“I Can’t Be Your Apologist Very Long”

“I Can’t Be Your Apologist Very Long”: Achieving Something Akin to Excellence in Music Criticism

We were pushed into damp windowless rooms during the summer while our regular classrooms in the English building were being cleaned, painted, and buffed to a shine. Given that the first round of college freshmen always destroyed the cleanliness within a few days of arriving on campus I always saw the cleaning as an exercise in futility. Graduate school, however, was an exercise in stamina and alertness during the summer months. Especially in the basement of the Computer Science building where classes were compressed to three and half hour sessions, four times a week, for six weeks. And it was always right after lunch; right after the blood seeped into our intestines, curling fingers of sleep around our hot bellies.

Our professor’s age was a contributing factor to the gauntlet that awaited us after lunch. He was retired. Twice. But was asked to return nearly every summer to teach the same class; American Literature, pre-1945. (Our department had a considerable amount of trouble keeping sought-after discipline specialists on the payroll.) So the gauntlet of stamina began with two weeks of Thomas Paine, The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, and Moby Dick. Then, if you’re still awake, you get to read Edgar Allen Poe and Mark Twain. But first, Cotton Mather.

Our professor, Dr. Walker* (his name has been changed to protect the guilty), frequently mistook our uncomfortable silences at his rhetorical questions to mean that we were not interested in offering our opinions. This may have been partially true and not just a product of the chilly moist air in the classroom. Even at times when the majority of my peers appeared alert and anxious, they refrained from volunteering their opinions. He chastised us accordingly: “I see. You all are not interested in having a say. You’re fine just to sit back and be New Critics. Well, that’s fine with me. We’ve got enough critics as it is. The last thing we need is another one.” Some of us would chuckle, others would groan unwittingly, a few had given over to the gauntlet and succumbed to sleep. He never seemed to care one way or another. He was going to talk about John Edwards’ sermons even if no one was awake to hear him.

For those unaware of the schools of literary criticism, two items: first, count your blessings, second, by calling us “New Critics” Dr. Walker essentially was calling us opinionless, spineless individuals who felt that any text, from Henry Miller to “Hey Jude,” was best observed as a self-contained piece, with no external forces (e.g., artist biography, personal experience, previous criticism, etc.) allowed to muddy up the water. It’s a school of criticism that disregards all else, save the piece itself. And it’s a general exercise in drudgery to view any kind of art in this fashion. I, for one, drew slight offense at the implication of Dr. Walker. I had plenty of observations to share, criticisms to offer, opinions to thrust upon unsuspecting audiences; I was just unaware that I was supposed to making a career out of becoming a literary critic, as he suggested we were to do on more than one occasion. Questions abounded: Did I really want to make a career out of criticizing other peoples’ work? How well does being a critic pay? And how come my high school guidance counselor never told me about this career choice?

For me, there were always two noted objections I had to this career path of critic, both of which gave me serious pause. First, opinions are freely shared in a welcoming environment. Say, a class of fourteen English graduate students with a common goal is going to be more receptive to your opinions on Mark Twain than a random sampling of, say, folks from your Yoga class. Commonality makes for easy criticism, especially when everyone more or less agrees with you. Second, your opinions and criticisms are futile if they are confined to the damp basement room where they wither on the vine. A critic has to be ready to take their criticisms outside of the realm of comfort and flaunt them, flaws and all, for others to hear, see, or read. Otherwise, like the old adage suggests, does criticism really exist or matter if no one is around to read it?

The latter statement is one I would like to address for a moment. Since the dissemination of push-button publishing and the inevitable and oncoming dissolution of major print media, critics (especially music and film critics) are available in abundance. For the most part, (and there are always exceptions, of course) online criticism is poorly written, often factually inaccurate, displays no depth of post-war popular culture, and can barely be defined as criticism. Criticism is built around an argument with a premise, and is defended with examples, facts, and observations, personal or otherwise. Say what you will about print media and its inability to compete with the internet, but it usually delivers a higher standard of criticism than almost any website, forum, or blog.

But this is not about the slow death of print media, or a remonstration against the lack of knowledge amongst the blogging community. Rather, it is a caution followed by some hopefully helpful advice that aims to rectify the shoddy state of online criticism.

One thing everyone should know is this: critics are easy to hate. They are easy to hate because they don’t always tell you what you want to hear. They set themselves up on the same level of the artists they write about and have the guts to say, “To hell with objectivity, your music sucks and here’s why.” They stop and artfully say, “Hey, you know that movie you loved, The Shawshank Redemption? Well, it’s subpar. And here’s why.”

Artists and fans have a battery of ready-made responses for critics. Some popular (and uncreative) ones are: “You don’t get it,” (implying that somehow their music is above your intelligence level), “Who listens to critics anyway?” (implying that your profession is a dead one, bereft of value in the first place), and “It doesn’t matter what you think, you don’t make music” (implying, like the longstanding teacher aphorism, criticism is only for those who can’t). Just the other day I was reading an interview with Morrissey in Filter Magazine and he echoed the latter point perfectly: “Yes, criticism moves everything on, but I think, as a writer, you might find yourself criticizing people for something that you yourself have never mastered. It would be quite acceptable if everybody who wrote about music had themselves made music for many, many years. But that’s never the case.”

I won’t challenge Morrissey to a debate on the merits of criticism; he seems to understand that criticism is a necessary part of the cycle of popular music in the sense that it fosters debate and “moves everything on,” which is more acknowledgement than say, someone like David Lee Roth would attribute to critics. (Roth once quipped that the reason critics like Elvis Costello so much is because they all look like him.) At least the Moz was able to articulate his thoughts in a concise manner with a modicum of support behind his ideas. I don’t agree with his sentiment, but he was able to follow his thoughts through to a rational, thought-provoking conclusion—elements that are sorely lacking in online criticism.

Criticism should seek to provoke and critics, just like writers, should seek to find the right words of provocation. This is not to suggest that all criticism should be life-altering or intentionally divisive, just that criticism should seek a purpose—and a clear purpose at that. All modern communication models clearly express the need for a specific message delivered in a specifically chosen medium. If the medium is criticism, then it should be built on the original tenets of criticism. Otherwise, if there is no message to be gleaned or no argument presented, there is no reason for it to exist.

Everything we chose to read has its own purpose, so, first and foremost, the purpose for the critique must be apparent to the reader. For example, I recently read a review of the new Green Day album, 21st Century Breakdown in Rolling Stone. I’m a half-hearted, mildly bemused fan of Green Day and their near-constant recurrence in popular music has me perplexed and intrigued. Yet, I still enjoy their music whenever I hear it. And the opening paragraph of the RS review written by Rob Sheffield sums up this notion completely:

Since Green Day were the Nineties punk brats nobody expected to grow up, everything they do comes as a surprise. What’s more bizarre: the fact that they sound so ambitious and audacious on their eighth album, or the fact that they even made an eighth album? Either way, the losercore mutts who crashed the radio in 1994 chanting “I got no motivation,” with Billie Joe Armstrong wasted on his mom’s couch — they’ve ended up the last band standing, the ones living up to their era’s loftiest ideals and still writing their toughest songs long after they should have landed on Sober House. And they did it with a goddamned rock opera.

I ended up purchasing 21st Century Breakdown because Sheffield’s review extolled the merits of Green Day’s latest release. But he also to tapped into the popular culture zeitgeist and provoked me into recalling wasted days of high school for nostalgia’s sake. It worked, too. It worked because I identified with the Sheffield’s opening message and related to his thought process. This, I assume, was the purpose of beginning the piece in that way.  And, even if it wasn’t, it still provoked a moment of reflection.

There are two tenets of what I believe make for excellent criticism that can be found in the above example. The first tenet is to expand the realm of the criticism to take in other, applicable elements of popular music, including culture, art, film, and literature. If music is the currency you deal in then work to gain an understanding of how it relates to other artistic elements. The same holds true for other criticism; if film is the focus, then all other artistic elements should revolve around it dipping in and out, offering explanation and examples when necessary.

To better illustrate this, let’s look at another example. Say what you will about the website, Pitchfork, but Pitchfork consistently puts out accurate, well-written, thoughtful and thought-provoking criticism. One of the most recent examples I read that illustrates the aforementioned point was a review of Phoenix’s latest album Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix. (Full disclosure: I reviewed WAP for Stereo Subversion, though I did not read the Pitchfork review until after I submitted my own review for publication.) The opening paragraph of Pitchfork’s review written by Ryan Dombal begins:

At one point in the schlocky 1975 musical comedy Lisztomania, Roger Daltrey whips out an absurdly large phallus and no less than five women simultaneously straddle it like a cannon. It’s as insane as it sounds. In the movie, Daltrey plays Franz Liszt, the 19th century Hungarian pianist and composer known for his flamboyant playing style – hysterical women fought over his handkerchiefs at concerts more than a century before the Beatles.

Before reading this opening paragraph, I was completely unaware that a film with the same title as the opening track on WAP even existed, much less that its leading man was Roger Daltrey. Consequently, learning this information gave me a bit more insight into three things: one, a potential ulterior meaning behind Phoenix’s lead-off track on WAP, two, to understand some of the absurdity of the film the song is based on, and, three, to provoke a deeper understanding of the composer Franz Liszt, a figure I was aware of but only circumstantially.

Perhaps now, my preliminary disagreement with those who subscribe to the New Criticism school of thought makes more sense. According to a New Critic, this information would have no bearing on a listener’s appreciation, comprehension, or, perhaps most importantly, enjoyment of the music at hand. Learning this information from the Pitchfork criticism of WAP opened a new level of admiration for the album and the artists; one that would have been absent if I had disregarded the external factors of the music at hand. Still, the critic Mr. Dombal tied the three elements of film, classical music, and popular music together in a way that complemented and strengthened his observations and opinions. After reading his review, I felt a new level of appreciation open up for the album and at least one of their songs took on an alternate meaning for me. (Not to mention I now believe that the band members are all wickedly intelligent men with a much more deft sense of humor than I first noticed.)

Incidentally, the review of WAP illustrates another facet of what excellent criticism should demonstrate: criticism will always demonstrate the knowledge-base of the critic. Or, to put a finer point on it, excellent criticism shows that the critic is well-read and well-versed in his or her subject area. This notion seems ridiculously simple upon first reading, but I am always surprised at the level of online criticism where it is readily apparent that the critic has no depth of knowledge in their subject area. Their reviews read like instant oatmeal cooking directions and they provide the most broad, flavorless overview discs that deserve so much more than a passing glance. I loathe reviews that don’t give the reader any sense of the music being critiqued, yet heap praise upon an artist simply for creating another album. To me, this suggests that some critics don’t have anything worthwhile, let alone original, to state. These reviewers offer no new knowledge to the public rhetoric of criticism and their non-opinions don’t strengthen the role of the critic any more than reading an encyclopedia entry about Mexico makes one an expert on the intricacies of the country.

There are several factors that contribute to this but the most maddening one, for me, is that ease with which the job of “critic” is handed over. The role of “critic” is a low one, or, at least, it is treated as a low one. But, truthfully, any artistic pursuit in American culture is not considered worthwhile unless it appeals to large sections of the populace and/or brings in a profit for the artist. (If you question the logic behind that last sentence, then please tell me who the Poet Laureate of America is or the name of the poet who read at President Obama’s inauguration.) Criticism is given out as an afterthought online and in music magazines. It falls right behind feature writer and film reviewer, but comes before intern. I understand why, too. There are literally hundreds of discs that cross an editor’s desk every month and most editors see it as their job to give most artists a fair shake. However, paying reviewers can get expensive and, since most reviewers are willing to work for free music, in effect, you get exactly what you pay for; eager reviewers who are in it for the short-term and who bang out a quick review to beef up their resume.

Choosing to become a critic, to me, should be the same as choosing to become a musician, painter, author, etc. And, unless you possess raw talent in genius-like proportions, you are going to need to work on honing your craft. And the first way to do that is to study your craft by delving into it and making it such a vital part of your life that you can’t remember what life was like before. I’ve taken several fiction writing workshops and worked with published authors; every one of them says the same thing: to write well, you have to read constantly. One of the best pieces of advice I heard from a writer was that he believed you should have to read 100 short stories before you even started to write one. That way you could at least start to claim that you knew a basic format for a short story. Why should criticism be any different? Why is it treated a disposable form of writing when it involves just as much, if not more, thought and construction as any other piece of art? The short answer is: we’ve let criticism become a lower, less accepted form in the musical sphere by allowing weak opinion-makers dictate what criticism is now.

Critics should not be apologists, but they will end up in a position of constantly defending their viewpoints to those who disagree (and everyone will disagree). No webzine or print publication that is in the business of reviewing music and publicizing musicians can ever be accused of making criticism their primary focus. But there is a noticeable difference between the “armchair” criticism that has become commonplace online and the in-depth, candid criticism written by individuals who truly appreciate art and wish to provoke discussions of its merits. Musicians and other artists rely on the realm of criticism to keep them and their work honest to keep, as the Moz said, “mov[ing] everything on.” Otherwise, individuals become content within their limits—something that critics can be called out for also.

I like to think most musicians hold themselves to a high standard every time they sit down to put pen to paper, fingers on an instrument, or press “Record” on the tape machine. The artists I like have always had periods of creativity that they were criticized for at the time, but fit their artistic direction over the long arc of time. I also like to think that the criticism of these artists inspired or aided them, even subconsciously, and pushed them not to be content with mediocrity. Maybe I’m wrong, delusional, or even a bit pompous in this line of thinking. If that is true, then I’m sure someone out there will raise a flag of contention. But the bottom line is this: don’t bother crowding up the already overflowing pool of critics if you’re not willing to dedicate time, thought, and excellence to the craft. That’s the first step to rendering excellent criticism and becoming a critic. Now, develop some thick skin, read like you can’t be satisfied, listen to everything and everyone who has an opinion (even if its rubbish), think about what you want to say before you put pen to paper, lather, rinse, and repeat. Once you’ve done that and written 50 or so reviews that make solid arguments and keen observations that display a working knowledge of your subject area, then, and only then, should you start calling yourself a critic.

Tagged as: The Role of the Critic

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