It says a lot about the state of modern music that the most hyped tour of 2025 is led by a band who last made a decent album when Blair was still in Downing Street.
Oasis have reunited for a £100 million world tour that sold out faster that you could say “Don’t Look Back in Anger”, then there is Sting, a man who’s now into his seventies, still touring the world with more grace than most 30-year-olds can muster after a pub lunch, and you’ve got to ask: where are the next generation of greats?
Not just stars, you understand. We’ve got plenty of those—shiny, streaming-friendly, hashtag-driven stars who can dance, duet, and disappear in under a year. I mean artists. Icons. People you’ll still be playing when your hair’s gone grey and the Bluetooth speaker has replaced the record player. Because when you look at the current Top 40, what you see is a conveyor belt of catchy choruses with the shelf life of supermarket sushi.
Now, I should declare my bias. I’m a lifelong lover of jazz. Proper, vinyl-scratched, soul-drenched jazz. And much of that passion, I owe to one man: Robert Elms. For years, his midday show on BBC Radio London has been my cultural North Star. To most black-cab drivers, he is London. “Mr London,” they call him, and rightly so. The man practically soundtracked the capital’s soul.
He was the first to champion artists like Amy Winehouse and Jamiroquai, long before record execs were convinced the public had the stomach for them. And yes, he’s the same man credited with coining the name Spandau Ballet, a band whose best suits and worst haircuts are permanently stitched into the fabric of the ‘80s. But as traditional radio listening dwindles—particularly among younger audiences—we’re losing the gatekeepers, the tastemakers, the people who could spot a genius in a smoky bar and get them on the air the next morning. No TikTok algorithm can do that.
This lack of long-term thinking is the rot at the heart of today’s music machine. Labels now chase virality over vision. Artists aren’t nurtured—they’re churned. We’ve moved from careers to campaigns. And while that might boost short-term streams, it doesn’t make legends.
Of course, there are flickers of hope. Eddie Piller, the man behind Acid Jazz Records, remains a keeper of the flame. He discovered and launched Jamiroquai, a band that brought style and soul to the mainstream when it badly needed both. Now he’s championing Nick Corbin, back with New Street Adventure.
I genuinely think that Corbin is a rare talent in today’s landscape—honest songwriting, velvet vocals, and a live show that actually means something. If the world were fair, he’d be headlining Glastonbury. Instead, you’ll find him on stage at 9.30pm, somewhere in Camden, for £12 a ticket and a pint in a plastic cup.
And what of the others? Olly Murs, that affable X Factor graduate, is still clapping along, still charming daytime TV audiences and provincial arenas. Sam Fender, the critics’ pick to inherit the Springsteen mantle, is perhaps the best bet we’ve got—a gritty voice, big choruses, and lyrics that occasionally rise above the pub-poster politics. But will he be doing this in 30 years? Will his songs still soundtrack weddings, break-ups and boozy karaoke sessions? Too early to say.
The truth is, we’re living in a music culture of disposability. The Top 40 albums of 2025—according to the Official Charts Company—are filled with names who, talented as they may be, feel fleeting. Tracks are written for clips, not for concerts. Verses are designed to land on social media before they land on stage. And with attention spans now shorter than the average bass solo, we’ve trained audiences to swipe, not stay.
What we’re really missing is longevity. The kind that used to be cultivated through gigs, independent radio, late-night TV performances, and—yes—passionate presenters like Robert Elms. He played the songs no one else would. He had the ear to hear brilliance before it charted. Now, with legacy media being strangled by cuts and algorithms, we’re watching that entire ecosystem fade away.
And as it fades, so too does the route for new talent. Without the Elmses of the world, how many future Amy Winehouses or Jamiroquais are we losing to the scroll?
So yes, I’ll be at the Oasis tour, with the overpriced merch and a tear in my eye when the first chorus of “Live Forever” kicks in. And yes, I’ll admire Sting’s stamina as he glides across the stage like a tantric Peter Pan. But I’ll also be wondering: when today’s headliners hang up their guitars and holograms take their place, who will be left with the weight, the artistry, and the staying power to replace them?
