And so this, is Christmas, And what have you done? Another year over, A new one just begun.

Well, I've become a rock critic. 1972 was the year of the rat and the rock critic. Pack hunting, singing ships arid eating crap. So many bloody words. England supports five music weeklies, three rock monthlies and endless teen magazines. Every newspaper, every mag azine has its critic and a "class" album, like, say, Never A Dull Moment, prob ably gets 60 different reviews in Eng land alone. Rolling Stone now has a cosily cultured British pull-out and rock becomes a round of press receptions and calculated interviews and gossiping in corners. Amidst this lunacy the mag azine of the year was Flash (from Panorama City, California) bargain bin records, no publicity hand-outs, no cups of tea witi:., the Stars. Dave Clark lives. Nobody in England would have the cheek and there aren't many bargain bins. Charlie Gillett unearthed Ne~t' Musical Express' 1958 Critics' Choice. 15 critics and 1 5 worst records of the year included "Little Darlin" (twice by the Diamonds, once by the Glad iolas), "Hound Dog" by Elvis, "I'm Walking" by Fats Domino, Johnny Otis' "Ma, he's making eyea at me" (twice), Frankie Lymon's "I'm not a juvenile delinquent," and "Short Fat Fannie" by Larry Williams. Ho hum, we know better floW, of course.

Two friends of mine went to see David Bowie in San Francisco. One wrote:

We go to Winteriand -~ holds 5000 and there are 500 people there~ huddled in front of the stage. First two acts are ok. Then on comes Bowie. The pretensions of it all are so out of proportion to the reality -strobes, and fanfare, etc. He does his set. It's ok, nothing flashy. I went to see a star, but he's a small time british rock and roller to me. He is fun to look at. A Jacques Brel number is an atrocity. His encore (I love you, depend on me, etc.) is a joke. Very disappointing... we wanted an event.

The other wrote:

t began sitting in the balcony for comfort, but by the time David came on I had to go downstairs - then closer and closer, worming my way through the crowds of all sorts until I reached the stage never have I been so taken or turned on by a per former, I just had to be as close as possible. I wanted to touch him * it was like Beatiemania but with more dimension. He's so beautiful and so good and the people just love him (though Winterland was only about 1/3 full!). So tomorrow, instead of going to Tahoe to spend the weekend with Michael, I think I'll stay here and see David Bowie again. Connie is in love with him and I just can't stop moaning about it all. What a lovely body, smile, hair. etc. . . just thought YOU might like to know the above. I'm 13, again! Whoopee... -

P.S. wouf~I look good with red hair?

Guess who's the rock critic. I went to my first press reception this month - for Birtha.. Public pros titu tion. The girls bounced around the stage selling themselves to the corporate freeloaders. "Hi," warm hand on my sleeve, "I hoped you liked our show. Be nice." The big smile didn't flicker. Who's eating whom'? After I stopped dreaming of Eddie Cochran aM Hank Marvin, I started dreaming of being a famous rock writer - meeting the flesh, free albums, poison penned. It don't work like that from a fan to a cog, in the machine. It's worth about 60 pounds a month. The rock critic's job is mystification. Pile on the art, bury the business. The men who know too much. Style and history and who cares? People don't listen to. rock in its artistic context but as part of their own lives. Echoes. My favorite records at the moment are Harold Melvin's "If you don't know me by now" because that's~ just what I've been trying to say to my girl hell, I've always fallen in and out of love to an AM accompaniment. Do rock critics have love lives'? Next, "Gudby t'Jane" cos I like the backing and it's good to dance to and I fancy myself doing the Noddy Holder strut. And Van Morri son's "St. Dominic's Preview" just for the lines:

All the restaurant tables are completely covered Yeah, the record company has paid out for the wi-ee-ine You've got everything in the world you ever wanted. And right about now you face your worst night.

Lester Bangs was flown to England by Slade's management to cover their tour. He got us into their Birmingham concert free, backstage and all.. My wife teaches kids who'd saved for weeks for a ticket and: then not got in cos it sold out. They'd've. fainted on meeting Dave Hill, Most English writers not only dismiss Slade - they've never seen them. Just another rock group. Remem ber when we were shitting ourselves? Ah, those were the days. I don't see how rock writers avoid getting blase. Free tickets, free records, sitting on the edge.

Events which we created as kids are created for the press. This week Tommy is the event of the century. Rock music comes of age. (30?) And it's all soooo wonderful. The record companies co operating and the lads pulling together and Merry Clayton flew all the way from California. How did seven of the greatest rockers ever get involved in this emasculated gesture to show-biz? Interviewer: Well, Pete, last time we talked you said you wanted nothing more to do with Tommy. So why did you get involved in this?

Pete Townshend: Well, er, er, um ...

Keith Moon's voice off: The check didn't bounce.

Art starts making money and we're done. My mission is to convince people that Bobby Vee is more rock than James Taylor, that Tammy Wynette is more moving than Joni Mitchell. "I don't want to know that."

The fragmentation of the rock audience is less a fragmentation of taste (Taylor vs. Slade) than a fragmentation of context. People use music differently. There are two basic audiences in England (though with numberous offshoots) — kids and students. Kids — leaving school at fifteen, working — use rock as a permanent background — discos for dancing, radio for working, juke-box for drinking. What's needed is a sound against which life — .chatting up, aggro, having some fun — can be lived. Sounds are right or wrong but the details are unimportant — it's ok, it's crap, what else? Singles still provide the basic sounds and (though you have to read the trade press to realize it) even the best selling albums in England are the anthologies — genuine or perfect covers — of the previous months" hit singles. Girls still have their heart-throbs (would you believe David Bowie?) but there's no nonsense about auteurs. When Noddy Holder has his spiritual crisis and starts singing about the politics of Meher Baba he'll lose the bulk of his audience. It's very difficult for a rock critic (me) to accept how completely irrelevant his concerns — dating, background, analysis — are for most kids. The most popular record of this year was probably "School's Out," but most kids I've talked to don't know (and don't care) who Alice Cooper is, where he came from, where he's going. They've never seen his stage act and couldn't give a shit for the theories of rock as drama. School's out for the summer/winter/spring — what else needs to be said?

Students (by my dogmatic definition, people who don't go to work at 15 but keep on schooling) buy albums and listen to them (doped or undoped) intently. They go to concerts and applaud. They study Rolling Stone and plot the politics of the youth culture. They read rock critics. They appreciate significance (Jethro Tull) and complexity (ELP). They hate T. Rex and there's nothing much more to be said.

The rock writer is strangely placed. His occupation — listening intently, talking obsessively — allies him with the student audience (the only people who are going to read him) but the good critic's instincts (read Richard Williams in Melody Maker, for instance or Landau in RS) are for the kids" sounds (which are, anyway, the continuation of rock'n"roll sounds). And so the gaps. Slade may be neglected but the Moody Blues and Chicago sell millions of records and never get a good review, never get played on BBC's "progressive" Sounds of theSeventies programmes. Every critic I know loathes Cat Stevens and loves Van Morrison, every record buyer I know buys Cat Stevens and skips over Van Morrison — can't afford both. Down yer leg.

The critic's dream (like the dj's) is that when he sits his surly victims down and says "whoooooeeee isn't that wonderful?" they'll agree and whooooeee too. It doesn't happen too often and so the cunning writer invents his own eager audience, becomes his own mythologist. So Nik Cohn became the mythical mentor of Teen (he convinced me) and Lester Bangs is greasing the way for his wasted, heavy metal (?) post-acid-dropheads (Gulcher culcher?) — I believe him though there's nothing like it in England, not even in anyone's imagination. Rock myths (as Greil Marcus pointed out long ago) are myths about audiences, not directly about stars. We don't need new Beatles, we need new Beatlemaniacs — they'll find their own objects. 1972 was a good year for music but a bloody awful one for audiences. Pull your fingers out and don't lose your grip on love.