We are officially in the age of the Rock God – think Paul Banks, Chris Cornell and Brandon Flowers. So if you’d told me at the beginning of the year that two middle-aged, paunchy Mancs would give me the biggest thrill of 2005, I’d probably have laughed. A lot.
As it happens, interviewing New Order in Manchester earlier this year was little short of exhilarating. Along with fellow journos Alison Curtis and John Meagher (re-named Johnny Meagher for the day that was in it, naturally), we made the pilgrimage to the Lowry Hotel to meet with the demi-gods. Peter Hook is arguably the funniest, most convivial character you could ever wish to interview. Bouncing off the world-weary Stephen Morris like an over-excited, potty-mouthed child, he is little short of an interviewer’s dream. Meanwhile, Bernard Sumner is notorious for his unpredictability in these situations, so you can only imagine our delight when he talked candidly about Ian Curtis’ suicide and those ill-fated few years in Ibiza. He even insisted I share his bottle of champagne – living the dream, folks!
Speaking of John Meagher, his newspaper comments about the sorry state of the Irish music scene certainly had us talking in HP Central. Interestingly, his comments were made ahead of the Hard Working Class Heroes Festival, which turned out to be a fairly exhilarating and joyous weekend after all. As is the way in Ireland, we music audiences like nothing more than to bemoan the chronic lack of originality and enterprise on the domestic front. Then a weekend like this comes along, peppered with intriguing acts like Delorentos, 66e, Leya and the Ruby Tailights, and you realise that the Irish music scene is delightfully unpredictable after all.
Anyway, it’s just as well that by now, I have shag-all credibility among my HP peers; my choice of single of the year surely destroys any modicum of integrity I ever had. Sure, offerings from Antony & The Johnsons, Sigur Ros and the Arcade Fire turned my head, but the Pussycat Dolls’ ‘Don’t Cha’ really made for astoundingly addictive listening. In fact, it’s one of the few pop anthems that appears to get better after repeated listenings (honest). Pulsating and throbbing like an oversexed stripper, this virile pop gem is the perfect sleazy soundtrack for any self-respecting sweaty dance-floor. Credibility be damned.