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Compare Similar Items Current product. Faber Music. Hal Leonard. Wise Publications. Despite this promise of a new direction for the paper, internal tension developed, principally between Williams and Coleman, by this time editor-in-chief, who wanted the paper to stick to the more "conservative rock" music it had continued to support during the punk era. Coleman had been insistent that the paper should "look like The Daily Telegraph " renowned for its old-fashioned design , but Williams wanted the paper to look more contemporary. He commissioned an updated design, but this was rejected by Coleman.

Coleman promoted Michael Oldfield from the design staff to day-to-day editor, and, for a while, took it back where it had been, with news of a line-up change in Jethro Tull replacing features about Andy Warhol , Gang of Four and Factory Records on the cover.

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Coleman left in , the paper's design was updated, but sales and prestige were at a low ebb through the early s, with NME dominant. By , the magazine had become more populist and pop-oriented, exemplified by its modish "MM" masthead, regular covers for the likes of Duran Duran and its choice of Eurythmics ' Touch as the best album of the year. Things were to change, however. In February , Allan Jones , a staff writer on the paper since , was appointed editor: defying instructions to put Kajagoogoo on the cover, he led the magazine with an article on up-and-coming band The Smiths.

In , MM was invigorated by the arrival of a group of journalists, including Simon Reynolds and David Stubbs , who had run a music fanzine called Monitor from the University of Oxford , and Chris Roberts , from Sounds , who established MM as more individualistic and intellectual. This was especially true after the hip-hop wars at NME , a schism between enthusiasts of progressive black music such as Public Enemy and Mantronix and fans of traditional white rock — ended in a victory for the latter, the departure of writers such as Mark Sinker and Biba Kopf as Chris Bohn was now calling himself , and the rise of Andrew Collins and Stuart Maconie , who pushed NME in a more populist direction.

While MM continued to devote most space to rock and indie music notably Everett True 's coverage of the emerging grunge scene in Seattle , it covered house , hip hop , post rock , rave and trip hop. Even in the mids, when Britpop brought a new generation of readers to the music press, it remained less populist than its rivals, with younger writers such as Simon Price and Taylor Parkes continuing the s tradition of iconoclasm and opinionated criticism. The paper printed harsh criticism of Ocean Colour Scene and Kula Shaker , and allowed dissenting views on Oasis and Blur at a time when they were praised by the rest of the press.

In , they gave a French rock band called Darlin' a negative review calling them "a daft punky thrash". Australian journalist Andrew Mueller joined MM in and became Reviews Editor between and , eventually declining to become Features Editor and leaving the magazine in The magazine retained its large classified ads section, and remained the first call for musicians wanting to form a band.

Suede formed through ads placed in the paper.

MM also continued to publish reviews of musical equipment and readers' demo tapes -though these often had little in common stylistically with the rest of the paper- ensuring sales to jobbing musicians who would otherwise have little interest in the music press. In early , Allan Jones left to edit Uncut.

He was replaced by Mark Sutherland, formerly of NME and Smash Hits , who thus "fulfilled [his] boyhood dream" [19] and stayed on to edit the magazine for three years. Many long-standing writers left, often moving to Uncut , with Simon Price departing allegedly because he objected to an edict that coverage of Oasis should be positive.

Its sales, which had already been substantially lower than those of the NME, entered a serious decline. In , MM relaunched as a glossy magazine, but the new design did not help. The magazine closed the following year, merging into IPC Media 's other music magazine, NME , which took on some of its journalists and music reviewers. You can follow me. His immune system was vulnerable and mine was not. I disinfected my hands with a cold, astringent alcohol rub and then Amanda opened the door. Your daughter is here, she said. A small man was sitting on the bed with bandaged feet. He had no hair and his skull was round like a pink pool ball.

His mouth looked sore. Oh, I said. Well, hello! I sat down. He moved his thumbs back and forth compulsively, first one way, then another. Very cold this time of year. The Charles was frozen over when I left. I felt like I was presenting a radio show about travel to an uninterested audience. His thumbs moved back and forth, then forth and back. I said. He mumbled something, and I thought: well, even cats recognise their own names.

There was a small TV set fixed high up on the wall. I stared at him.

I felt my body begin to go cold, or perhaps hot. Very cool you might be then. Frank seemed to be addressing these remarks to the peripheral venous catheter taped to the skin of his left arm. He picked at it with a morbid aimlessness as he spoke. I heard my own voice grow wavery like a bad choral performance. Realising this, I relaxed somewhat and wiped at my eyes over the edge of the paper mask. I was crying a little. We may as well have been two strangers talking about whether it would snow or not. At this Frank laughed, a performance without any apparent context, but which gratified me anyway.

I loved to be rewarded with laughter. With this enigmatic truce our conversation ended. I tried to talk to him further, but he appeared too tired to engage, or too bored. I stayed for an hour, though the visiting period lasted two. When I said I was leaving, Frank appeared not to notice. I left the room, closed the door carefully, and finally removed my paper mask and plastic apron. I held down the lever on the dispenser of disinfectant fluid until my hands were wet.

It was cold, it stung. I rubbed them dry and then left the hospital. I walked just like I said I would, with my fur hat pulled down over my ears and my hands in my pockets. As I approached Tara Street, I could see a little crowd had formed around the bridge and at the sides of the road. Their faces looked pink in the darkness and some of them were holding umbrellas, while above them Liberty Hall beamed down like a satellite.

It was raining a weird, humid mist and a rescue boat was coming down the river with its lights on. At first the crowd appeared vaguely wholesome, and I wondered if there was some kind of festive show happening, but then I saw what everybody was looking at: there was something floating in the river. I could see the slick cloth edge of it. It was the size of a human being. Nothing was wholesome or festive at all any more. The boat approached with its orange siren light revolving silently. But I stayed put. I was standing next to a young Asian couple, a good-looking woman in an elegant black coat and a man who was speaking on the phone.

They seemed to me like nice people, people who had been drawn into the drama of it all not for tawdry reasons but out of compassion. I felt better about being there when I noticed them. The man on the rescue boat placed a pole with a hook down into the water, feeling for the edge of the object. Then he began to pull. We fell silent; even the man on the phone fell silent. Wordlessly the cloth pulled away, up with the hook, empty.

For a moment there was confusion: was the body being stripped of its clothing? And then it became clear. The cloth was the object. It was a sleeping bag floating on the surface of the river. The man went back to talking on the phone, and the woman in the coat started signalling something to him, something like: remember to ask what time. Everything was normal that quickly. The rescue boat moved away and I stood with my elbows on the bridge, my blood-formation system working as usual, my cells maturing and dying at a normal rate.

Nothing inside my body was trying to kill me. Death was, of course, the most ordinary thing that could happen, at some level I knew that. Still, I had stood there waiting to see the body in the river, ignoring the real living bodies all around me, as if death was more of a miracle than life was. I was a cold customer. It was too cold to think of things all the way through. By the time I got back to the apartment the rain had soaked through my coat.

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In the hallway mirror my hat looked like a dirty water vole that might wake up at any second. I removed it along with my coat. Nathan said from inside. I smoothed down my hair into an acceptable shape. How did it go? I walked inside. He was sitting on the couch, holding the TV remote in his right hand. I nodded. My face was cold, burning with cold, red like a traffic light. I went into my room and peeled off my wet clothes to hang them up. They were heavy, and held the shape of my body in their creases. I brushed my hair flat and put on my embroidered dressing gown so that I felt clean and composed.

This is what human beings do with their lives, I thought. I took one hard disciplinary breath and then went back out to the living room. Nathan was watching TV, but he hit the mute button when I came out. I got onto the couch beside him and closed my eyes while he reached over to touch my hair. We used to watch films together like that, and he would touch my hair in that exact way, distractedly. I found his distraction comforting.

In a way I wanted to live inside it, as if it was a place of its own, where he would never notice I had entered. I want to live here with you. He hit the button again and the sound came back, tense string music and a female voice gasping.

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A murder, I thought. But when I opened my eyes it was a sex scene. She was on her hands and knees and the male character was behind her.