Idolator

NME news editor Paul Stokes shares three "indie rock nightmares" on the magazine's blog, but they're along the lines of "I live with Julian Casablancas" and "this guy from the Klaxons is looking at me!" The world of indie rock has infinitely more disturbing horrors, and while I've never actually had the three dreams I describe below, maybe you will once you've read them. Prepare to Touch And Go...to hell! Eee-heheheheheheheeee!

1. Having been shrunk to microscopic size, I am accidentally inhaled by Antony and must cling to his moist uvula during a concert tribute to Lou Reed's Mistrial at the Brooklyn Academy Of Music. I dare not let go, lest I fall down his esophagus. Despite the deafening warbling that surrounds me, I can still hear Vampire Weekend's sprightly rendition of "The Original Wrapper." Occasionally, Antony's mouth opens wide enough that I can see Brian Eno (in full Roxy uniform), blowing into a melodica as a big-suited David Byrne shouts about "Video Violence." Rufus Wainwright and Elton John see how many notes they can fit into "Don't Hurt A Woman," while Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson lock tongues backstage. During the closing all-star performance of "Tell It To Your Heart," Antony hits a high C and I am finally flung from his trembling uvula, falling into the chasm below.

2. Brian Baker, Jeff Nelson and Lyle Preslar force Ian MacKaye to rejoin Minor Threat for the 2008 Warped Tour, in order to pay back royalties that MacKaye does not believe he owes. MacKaye is legally enjoined from stopping songs to call out moshers, or to announce that the festival, the advertisers or anything else, is "bullshit." I am working for Getback.com, handing out fliers to the parents of festival attendees. I have been told that if I can't get Ian to sign over the rights to "Salad Days" for the company's TV ad campaign ("Do you remember when? Yeah, well so do we!") my family will be killed.

3. I'm stuck in a world where indie rock has slowly transformed from amateurish, enthusiastic rock with zine-fueled anticonsumerist, small-community leanings, to anonymous art-folk twaddle by musicians who can think of no greater accomplishment than getting their song into a phone ad or winning a PLUG Award. And I can't wake up.

In The NME Office: Indie Dreaming... [NME]