Your Father's Oldsmobile

From our occasional correspondent in London comes this confessional in The Guardian, written by a 30-something ex-critic at ultra-now UK music mag NME. In it, she notes a waning interest in new music and revels in her guilty appreciation of classic Phil Collins, reflecting upon the extraordinary "sense of relief that has followed my realization that I need no longer try to convince myself that I must love the latest rock/rap/indie/pop sensation":

Of course, the onset of one's 30s does not necessitate a blanket disregard of new music; that would be self-defeating and a bit weird. Indeed, this is a fecund time for what was once touchingly known as "indie", with Trail Of Dead, Art Brut, Bloc Party and the Rapture all doing fine things with the gifts the good Lord has bestowed upon them. Yet the appeal of such music is so intrinsically linked to youth - it's about possibility, about arrogance, about contempt for authority and middle-aged men in denim gilets - that to be really into it beyond one's 20s demonstrates a fundamental lack of self-awareness. It is, in other words, time to move on.

The hell you say! I had a grand time at the 9:30 Club last Friday, even if The Decemberists didn't start until eleven and the mean age of the crowd barely met the 21-and-up admission. This is one aging hipster (wannabe) who is not going gentle into that good night!