This was supposed to be recorded in real time. Unfortunately Jaz had to live in a bedsit with no internet access during the following events. Better late than never...
Five nights out on the trot, 14 artists, one venue: this is my quest. Mount Kilimanjaro isn’t in sight, Comic Relief haven’t been on the blower mistaking me for
Gary Barlow’s cousin and I’m not yet experiencing the dizzy heights à la
Cheryl Cole.
No, I work under the auspices of no associated charity (aside from my own not-so-recession-proof
ETTA: Employ The Tea-girl Already). I’m 23 and having a premature life crisis – staying in on Saturday nights with cocoa, mourning the completion of
The X Factor and averaging a bedtime of 10.30. Reviving my inner jumping bean, however, isn’t the only motivation for my self-set New To Q Sessions-orientated challenge. I have an affliction worthy of many a philanthropist’s shrapnel. Whatever “It” is, I need to be on it. Treggings,
Glee, the latest yoga/pilates hybrid – I must ride the wave of now. As I take up residence for the first night at Notting Hill’s Tabernacle where I shall worship at the altar of the latest signing I stop myself before sneering at the sea of Lyle Scotts with their side-gelled coifs. I am you (gender aside), and, I wonder, is your short-term memory as crippled as mine?
So there’s been the years of pre-exam crash revision, the relocations to three cities with complex transport systems, the constant conveyor belt of new faces/names met along the way and the brain cells bludgeoned familiarising myself with scores of office floors while slaving away at various internships… all pale in comparison to the damage caused by my bout of
fingeronpulse-itus. In these www times filled by a constant release of “Next Big Thing”s who become passé the instant they’re announced as such, the briefest of cultural heart palpitations are undetectable and neurological breakdown is induced by the dreaded inquisition, “What’s on your iPod’s shuffle this week?”. Seriously:
Marina & The Machine, Friendly Boots, The Big Black Kids, Broken Drums, Pixie Geldott… please make it stop! What does it even mean to be ‘new’ in music? Who qualifies for an
NME cover? Next time I host a vintage throwback party, I’ll be toasting
Daisy Lowe, remembering heady days of yore with all the classics from
MGM.I.A. and those New York veterans
Vampire Weekend, while screening
Slumdog Millionaire and downing shots of wheatgrass. Florence, your dog’s had its day; time to get on your broomstick and fly away.
La Roux, throw out your lemons, you can crack a smile now while nobody’s looking. I propose an indie social suicide pact. Until then, I shall squeeze the latest roster of up-and-comers into my shrinking skull.
Jaz x
Do you often find yourself mistaking some bands for certain others due to their ridiculously near-identical silly names? Have you been getting your Black Kids mixed up with your Black Lips, crossing your Howling Bells with your Broken Bells or swapping your MGMT for your N.E.R.D? If so, you are not alone. Jaz has become so infuriated by a particularly bad case of Multiple Bandname Disorder recently that we've felt it necessary to safeguard society from what's fast becoming a global epidemic: Bunny Flu. 
Described by some journalists as the thinking man's pop band, bassist Ira Wolf Tuton (his middle name really is Wolf and he's not in Twilight) spends an hour theorising, analysing and criticising pretty much everything. But if you're looking for an explanation as to their name don't bother.
No, I work under the auspices of no associated charity (aside from my own not-so-recession-proof ETTA: Employ The Tea-girl Already). I’m 23 and having a premature life crisis – staying in on Saturday nights with cocoa, mourning the completion of The X Factor and averaging a bedtime of 10.30. Reviving my inner jumping bean, however, isn’t the only motivation for my self-set New To Q Sessions-orientated challenge. I have an affliction worthy of many a philanthropist’s shrapnel. Whatever “It” is, I need to be on it. Treggings, Glee, the latest yoga/pilates hybrid – I must ride the wave of now. As I take up residence for the first night at Notting Hill’s Tabernacle where I shall worship at the altar of the latest signing I stop myself before sneering at the sea of Lyle Scotts with their side-gelled coifs. I am you (gender aside), and, I wonder, is your short-term memory as crippled as mine? 
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