I used to be a regular reader of Q. It was part of the bundle of British magazines I took in routinely, when good newsstands were still a thing, as a way of breathing a different atmosphere than the American one we all spend our days immersed in. This is, or was, especially important for writers. But everybody who is even half-serious about music knows that Britain is another planet; the major pop deities are the same, but the hierarchy is different enough to be usefully alienating.
They say travel broadens the mind, but visiting a world where Ray Davies is as important as Mick Jagger, and Nick Cave and Paul Weller are considered superstars, makes for a more affordable alternative. You don’t even have to like Nick Cave to benefit from the trip, which is just as well.Article content continued
Mostly I’ve always found British magazines of all kinds more congenial: I am in some doubt whether a typical American could even make sense of Private Eye or Viz. And American glossies are so horrendously earnest about their attempts to create gods and goddesses. The only sane reaction to the sight of Rolling Stone or Vanity Fair or Esquire is to regard it as the proselytizing literature of a slightly repugnant cult, as I suspect increasing numbers of people do.
Unfortunately, music magazines on both sides of the Atlantic seem hopelessly antiquarian now, which is a competitive advantage for the ones that are consciously antiquarian . Q was still aiming for general relevance in the hope that high quality, humour and trustworthy reviews would sell.
If you are under 30, you cannot understand that there might ever be any difficulty in locating good music suited to your own taste. Guidance that was once essential has become obtrusive. But Q always offered that guidance in a beautiful way, and beautiful things ought to be mourned when we lose them.