Frank Zappa once described rock journalists as "people who can't write interviewing people who can't speak for people who can't read". This theory is generally backed by Stuart Maconie, Andrew Collins and David Quantick, erstwhile NME writers and protagonists of Lloyd Cole Knew My Father. Of course, the halcyon days are firmly behind them nowadays, they have the relative luxury of proper salaries, smart suits and sensible haircuts.
In keeping with their subject, this is a messy affair. A few more rehearsals wouldn't have hurt and, come to think of it, neither would a director. Arranged in a row like contestants on Blind Date and equally wooden, they fluff their lines, leave out great chunks and talk over one another.
Still, they're clearly enjoying themselves. Maconie and co talk affectionately about gigs reviewed, but never seen, and interviews conducted in an alcoholic fog. There are vivid descriptions of backstage debauchery, too in their case, a few cans of warm lager and "a pale girl clutching a poster".
But to comprehend the full horror of statements like "I've slept with all of Ned's Atomic Dustbin", you will need more than a passing acquaintance with indie music. This is essentially an exercise in nostalgia a show for anoraks, about anoraks. And funnily enough, Lloyd Cole never gets a mention.
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