Cred and Cowardice
A recent edition of "Q" magazine ran the cover story: "115 records its OK to like". It was all about the rehabilitation of soft rock - the latest in a long line of confessionals which began popping up in the UK press about a year ago, whereby some music journo or former journo belatedly admits to liking material from a whole host of "not cool" genres/recording artists. From Foreigner to Phil Collins, from Hall and Oates to Ronan Keating, no "guilty pleasure" is off limits.
It's worth noting this because, on past performance, you can count on the Australian press writing (that is, plagiarising) similar pieces sometime in 2008.
In my experience, the one trait that distinguishes musicians from the music loving public, or those more austere guardians of "street cred" in the press is this: musicians are open to a broad range of "commercial" music, always have been and always will be - and will happily absorb anything from The Carptenters to the theme music from "Callan" without so much as a second thought. No pre-conceived policy positions, no tribal loyalties, no academic neurosis about whether the clothes/scene/city of origin/renowned producer are "sound" at this particular point in time.
Real musicians, especially the ones who actually write the tunes, are not only "through being cool", they never gave cool a second glance. This is because "cool" in the pop music sense means not giving a fuck about what people think of you. Yet its suprising how often this trite little fact gets overlooked by the punters.
When you're a musician, you don't hang around waiting for an authority figure (like the NME, etc) to tell you what's OK to like this month. And yet, time and time again, we encounter these people - you know the type - who will insist until blue in the face that they only listen to Leonard Cohen, The White Stripes, or [insert latest credible blues/roots performer here]. They stick to their annointed hipsters through some crippling, late adolescent self - consciousness that pervades their adulthood, like so many "sophisticated" novels placed strategically around their apartments.
These are the same people who pretend they don't watch television "except for the occassional movie on SBS". They are not to be trusted.
Those of us in the game know that art imitates nature - subtle variations on extant themes. Only a journalist would be stupid/lazy enough to have you believe that new songs or new "scenes" suddenly materialise out of thin air. More importantly, those of us in the game can admit to liking a great tune when we hear one - and not be swayed by some figurative "man in a white coat" who instructs us to push the "not cool" button - as if we're test bunnies in The Milgram Experiment.
Most importantly, those of us in the game dont need Bon Jovi to appear in "Sex in the City", some twenty years later, to decide that there's an ironic retro cachet to the man. We knew "Bad Medicine" kicked ass in 1986, thank you very much.
So even with this belated outpouring of "honesty" about "guilty pleasures", you still have:
(a) the false premise that we got somethin' to be guilty of,
and
(b) the implict reassurance that the tribe has spoken - and its now OK to like Boston - but so long as you do so in a suitably ironic manner.
Hence you get this curious discord between those whose business it is to fabricate an air of expertise and those who actually have the talent to produce music. Why is it so?
The trouble with writing about pop music is that it's a bit like being an ice cream critic - it takes something akin to genius (and often years of hard work) to create and successfully market a "Magnum", yet in substance, there's suprisingly little to talk about - you either like the damn ice cream or you don't.
Unless you get into a chemical analysis of the ingredients (in the same way that say, sound engineers can talk about the equipment used in a studio) then any discourse about the art itself soon evaporates, like so many mouthfuls of fairy floss.
I think the best a music critic can hope for is to become a kind of "funny librarian" - you know, the "Jack Black" schtick. Demonstrate to us your historical linking tendancies by all means, but for fuck's sake, spare us the ideological bad faith.
It's worth noting this because, on past performance, you can count on the Australian press writing (that is, plagiarising) similar pieces sometime in 2008.
In my experience, the one trait that distinguishes musicians from the music loving public, or those more austere guardians of "street cred" in the press is this: musicians are open to a broad range of "commercial" music, always have been and always will be - and will happily absorb anything from The Carptenters to the theme music from "Callan" without so much as a second thought. No pre-conceived policy positions, no tribal loyalties, no academic neurosis about whether the clothes/scene/city of origin/renowned producer are "sound" at this particular point in time.
Real musicians, especially the ones who actually write the tunes, are not only "through being cool", they never gave cool a second glance. This is because "cool" in the pop music sense means not giving a fuck about what people think of you. Yet its suprising how often this trite little fact gets overlooked by the punters.
When you're a musician, you don't hang around waiting for an authority figure (like the NME, etc) to tell you what's OK to like this month. And yet, time and time again, we encounter these people - you know the type - who will insist until blue in the face that they only listen to Leonard Cohen, The White Stripes, or [insert latest credible blues/roots performer here]. They stick to their annointed hipsters through some crippling, late adolescent self - consciousness that pervades their adulthood, like so many "sophisticated" novels placed strategically around their apartments.
These are the same people who pretend they don't watch television "except for the occassional movie on SBS". They are not to be trusted.
Those of us in the game know that art imitates nature - subtle variations on extant themes. Only a journalist would be stupid/lazy enough to have you believe that new songs or new "scenes" suddenly materialise out of thin air. More importantly, those of us in the game can admit to liking a great tune when we hear one - and not be swayed by some figurative "man in a white coat" who instructs us to push the "not cool" button - as if we're test bunnies in The Milgram Experiment.
Most importantly, those of us in the game dont need Bon Jovi to appear in "Sex in the City", some twenty years later, to decide that there's an ironic retro cachet to the man. We knew "Bad Medicine" kicked ass in 1986, thank you very much.
So even with this belated outpouring of "honesty" about "guilty pleasures", you still have:
(a) the false premise that we got somethin' to be guilty of,
and
(b) the implict reassurance that the tribe has spoken - and its now OK to like Boston - but so long as you do so in a suitably ironic manner.
Hence you get this curious discord between those whose business it is to fabricate an air of expertise and those who actually have the talent to produce music. Why is it so?
The trouble with writing about pop music is that it's a bit like being an ice cream critic - it takes something akin to genius (and often years of hard work) to create and successfully market a "Magnum", yet in substance, there's suprisingly little to talk about - you either like the damn ice cream or you don't.
Unless you get into a chemical analysis of the ingredients (in the same way that say, sound engineers can talk about the equipment used in a studio) then any discourse about the art itself soon evaporates, like so many mouthfuls of fairy floss.
I think the best a music critic can hope for is to become a kind of "funny librarian" - you know, the "Jack Black" schtick. Demonstrate to us your historical linking tendancies by all means, but for fuck's sake, spare us the ideological bad faith.
posted by What Are Ya? at 7:31 PM
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