The gouging of music-lovers by stars has created the corporatisation of culture, leaving art and entertainment out of reach for the average punter, our critic Neil Mackay argues

AS a critic, I have a golden rule: if you’re going to be unpleasant about an artist or work of art, then do all you can to say something positive first. Nothing - apart from the American government - is without at least one redeeming quality.

As I’m about to be rather harsh on Robbie Williams, then let me say this from the get-go: whilst not a fan of his work, I certainly don’t dislike him personally - and he did provide me, more importantly, with one of the singularly most joyous experiences I’ve had in 50-plus years of loving music and listening to music.

His work isn’t for me. To my tastes, it’s bland; the kind of music you dance to at a suburban wedding. However, back in 1998 at T in the Park (remember that?), Williams played a set that was made unforgettable not by his performance, or music, but a combination of the weather - which was glorious in Kinross - and the crowd, loved-up to the eyeballs on late 90s hedonism.

I’d come for Pulp, Garbage, Catatonia, Portishead and The Prodigy, but Williams was playing a late set and my friends and I thought we’d watch him on the main stage as the night wound down.

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There was something about his closing number - the saccharine arpeggios of Angels, of course - the late evening twilight, the throb of the setting sun, the camaraderie, the crowd singing as one, and the simple fact of being young and in love that made the moment exquisite.

It takes a lot for me to lose myself, but that evening in July 1998, I lost myself for sure.

I spent the entire weekend at Balado for the grand total of £45. How times have changed.

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© Herald Scotland