I haven’t admitted to a love for The Wedding Present for many years, but I recall writing a spirited defence of their second album Bizarro shortly after arriving at Melody Maker, the result of which meant that none of my august new colleagues (David Stubbs, Simon Reynolds, Chris Roberts, the Stud Brothers et al) ever took my musical taste seriously again.
I’m not sure they did before, thinking about it.
My defence went something along the lines of, “It is impossible for you to dislike this music if you love music, so there is no point even arguing with me on this point because it makes no sense”. I believe it was no more or less sophisticated than that. John Peel attempted a similar line, claiming “The boy Gedge has written some of the best love songs of the rock’n’roll era – you may dispute this, but I’m right and you’re wrong.” Us Weddoes fans, we brooked no dissent. We knew what we liked, and what we liked came in surprise bursts of full-on euphoria and post-Orange Juice guitar storms, and much finer lovestruck couplets than (constant reference point) The Smiths because Morrissey never sounded sincere. Every girl I knew, or dated, had a crush on Gedge.
For myriad Maker writers howling mirth over numerous pints of Tennants Smug down the Stamford, this merely increased the sense of merriment. What, the lumpen dullard Northern proletariat articulating love and emotion? Time to get your coat, ET.
Ian Gittins used to say he always knew when a record was going to be good because I’d have given it a good kicking; and Nicky Wire later on invented an entire sub-genre: “Horrible Everett True music”. (Ironic then, that when he came to release his debut solo album it was full of horrible Everett True music.)
Fortunately, I do not have a copy of the Bizarro review to hand with which to embarrass myself further.* Also, their first album is way better. As The Guardian put it a couple of years ago, “their debut album, George Best, was like hearing your own internal monologue sung back at you by a breathless Yorkshireman.”
My colleagues’ scorn and mirth had an unlooked-for side effect: freed up of the encumbrance of having to worry about my taste, I thus had free rein to write about whatever I liked.
I could go on to destroy music for a generation: grunge.
(You don’t spot the connection? Have a listen to the riff on The Wolfhounds’ brilliant 1987 12″ single ‘Anti-Midas Touch’.)
Now it can be revealed. Grunge was Everett True’s revenge on my colleagues who refused to take my taste seriously. Sticking it to The Man by, um, becoming The Man.
It was all David Lewis Gedge’s fault.
*I find the album near unlistenable now, greatly preferring the one that came before (George Best, 1987) and the one that came after (Seamonsters, 1991),
produced engineered by Steve Albini. Another grunge link.
**And they were fucking awful when they played Brisbane six years back. So bad, that me and Charlotte didn’t even look out David to say hello afterwards.