I've always thought that maintaining a certain level of critical detachment doesn't square with artists and pop writers becoming friends. Ideally, the artist should have no idea who the writers are, thus enabling the critic to ghost about at gigs rather liked a hired hitman - although wielding a (occasionally poisonous) pen rather than a deadly umbrella. When this isn't the case, the consequences can be truly ghastly. Quite early on in journalism, I was pounced on at a gig in Sheffield by a band's manager, who then introduced me to the bass player, singer and even the singer's father, all the while offering to ply me with lager. They were all very nice, of course, which made it all the more difficult - in the interests of journalistic integrity - to inform them that the gig was rubbish and I was going to slag them off.
I quickly learned the value of anonymity. It's not just a case of remaining secretive in order to be nasty - it's also very rewarding to go to a concert when the band have no idea they're even being reviewed, never mind who you are, and then imagine their faces as they open the paper to receive a surprise glowing review.
Remaining anonymous can also be good for your health. A few years ago, I had the misfortune to be introduced to a band that I'd been critical of. One by one, the band came up to argue their point before stalking me and my girlfriend across town to a nearby party. Having always felt that, if necessary, journalists should be able to back up in person what they say in print, I didn't back down from what I thought was a valid point of view: that the band were a bunch of thugs. Unfortunately, my point was proved when the burly singer and cohorts sent me hurtling across several tables, the recipient of what is generally known as a "right good kicking".
I learned the hard way that when the paths of artists and writers merge too closely, it always ends in tears. Partly this is because the artistic ego is a creative but fragile thing: stars can sell millions, but still be driven to apoplexy by an unfavourable write-up on page 47 of NME. Equally, when journalists and stars become too chummy, the journalist will inevitably find his viewpoints compromised, while the artist takes the writer's praise for granted. For years, Tony Parsons eulogised George Michael in print, even writing his "autobiography", Bare (or Bore as it became known). Subsequently, when Parsons dared to be mildly critical, he was swiftly excommunicated.
The crucial thing is to recognise the difference between being friends - and vulnerable to influence - and simply being friendly. If you like someone's music and then you meet them, it stands to reason you may actually get on, but it should be left at that. Ideally, journalists and writers should save the really chummy stuff for when they're no longer at war, like myself and the bloke who teaches me drums, who I used to write about a bit when he was in Shed Seven.
Incidentally, the assault incident came to court but the case collapsed over a legal technicality. However, while the evidence was being heard, I hope the singer came to understand that criticism really isn't personal. I certainly gained some compelling insights into a troubled life that had perhaps led him to behave violently towards me. We ended up actually shaking hands. Perhaps, had our lives been different, we could even have been good friends.
