I've had this notion in my head for a few months that maybe people are more important than music. It's an obvious idea, but when discussing music I think there's this admittedly natural tendency lionize form, texture and notes on a page. This tendency most often manifests in serious musicians.
Conversely, there's this partially unacknowledged counter-tradition among rock and pop critics. Most critics gained their credentials by passively engaging with a large amount of music over time. A few may have, at some point, attempted to become musicians and had their dreams frustrated and strangled out. More, I suspect, lacked the courage or initiative to ever pick up a guitar in the first place. They are the scrubs, the nerdiest of the nerds vainly struggling to understand and control a world to which they do not belong.
Critics tend to use a semi-populist language meant to appeal primarily to non-musicians. They discuss the sociological, literary or political implications of artists' work, often disguising their limited engagement with musical elements in flowery language and simile.
Understandably, a lot of muses, metal heads and classical violinists find this method of art critique infuriating. It rewards the acquisition of a liberal arts degree and devalues knowledge of musical theory. Surely, this cannot be the modern state of pop music criticism?
Though I can hardly be called a serious rock critic, I definitely choose to align myself with the tradition of anti-musical music appreciation. A slave to the endless online catalog of rock reviews since the eighth grade, I unknowingly internalized an aversion to compositional intelligence early in my career as a music fan.
It wasn't until my surprisingly powerful identification with the Replacements' "I Hate Music" that I really became aware of the terrible implications of my rock ‘n' roll indoctrination. You see, I got off on that line Paul Westerberg croaked out about how, "it has too many notes!"
Always a lyrics geek, I was big on cult-crazy mythologies of Dylan and the Beatles from the start. For a variety of reasons, I quickly became attracted to punk rock and noise. Although some of these reasons were musical, a whole lot were social too. So while I dug the Mekons' lilting country-folk and roll swagger, I ultimately spent a lot more energy and time engaging with their curiously traditionalistic ideology of anarchy.
Certain highly trained musicians may find the simple, formulaic chord changes and 4/4 rhythms that pervade the Mekons' Fear and Whiskey highly offensive. A classically disciplined musician has the ability to truly appreciate the complex patterns and possibilities of sound. Therefore, I understand their disgust. Perhaps having to stand on some puke-stained stage in a dank English basement playing the same four notes on their fiddle for three minutes seems too much to bear for the ghoulish, blast-beating drummer or Yo-Yo Ma. Personally, I'd give my left nut for the pleasure.
Clearly, the musician and the review addict must inevitably engage with music separately and distinctly. Their knowledge and backgrounds will be too dissimilar to communicate properly, unless at least one has a fairly substantial grasp of the other's approach.
Of course, non-musicians often experience difficulty communicating and agreeing even among themselves. Often, these differences of opinions may be reduced to ideology. For example, some may follow the musicians' lead and value technical proficiency, while others may emphasize the importance of pleasant, soothing textures. I, on the other hand, will so often settle for sheer perversity.
Lou Reed and Metallica's recent collaboration Lulu may be the most perverse high-profile album since the amphetamine-addled middle finger to God that was Reed's Metal Machine Music in 1975. Listening to it is the auditory equivalent of watching Ed Wood's schlocky sci-fi non-classic "Plan 9 from Outer Space." The artists clearly approach their work with a significant degree of self-serious grandiosity, and the incredible lack of self-awareness they show for the extraordinary train wreck they produce is infuriating, hilarious and somehow incredibly moving.
You will scoff at my contrarian claim that I find anything redeemable in the cock-fight blood-splatter-mess of Lulu. However, the massive insanity of the record encourages within me an exaggerated appreciation of those few moments that truly work. From the record's crazy-cool opening line to the occasionally great guitar run on "Frustration," to the frankly incredible viola and synth-riddled opening half of "Cheat on Me," Lulu stands as a monument to noble, misguided bravery in the face of overwhelming odds. Don Quixote for our time. You know, a human story.
Send all of your questions and comments Alex's way to seraphin@wisc.edu.
