ICONOCLASM ROCK

I suppose it's inevitable that each generation views its icons as seminal contributions to world culture despite the fact that, historically, very few such sacred cows haved proved to have longevity. Today's Buzz Lightyear toys are yesterday's gonks; many of today's Man Booker Prize winners will be as consequential as Thomas Carlyle's novels.

(Do you know Carlyle? His only book now in print, I believe, is "History of the French Revolution" but 180 or so years ago, Charles Dickens said that he, Carlyle, was the unchallengeable top of the literary tree whereas he, Dickens, was a merely squirrel in the branches - I paraphrase).

This came to mind yesterday morning when listening to a piece on BBC Radio's "Today Programme" about the growth of clubs devoted to "Classical Pop" (or some such phrase) which require initiates to sit in sepulchral silence listening to both sides of a vinyl 33rpm LP. (I mention the fact it's an LP especially because, according to the rules of the featured club, somewhere in the West Country, explained by its American High Priestess, no talking is allowed, "not even when I go to turn the record over".)

The given raison d'etre for such theatres of the absurd is to act as a counter to the one-track-at-a-time download culture brought about by iPods and MP3 players. According to the priestess, this arrangement blocks today's great popular music creators from putting together what used to be called 'concept albums'. There's no continuity, no flow and equally no opportunity for in depth appreciation of the important works of the past.

Her words were backed by a music critic who said that great albums, Ziggy Stardust was mentioned, should be compared to the works of Charles Dickens (remember him). Yes, he said, Dickens provides entertainment if dipped into but is much more fulfilling if read from cover to cover.

True, but the comparison is invidious and certainly one is allowed to go to the lavatory when reading Dickens whereas, it turns out, such a thing is not permissible while Astral Weeks is on the turntable.

I have to say that when hearing about all this silence and reverence applied to the works of the Grateful Dead or, for all I know, to Every Road Leads Back to You by the unmatcheable Leapy Lee, I was led to think that this is all the fault of Woodstock and not Apple (the IT Company not The Beatles label).

Is each silent listener trying to get to his or her version of Woodstock 1969? Is the silence attending the music really appreciative or is it an unwitting parody of being stoned and unmoving? Because I'll tell you what, the 1969 generation weren't very big for what The Times once described as the 'deserted wastes of the double LP', either. After all, they were born into the Juke Box era.

Yes, indeed The White Album sold in its millions but everyone has their favourite songs, it's not a question of starting at "Back in the USSR" and working one's way through to "Good Night". Please god, may we leave out "Everyone's got something to hide except me and my monkey", for example.

The reason these recordings are called 'Albums' is because this is what they are: a collection, very rarely a composite. They are designed to be 'dipped into'. And this is also why, 'Best of' albums often sell far more than the more culturally consequential offerings which, if we're honest about it, always contain a few duff tracks or fillers that we don't need to hear again.

Put the kettle on someone.