Old people - they should be shot at birth - especially in the music industry, says Tim.

Bit of a quiz for you. About which artist did the NME say “...revolting. Hardly the kind of performance any parent would wish their children to witness”? Sounds good, doesn’t it? Well, this danger to moral values is none other than Sir Cliff Richard, in his late 1950s “British Elvis” persona. Nowadays, such a quote could only be seen as the highest of praise, because let’s face it, what is Rock ‘n’ Roll about if it isn’t about youth, about belonging to a generation which the grown-ups just don’t understand, whether it be because of the “crude exhibitionism” of Sir Cliff, a well-placed swearword, the clothes, the drugs, or just the simple fact that “there’s no tune to all this modern music”?

Sure enough, Cliff may not be hip to all that’s swinging nowadays, daddio, but he doesn’t care. Rather than trying to carry on appealing to the same kind of audience with each generation, he just decided to grow up with the one he already had, ensuring he will always have a nostalgic following. Unfortunately, not all of rock’s rebel characters are willing to do this- they will have to keep coming back to haunt us, won’t they? Take (please) The Who. Currently riding high on the crest of a Quadrophenia revival, these crumbly old fools are still touring, and no doubt still playing a certain song with the lyric “Hope I die before I get old”. Looked in the mirror lately, lads? And even if Daltrey et al are also playing to nostalgic crowds, à la Cliff, it’s far less forgiveable when your most famous song is an rallying cry for your generation, rather than a statement of your intent to go where the sun shines brightly and the sea is blue.

But worse by far are the characters who insist on appealing to new generations much younger than their own, and in this case I’m thinking particularly of one man, a man who has just recently turned 50. Now, I’d like to point out that my Dad is 50. That’s right, David Bowie is the same age as my Dad. It doesn’t bear thinking about, really. At least my Dad was dignified enough to grow up, get a bit of the old middle-age spread and receding hair and take up golf. Will Bowie? Oh no, he just keeps on reinventing and reinventing for each new generation, appropriating the sound of each new musical trend for his own longevity. While he might revel in this kind of cultural vampirism, just imagine how his son Joe (or Zowie, as he was ludicrously christened) must feel when, every time he brings home a new record guaranteed to annoy parents, rather than complaining about how “it’s all bleep bleep bleep” (like my Dad would), Bowie Snr takes notes and uses the idea on his next album, or rings the band and asks them to support him. But, to give the man his due, at least the music he is producing is likely to annoy NORMAL parents, unlike certain other forty-somethings populating the charts (take a bow Mr Paul Weller), and he hasn’t become an inflated caricature of his former self, like Vegas-era Elvis.

Doesn’t look like much of a choice, does it? Grow old gracefully and end up singing to crowds at Wimbledon during rain breaks, or try to remain part of the in-crowd and risk looking faintly ridiculous doing it. There is, however, another option - die before you have the chance to get boring. Every year, dead artists gain new admirers; post-mortem Jim Morrison fans probably outnumber those who can actually remember The Doors. The real allure of these people is that they never had the chance to do anything embarrassing before they were unceremoniously plucked from this mortal coil in a mess of blood, vomit and other bodily fluids, so we were spared the indignities of Hendrix joining Clapton in his quest to resurrect the blues, Lennon duetting with The Chemical Brothers or a Sex Pistols reunion (ahem).

I think the message to all would-be pop grandparents is clear. Talk about your generation, then piss off down the pub and let us get on with talking about ours.

Tim.