![]() And now everyone’s booing you!” My heart filled with joy. Kanye West has just stopped his show at Hammersmith Apollo and flashed up these words in ten foot tall lights: ‘Late Registration is mediocre’ – John Doran, Playlouder. So I was more than a little surprised when Pricey texted me the following message: “You aren’t going to believe this. I mean, why choose snippets from various rare records to make something entirely original when you can just add your own lyrics to a record that’s barely been altered? From Shirley Bassey to Curtis Mayfield, West’s choices were embarrassingly gauche – not that this seemed to matter to lovers of Tesco or Walmart hip hop worldwide, even when his production work for other rappers, such as Common, was far better. When reviewing his album Late Registration for Playlouder, I gave it a not particularly vicious three out of five and made what I thought was the fair observation that the self-styled college dropout chose to be mediocre as it helped his sales figures. As strange as it sounds, the fact that an obscure music writer like myself managed to get under the skin of the world’s leading rapper should tell you quite a lot about him. It basically referred to a time when I'd gotten up Kanye West's nose so badly that he stopped his gig at the Hammersmith Apollo for two nights running and got the crowd to boo me. While thrashing round in the grip of some particularly demented night terror, I'd managed to smash my phone in such a way that I deleted all of my text messages.Īlong with the messages from my girlfriend and pals, I'd lost a load of work- related texts, the best of which was a mini-epistle from my friend Simon Price, New Romantic and man of letters. I had my laptop pulled up to my chin like a particularly rubbish plastic and silicon duvet and was making a noise “like a broken panther”. I was rudely shaken awake two hours later by Paul, who was on his way to work. Fearing the three-line whip of my sister, my brother-in-law and my girlfriend if I rang the bell, I decided to sleep on the doorstep. After a dimly remembered cab ride home which featured much shouting about David Soul, it turned out the spare set of keys were not in their usual hiding place. The landlords of one of my favourite drinking establishments, the Mucky Pup in Islington, finally managed to pry my fingers off the bar at 5am on Sunday morning. It being my birthday last weekend, I went out for a drink. ![]()
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