Jason Pierce, you scare me. You really do. You are a genius. That is not new, for upon buying the "Electric Mainline" 7" single in 1993 I went home and heard it and loved it so much that I proclaimed Spiritualized to be a band whose susbsequent material was worth buying without the need to listen to it first, which was a trust I put in no other bands except maybe the Orb or Depeche Mode, and even then, the latter have made only one record better than the absolute dreck of your recorded output (relatively speaking of course, for "Laser Guided Melodies" is the bee's knees, and I don't count the second half of "Recurring to be a Spiritualized recording, even though it is for all intents and purposes) but if that's the shoddiest thing you've ever laid your name to, which includes every last note played with Spacemen 3 -- the early, tinny demo versions onward, impressively covering seventeen years of everthing from blistering psychedelia to poignant orchestral blues -- then you've got a career value that'll rank with the New Orders and the Barry Bonds'.

But 1993 genius wasn't enough. The aforementioned greats got better with age. You did too. "Anyway That You Want Me" would have (well, should have) been enough to make you the Soft Cell of 90's British pop. The career of your new band had already been rendered fond with that simple seven minute piece of swoonsome guitar pop with the Hey Jude ending. You became *the* white soul brother. Sure, Spectrum beat you to the punch with "Highs, Lows, and Heavenly Blows" (one of the greatest albums that nobody knows about) but went on to show him, didn't you, and the victors get the sympathy in the history books, and one certainly doesn't see Sonic Boom's name gracing the gossip pages and the pop charts these days, which likely suits him just fine, though. But you got to make the album of the year. Which you did in 1995. And again in 1997. And you've probably done it again in 2001. Do you think you're Stevie Wonder or something? Is there a world full of Paul Simons to serve as placecards to hold peoples' attention while you sit on your ass for years between albums and imbibe exotic narcotics in a depressed daze while contemplating the meanings of life and love? It's not fair. It isn't. You toy with anyone else who dares to release a fine record, knowing that at your very will, coming at approximately eighteen months to the day after you stop feeling sorry for yourself and finally get off the couch and clean yourself off and start work on your next work of unimpeachable genius, you can one-up any ambitious musician by vomiting forth a bevy of suites with more emotional depth and sonic bonkerdom than anyone else could even begin to conceive.

You move me, but I hate you. OK, I don't really hate you but I just can't believe you can be all numb and drugged out and depressed and still do the things you do when the rest of us sober and healthy people struggle to make minimal impact on the world around us. Just keep doing exactly what you've been doing. Sigh.

Heck, everyone else is writing about the Strokes, so I figured I would too. First, we need to get something straight: THERE IS NOTHING ORIGINAL ABOUT THE STROKES, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING AT ALL.

Well, that's out of the way, so let me add that "Is This It?" is loads of fun, filled with catchy hooks and peppy swagger. Sure, the never-ending trail of one-stringed guitar lines and solos are pure Buzzcocks, but they were a good band too. And there's undeniably nothing shocking or unique about a NYC 'tude, I compared a picture of the Strokes with a picture of Blondie on the back cover of their debut album, and they were nearly identical. Yeah, the Strokes are cuter and younger, but the rugged, ratty clothing, the "I don't give a flying f***" scowls -- indistinguishable. Actually, pictures of the Strokes remind me more of early Suede than anything else. Whereas the Ramones, Blondie, Television et al appeared as if they couldn't be arsed to pose for a picture, the Strokes convey more than a hint of "Who us? Don't hate us cuz we're beautiful"-esque glamour that Brett Anderson was pouting throughout all of 1992.

But hey, fine tunes, strong debut album, catch them while they're hot.

In the last two weeks, both Elastica and Catatonia have split.

Both splits were not too surprising. Both bands were once mega-successes but have suffered career lulls due to disappointing receptions of their most recent albums. Both bands demises were aided by "extra-musical circumstances", but of completely different natures.

I will be clear about this: I do not mourn Elastica one single bit. They were easily the most overrated band of the Britpop era. They had a couple of catchy singles, loads of tuneless filler, and a singer who, thanks to her famous acquaintances (ex-Suede, ex-Damon), was branded with a stardom that vastly outstripped her talent, resulting in her big head for believing she was 1000 times sexier than she really was. Praise was thrust upon them for their very inception, thanks to the timely release of their debut single "Stutter" with the ascent of Suede, who were the hottest property in British rock at the time, and the first Great English Hope of the post-grunge era. They spent forever making their debut, got loads of airplay on both sides of the ocean, and sold bucketloads of records. Then they fell victim to the Stone Roses Syndrome. Infighting, members leaving and being replaced, five years between albums, but most of all, a belief that fame would just happen, with the pieces randomly falling back into place despite the time spent away. In the interim, particularly the last three spectacular years of music fandom, fans were so spoilt for choice that it was easy to find other bands to love, and Elastica's return was smoothly lost in the shuffle.

On the other hand, Catatonia's fall is particularly tragic, because they were on top of the world less than three years ago. They are the 90's version of Frankie Goes to Hollywood -- meteoric rise to prominence after springing forth from near-obscurity, then slipping from biggest band in the UK to gonesville in only a couple of years. People are bound to think that Cerys state of mind fell into psychological turmoil because "she couldn't take the fame" or "the price of stardom is high", but I've never believed that. Stardom doesn't destroy people, people destroy people. Like Kurt Cobain, Brian Jones, and a million others, she had a choice. If she didn't want to be in a pop band, if she needed to distance herself from whatever she was becoming, she could have gone home and done something else. She could have quit the music business, taken a few years off, whatever, she didn't have to go out night after night and drink herself into oblivion while hobnobbing at celebrity gatherings. I wouldn't do her the indignity of pretending to understand what she's going through, but it's undeniable that her problems led directly to the demise of Catatonia. They had always consisted of Cerys + nameless blokes in the eyes of most who had heard of them, meaning it was undeniably impossible for them to exist in any fashion with a healthy, vibrant Cerys. For that, and many other things, I really feel for her.