Like a lot of nerds, I shaped myself with distaste as much as preference ("you suck and you like this thing therefore I will not like it, it sucks") and as hard as I work to conquer this largely unproductive worldview in therapy, critical consensus unnerves me. The other day everyone dunked on some woman who wrote a review of "There Will Be Blood" in the Guardian with the premise that she had refused to watch it for a long time because too many annoying dudes tried to force a Great Work Of Art onto her and then on finally viewing it, she found it to possess extremely Dude Energy. This shallow reading of a classic film infuriated twitterers and people who said now now this is not how we do a feminist criticism. My primary take, on many levels, is who gives a shit, but also, as human beings, who would we be if we formed our taste in isolation of our weird brains and lives and feelings and hates? Perhaps this is more suited to a blog than to the guardian dot com, but look, in my early 20s someone tried to force me to get into Bergman and I wouldn't watch any of his movies, and in the succeeding years I have seen some; a few I disliked, some number among my favorite movies, and every time I watch any I feel a twinge of memory of that damaged human relationship I had and its time and place and attendant shame and pain (apropos enough or maybe TOO apropos for the filmmaker in question). A critic, I guess, isolates artistic merit from the taste of the Luna bar they grabbed from the deli that used to be next to IFC in the intermission between 3 hour segments of the uncut "Fanny and Alexander" but luckily I am just me.
I had a similar thought (why does the urge hate something universally adored nestle resplendently in my breast) when the new Fiona Apple record came out to overwhelming acclaim. After a few listens I agree that it's excellent. But for whatever reason the response still rankles me, particularly that perfect 10 from Pfork. I looked back on past 10s and despite the site's ostensible "indie rock" background, the vast majority of perfect records came out on major labels, by established artists, which would seem to beg the question well, what about actually independent music? Then I tried to come up with a counterexample of a clearly excluded "perfect" DIY or punk record from the last 10 years and nothing immediately came to mind. But then, I thought, maybe that's fine.
The premise of DIY music kind of precludes geniuses. You, a person who has never picked up a guitar or me, a person who stopped playing guitar in her teens after being cowed by a chorus of bros at lunchtime guitar club all simultaneously (but not collaboratively) learning the the "Over the Hill and Far Away" riff, can validly make art. Tons of talented people possessed of singular visions make DIY music, but also like . . . my friends and you and me have made excellent and mind blowing and moving and emotional music, the divine in me finding the divine in you or whatever. This no-heroes-at-least-in-theory thing drew me to this kind of music in the first place. Everyone, I guess, has to decide what they ask of art and artists. People who write about music want ambition, which seems to mean a musician who made quiet music adding orchestras ("maturity") or a musician who used to make big sounding records going "back to basics." A lot of people want chill lo-fi hip hop beats to study to. In general I like music with a lot of space that finds its power in simplicity except sometimes I like Judas Priest.
What I find frustrating right now--primarily in terms of music-making--lies in the limits of ineptitude. Punk's pleasures derive from its ability to iterate. You learn the Ramones riff, you make the Ramones riff but different; you learn the d-beat, you make the d-beat but not that different. But how many repetitions can be borne after so many decades? I wish it didn't, but nothing exhausts me more than music that's inspired by the Rough Trade post-punk that first inspired me. In contrast, a lot of the music I enjoy now is made by and draws from technical and trained musicians in far less formulaic styles or genres (thinking here of something like Kali Malone's The Sacrificial Code from last year). I couldn't help but wonder: what's left for you and I to make to light our mutual fires?
*gotta give credit for some blog inspiration to my FOREVER MENTOR, the genius Layla dot com, now blogging again at whatwewantisfree.blogspot.com all praise be.
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