday in his honour for coming up with this.

Let's look at the facts; it's had erase eratta, oneida, bright eyes, scout niblett and will oldham amongst it's cover stars. Not heard of some/any of them? That's because none of them are on major labels. Finally, a magazine is covering underground music again. Finally someone is covering music for the love of it. Finally there's some heart back in music journalism.

Bands like the star spangles can fuck off with their parlophone (emi) pay-rolled punk. Why the fuck do we need them when we have the dirtbombs?

Careless Talk Costs Lives is out bi-monthly. Buy it. Support independent music. It's good for your soul.