A rap for author

THIS is a superficial, sugar-coated account of a music that is, at best, tedious beyond belief and, at worst, grotesquely unpleasant.

The most depressing aspect of the author's limp narrative is the apologetic, deferential tone adopted to describe the rise of rap, a genre so beyond redemption that is has been universally ignored by real musicians who can actually play instruments.

Despite its disgusting themes of violence and abuse of women, the chattering classes have, for some reason, declined to pass judgment. Typical.

That's as maybe. But sooner or later, something awful will happen, and that will galvanise even the Hampstead brigade into some form of reassessment.

In the meantime, we have people like Eminem, encouraged by battalions of eager right-ons eager to praise this mediocre and regrettable development in popular culture.

We can only hope that it will pass.

John Phillpott.