Bandus Campos

Right, who left the special cakes out? If you’re having one, you need to hide them at the back of the cupboard because we all know what happens if… what? Oh no, not again

On the first Friday of every month, the music website Bandcamp waives its fees. This means if you purchase tunes on that day, the act is charged nothing instead of the usual levy of 15 per cent cash, a stash of stolen diamonds and a child sacrifice to the 17-nippled god, Bandus Campos.

This is a marvellous system that has made every internet musician rich. Got a loop of your malfunctioning dishwasher or waffly uncle? Upload it to Bandcamp and get that lorry of champers on order. You’re about to be as wealthy as exactly seven Bronski Beats or exactly one Kate Bush or exactly 14 million Right Said Freds.

Only the other day, I saw a pasty-faced ambient live-streamer do wheelies in her limo while a chillwave experimentalist carved his URL into his gold teeth with the blades of his private chopper.

I jest, obviously. Ha, ha, ha. I’m well-known for my brilliant jesting. Once when hovering near HMV’s “F” section, I moved A Flock Of Seagulls to “C” because the collective noun for seagulls is actually colony. Serves them right for not filing it under “A” in the first place. How the sales assistants must have chortled at my educational japes as they trudged around the shop re-sorting tottering piles of misfiled CDs. I’m very good at letters, and indeed write this monthly column by thrusting globs of alphabetti spaghetti at a desk fan.

The truth is Bandcamp are backing artists because 2020 has been tougher than Dave Gahan’s leather chaps. If previous years were the Stone Roses’ debut album, splashed with colourful creativity and messianic optimism, the year 2020 is ‘The Second Coming’, an unrelenting Led Zep dirge designed to pummel us into a brown paste of regret.

I don’t want to dwell, so just imagine I’m describing our current Mad Max/Spice World dystopia with extensive footnotes, hand-drawn diagrams and a sad clown dance routine. This year is worse than those two days in 2009 when I lived with Jedward (little tip: do NOT let them near peanut butter).

There are still ways to make income as a musician, of course. My neighbour, Bill at number 18, plays washboard with a pair of stepladders on his driveway. He charges 30p to anyone who accidentally hears his cacophony whether they like it or not. “Fantastic work, Bill,” I’d say encouragingly while he scuffles on the pavement trying to wrest a wallet from a passing window cleaner.

I write this column far in advance of publication because the editors need time to embroider my words into lavish tapestries to truly appreciate my art form. Time has passed since I wrote this piece, so Bandcamp may have lost their goodwill and now choose to harpoon any musician between the eyebrows should they come within a furlong of a wi-fi router.

However, I like to think this charitable act is a sign of the future as Big Web looks after the little person. Just imagine: SoundCloud tosses coins into the tattered purses of Ableton DJs, Spotify bazookas diamante Casio watches at the grateful faces of soundscape artists, TikTok wet snogs anyone who lazily mimes over stolen audio. A glorious future.

Personally I won’t be downloading anything from anywhere, and instead will be sticking to my usual method of consuming music in which I staple four tabby cats to a mop handle and force them to miaow ‘Computer Love’ while I flush Dreamies down the crapper.

Don’t knock it, it’s how Simply Red made their first three albums. See? Another brilliant jest. Sigh. Praise be to the 17-nippled god Bandus Campos and its numerous areolae.

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