Waking up to my customary repast of pumpkin seeds, rooibos tea, tangerine segments and a gallon of overproof rum laced with petrol and a slice of lime, I turn to peruse the internet and learn that Zane Lowe has left Radio 1 for pastures fresh. He has been hailed as the “John Peel of his generation” for his fearless championing of artists like Ed Sheeran and Jay-Z, interviewing them when no one else was either willing or competent to do so. This fellow is particularly effusive.
Among various points he makes is that with Zane Lowe “it genuinely felt he liked what he was playing”, that he was in possession of “passion, excitement, encyclopaedic knowledge of music” and had “many industry and artist contacts”. He also “didn’t give a fuck what you think”. Among those who took to Twitter were Adele, who pointed out that without Lowe, she and others like her would have remained figments of our imagination (“You made so many of us real”), The National, Foo Fighters, The Killers and many of others of a similar stripe who have made the 21st century in music the 21st century in music. It seems that he will leave a Zane Lowe-shaped hole behind him, and a chair, to be filled by someone else. It felt appropriate to pay tribute to the man who was known to most simply as “Zane Lowe”.
Shitting Jesus on a f***ing chimney, how f***ing deadheaded has this f***ing c*** of a world become when an Antipodean f***ing arselicker, a f***ing glorified f***ing intern like Zane f***ing Lowe gets compared to John f***ing Peel? F*** John f***ing Peel, Lowe wasn’t fit to tie f***ing Ed “Stewpot” Stewart’s shoelaces! And given that neither was Ed Stewart, that’s f***ing saying something! With his c***like beard and an expression so f***ing blank it’s begging to have the word “ANUS” scrawled on it in black felt tip, he embodies everything that’s staid, safe, slow, tenth-hand, tenth-rate, tedious as tapwater, overripe, overrated, overproduced, underwritten, corporate cocksucking, nondescript, punkless, hopeless, witless, retrotarded, guitarbound, ruthlessly unambitious, arsegrindingly ordinary, dickfondlingly incurious, O2, miserably unctuous, yawningly complacent, piggy-eyed, cockfaced, anus-brained and f***ing c***mungous about f***ing rock and pop this dismal f***ing decade!
I mean, take this bunch of vapid f***ing twatlords, who it seems Lowe put his full f***ing deadweight behind in order to pull them out of the baboon’s rectum of deserved f***ing obscurity! Pretty Vicious they’re f***ing called! £500k advance these Greggs-faced f***ing doozewads have got – they’re here to “save guitar music”, it seems.
Save f***ing guitar music? From what? From rediscovering a spark or scintilla of the originality that made it f***ing exciting in the first place before it was f***ing reduced to a giant, grey bowl of f***ing Gallagher perma-porridge? See, here’s the f***ing thing. John Peel would play f***ing anything. You put it in his hand, he’d f***ing play it, because that’s the sort of bleeding heart f***ing idiot he was. If it had been three blokes from Dumbarton making armpit fart noises into a cassette recorder and sniggering, calling it Three Blokes From Dumbarton Making Armpit Fart Noises Into A Cassette Recorder And Sniggering and sending it to Peel, Peel would have f***ing played it, then invited them down for a f***ing session! He even played The f***ing Fall, for f***’s sake! Lowe’s a starf***er, Peel was a pity f***er! But not even Peel would have f***ing played Pretty Vicious! He’d have let his heart bleed to f***ing death before he played this sadsack of sorryshite! But f***ing Lowe would, who gets filled with “passion and excitement” by this bunch of f***ing cement mixers like the clueless, cultureless c*** he is!
Then there’s his legendary f***ing interviews!
There he is, with Chris Martin in the studio in the seat right opposite him, like a sniper in World War 1 with Lance Corporal Hitler in his cross-hairs the other side of f***ing no man’s land. But does he do the f***ing decent thing? Does he wrestle him to the ground and strangle the c*** with his bare hands? No he doesn’t! He asks him “What’s the best bits of advice you’ve been given – let’s blow this open – by anybody?” It’s the “let’s blow this open” that makes him a c*** and three quarters, by the f***ing way, like he’s putting a ton of Semtex under the interview format rather than blowing smoke up Martin’s arse. That, and his f***ing horrible little rising intonations and those f***ing thick-rimmed specs to make him feel like he’s f***ing Robin Day or something rather than a twattock with his head so far stuck up the oblivious f***ing realms of showbiz’s arse he wrote a letter a year ago to the late Jimmy Savile asking him to fix it for him to meet f***ing Chris Martin!
And here he is with f***ing Jay-Z, sitting nodding like the obliging little yes-man to the stars he f***ing is as the f***er drones on about f***ing accountancy! Seriously, you money-obsessed twat, you should be rapping about how the f***ing LAPD can go f*** themselves with a chair leg, not poring over f***ing balance sheets! What the f***?
So there he is, folks, Zane f***ing Lowe, friend to the overprivileged and undertalented, handmaiden to the barely describable mediocrities all of whom share a passion and sincerity in their desire to become extremely rich while making as little creative effort as f***ing possible or advisable – friend to f***ing Sam Smith, Ed Sheeran, Frank Turner and every other f***er whose fat face is currently blotting out the f***ing sun! Zane Lowe, the radical voice of his f***ing generation, as hailed by a f***ing generation who wouldn’t know “radical” if it shat in their f***ing mouths from close f***ing range! Thank f*** you’re going, Zane – to the town of OFF, Population You, Welcomes Careful F***ers!
