Poem: A Hack, Just Like The Rest of Them

A poem remembering the golden days of music journalism. And then, of course, The Death...of Music Journalism...(lol/not lol)

It was fun while it lasted. Free CDs, and DVDs. And we
had access to things — which was some sort of power
I guess. And it masqueraded as a ‘freedom’. But the
websites took clicks as a sign of engagement, and
called anything we made ‘content’ - which was ironic
given no writer ever feels that way at all. But, the thing is
we had a good run. We saw gigs and films and theatre
shows, spoke with living legends on the phone, met
artists, even found out we spoke a similar language
sometimes. But those times are so long gone and now

everything is perceived to be free, which is fine, because
that great technological leap was bound to happen. No
amount of wishing it all to reverse will ever do anything
but make it worse. I was a hack. And I still can be. And
the truth is, I barely ever earned a thing — including much
in the way of respect. Which was never the reason for doing
it. But might have beeen as nice as any meagre pay check.
Oh well, all writers go to hell in the end. Some of us deserve
it more than others. Some of us started in a position far
lower, and are really just looking forward to the promotion.