Having written a book that vilifies self-serious cultural critics, I figured at some point it would be reviewed by a self-serious cultural critic, who would use phrases such as “an aesthetic of quasi-handmade approachability” and quote the Velvet Underground adoringly and decree that anyone who might enjoy my book is a cretin.
— Steve Almond, whose new book was trashed by the New York Times Book Review.
The worldview that “objectively good” exists in an age where the sheer volume of creative output available to consumers means any unpopular art is statistically bound to please at least one person absolutely is absurd. Writing a review of anything without a clear tone stating “This is my opinion of this thing” is not only pretentious and arrogant, but useless and — worst of all — uninformative to the reader of the review.
Take any widely-praised Amazon review of any type of commercial art. How clearly did the writer state their own opinion as being sovereign from anything resembling empirical fact?
Now look at Pitchfork. My opinion is fact, and somehow, more valid than yours.
Again: I’m not suggesting that critics can’t dislike the books they review, and say so. I do it myself. But I’m really tired of reading reviews – in the NYTBR and elsewhere – in which I feel essentially stuck inside some critic’s cant, with no clear view of the author’s world, let alone the broader ideas that ostensibly made the book worth reviewing. Or in which the subject of the review isn’t really the author’s book at all, but the imaginary book the critic not-so-secretly wishes he or she had written instead.
But most importantly,
So, yeah, it’s okay to get pissed, maybe even inevitable. But we must not stop learning as writers. Even our least sympathetic reader has something to offer.
What matters is saying yes.
I say yes, and Wayne Coyne says yes, and if that makes us the enemy, then good, good, good. We are evil people because we want to live and do things. We are on the wrong side because we should be home, calculating which move would be the least damaging to our downtown reputations. But I say yes because I am curious. I want to see things. I say yes when my high school friend tells me to come out because he’s hanging with Puffy. A real story, that. I say yes when Hollywood says they’ll give me enough money to publish a hundred different books, or send twenty kids through college. Saying no is so fucking boring.
And if anyone wants to hurt me for that, or dismiss me for that, for saying yes, I say Oh do it, do it you motherfuckers, finally, finally, finally.
— Eggers
The thing is, I really like saying yes. I like new things, projects, plans, getting people together and doing something, trying something, even when it’s corny or stupid. I am not good at saying no. And I do not get along with people who say no. When you die, and it really could be this afternoon, under the same bus wheels I’ll stick my head if need be, you will not be happy about having said no. You will be kicking your ass about all the no’s you’ve said. No to that opportunity, or no to that trip to Nova Scotia or no to that night out, or no to that project or no to that person who wants to be naked with you but you worry about what your friends will say.
No is for wimps. No is for pussies. No is to live small and embittered, cherishing the opportunities you missed because they might have sent the wrong message.
I’m going to make an effort to write on the road, something I’ve never done. I’d like to make the Summer tour a vehicle for playing new songs. Let you guys tape them, trade them, and maybe even sing along to tunes that weren’t even recorded in a studio yet.
Playing arenas and ampitheatres doesn’t have to mean showing up and doing an end zone dance. What if it were alive and organic and I played new tunes that were constantly changing and growing up each night? It would sure light a fire under my ass to write the best song I could, knowing I’d be bumping a surefire album track for it.
This is just too lovely. I am 100% in support of this sort of thing.
Something else wonderful is Ze Frank’s Chillout Song:
I received an email from a woman named Laura, who had recently moved to a new city for a new job. She was overwhelmed with anxiety and asked me to write her a song to help her calm down. I wrote a sketch of a chorus and quietly asked some people in my audience to record themselves singing along while wearing headphones.
Entirely worth a listen.
reblogged from jhnmyr
Okay, everyone knows about Hype Machine by now. But it isn’t just what they’ve always been — a ridiculously useful mp3-blog aggregator — that we like. They’ve also started putting on great shows and becoming an ever-larger presence in the independent music world. And their excitement about new sounds is contagious.
That “excited about new sounds” bit hit me pretty heavily. I feel genuinely sad whenever someone mistakes my passion for music as elitism or snobbery, opting to call me “hipster” or “scenester” because I am passionate about this thing. You guys: new sounds! New sounds! How can anyone ever not get excited over that?
Or, even sadder: how can anyone decide that someone’s excitement over that is cause for derision?
If I may coin a term, I do hope that this wave of anti-passionism will be just as widely pitied and ridiculed as anti-intellectualism. Get excited, make things, and thank the makers whose passion bled outside their edges in order to create something completely new.
You guys!
New sounds!!
reblogged from gtmcknight
I, like I suspect most people, have two very specific modes when it comes to content: In and Out.
Out Mode is the most fun, and the most rewarding; after I make a thing, I have a thing to share. The sharing is a big part of it, but just seeing a representation of my efforts that is completely self-born (no other frameworks like Achievements were involved, it started as a Nothing and ended as a Something out of its own volition) is extremely gratifying.
In Mode is good too, though. The two modes flow from one another like an alternating current, but never occur simultaneously. While in In Mode, my brain self-lubricates, allowing content to slide in as frictionlessly as possible. If I don’t fill it with grandiose, quality content right away, the lubrication stagnates and gets sticky, allowing only small, inane bits of content to get in. If I have a book I want to read, and I ignore it, I no longer want to read that book; I want to look at kittens on YouTube. And it’s awful. And I feel exactly as if I’d eaten four bowls of candy. Not “like” I’d eaten too much candy, I physiologically feel ill and unfulfilled and jittery and, ultimately, disappointed in myself.
The past couple of years (and college before that) have eroded my In hole. It’s gaping - lewdly so. Closing off that In hole completely would be terrible, just awful and would solve very little. Denying it access when it opens is akin to throwing an immature tantrum. Not eating when you’re hungry is irresponsible. Instead I need to install filters at its entrance so that only non-disease-ridden content can get it. Installing someone else’s screen door onto your own In hole rarely accomplishes much - since it was made by someone else for their own purposes, it keeps out the things that you like and allow things you consider pests in. Software (such as Socialite, which I’ve never used but looks deliciously designed though the thought of needing such an app terrifies me) works, sometimes. Allowing other things to hold onto leads and info is useful, too, but only to a point. The brain needs input to beget output. Vacuums don’t beget creativity, and I am wary of anyone who says otherwise - conversely, force-feeding your In-hole does just as little. Self-regulation is key.
Momentary bouts of quiet breed Out Mode, though - that I can attest to. But by “quiet”, I don’t mean a library. I need explicit control over my auditory environment at all times, and silence just doesn’t cut it. So by “quiet” I mean little temptation to initiate In Mode.
I’m installing small filters, one by one, and trying to stretch my Out hole to be bigger than it’s ever been, but not so big that I simply dump everything into buckets and assume all of it is worth sharing. I need it to be huge, but valved.
I was in In Mode all morning, and it was fine - I read some things in between writing Purchase Orders, and my brain was happy. Then Out Mode turned on and the In sphincter tightened shut. I can’t Do anything that other people ask quite this moment. The ability to stifle In and Out Modes in lieu of Do-For-Others, Unfulfillingly-So Mode is heralded in the workplace, but I think is disastrous to celebrate. No animal on earth benefits from such behaviour. Self-interest and altruism exist fine on their own for self-care purposes, and a work place that demands artificial checklists to fulfill their own criteria for such are not only disingenuous, but destructive to the organic checklists that lead to personal fulfillment.
I’m planning on spending the summer building lots of valves and screen doors. Hopefully I’ll make one that fits okay soon.
All this talk is a bunch of things that I don’t want to do. So here’s a much less wankery-filled list of things I want to do (even if it hurts - whether it’s idealism, stubbornness or immaturity (or all three) that beguiles me to ignore advice aimed at “most people” nowadays has yet to be determined, but I’d rather find out by doing and learning than being told when it comes to self-care - that is to say, I don’t want to live a fear-based, preventative, reactonary life when it isn’t practical. Wisdom isn’t often presented as objectively or scientifically as I’d like, sometimes.) by explaining my intent to set up contextual stations in my apartment:
- Living Room = Share Station
- Futon, bench, and chair for sitting, watching, sharing and playing
- HDTV on wall, connected to,
- Mac Mini running only Plex and Airfoil Speakers, and Transmission. For when friends visit, and and watching while eating. I haven’t turned on my Xbox in months, but I’m having trouble selling it. What about impromptu Halo parties?
- Bed = Consume Station
- MacBook Pro (ideally iPad, but saving up for a puppy first - that heirarchy of priorities is probably a good indicator of whether or not we’d be friends, probably)
- Headphones
- Desk = Make Station
- MacBook Pro connected to
- USB hub with recording equipment. Type, record, make. If I want to read Twitter or RSS or anything else, I will have to open Finder, eject my external HD, unplug my laptop from the USB hub and take it to the bed and sit there and read.
My future-self’s discipline, let me show you it. Hopefully my In- and Out-holes will be better regulated soon.
My mother moved again. This means she needs someone not-her to move furniture. This weekend’s not-her was, as is usually the case, me.
She had classical music playing on the television when I walked in. It stayed on as I moved couches, lifted potted plants, hung blinds and wrestled with the butcher slab that has been around my whole life. It’s been missing a leg for nearly a decade. It’s finally on the curb.
It was a good table.
Listening to classical music, I could hear where all the musicians were emulating what was on the page. That’s when there was a crescendo, I’d think. They’re trying to be mezzo-piano, but that second trumpet is a little too eager.
There be staccatos all up in there.
I’m no longer able to parse joy from classical music. I dissect it critically, and only hear the interpretation of the song - not the intent of the song’s composer.
A friend of mine once told me that when he goes to a concert, he wants the band to play their songs exactly like the album versions. I can understand that. He’s a systematic person who wants to see how this music happens, to feel it on his face as he stands there witnessing it first hand.
I prefer the opposite.
I think too many musicians feel obligated to give a completely predictable performance. “I made this song,” they say. “The album version is canon. Any deviation from this is no longer the same song.”
Academic music programs reinforce this notion from grade school. “Play this song how it was intended to be played,” they say. “What’s written on the page is canon. If you don’t play what’s on the page, you’re playing it wrong.”
After 15 years of rehearsals and recitals and concertos and competitions - I’ve decided that I really, really hate that.
Music is as fluid as humans are fleeting. Playing a logarithmic retelling of the same story will get old very quickly. I respect Broadway performers tremendously, as they aren’t allowed the artistic freedom to deviate from the pre-determined plot, which must be performed impeccably, passionately, every single performance - sometimes for years.
I’m no longer interested in classic plays or old movies. I’d rather go to an improv show. I don’t want to hear Tchaikovsky’s Thirteenth Whatever again. I’ve heard it all my life. It’s original context is lost. When we hear Public Domain Concerto #29 we think of Christmas, or of a jewelry commercial, or of an old cartoon. All of these shared memories are sometimes destructive to art, I think. Everyone agreeing that this thing is a happy thing, that’s great. Everyone agreeing through sheer commercial conditioning that this song is now associated with a product or a brand, that’s terrifying to me. Having other people decide what this thing that a person made for his or her own reasons should be associated with is what art has been reduced to in popular culture. Classical music, with its convenient lack of licensing fees, has been perverted this way. All of the contexts of the agreed-upon “greats” have been decided for us before we’ve even heard the song.
I’d rather go to a jazz show and watch people make something on stage - something that’s never been made or seen or heard before. I want spontaneity. I want tangibility. I want conversation.
When I go to a concert, I don’t want to hear a mechanical recreation of a four hundred year old pop song. I want to hear you.
You, the person standing in front of me.
You, alive - alive! living! breathing! thinking! - with thoughts and feelings and memories and experiences and stories and gestures. You are infinitely more interesting to me. There are two decades of memories and experiences in my head - and you have that many - probably more! - that are completely different that mine. I want to hear what you, a person both complete and completely sovereign from me, have to say.
I want your brain splattered on the stage. Not Schumaker’s. Not even Mozart’s. I’ve heard and played Mozart all my life. You, though - you I’ve just met.
I can’t wait to meet you.
Bands
I’ve only ever been in orchestras and symphonies and choirs and shit where the objective is to perform an exact replica of what the composer of a piece has tried to represent on the page.
I’m getting serious about music again after a long while, and while I greatly admire and am somewhat guilty of idolizing singer-songwriters like Andrew Bird, Sufjan Stevens, Sondre Lerche, Bon Iver, St. Vincent and so on and so forth, the concept of a band - a collective that exists together to make music, is something that I’ve never had the pleasure of trying.
Being like the aforementioned acts and conceiving a piece of music from beginning to end, then auditioning for a touring band is what I always imagined - or, rather, fantasized - what I’d do someday. But the concept of being in a band, being in a room full of people who are all trying to make a new sound, and everyone in the room eventually all agreeing what the sound is and ought to be - that’s magical to me.
My favourite bands, you can hear the chemistry of them. You can hear how they act as an organism, their group think, the hivemind, no words needed much more than “here, listen to this” and then one dude joins in then another and an hour later they finish, they’ve made it, this thing, from all of their brains collaborating on this new original thing.
Sometimes you can hear the band having fun while recording (Matt & Kim). Other times you can hear all the history, where all the revisions and cuts were made as they worked to write their opus, something specific needed to be engineered from the ground up to express what’s in their mind(s) (Flaming Lips, Radiohead), and other times you can tell it was just the second or third take and magic just happened (Elbow, Spoon).1
I know that there’s drama. And I know that there will always be disagreements. But to find a room full of people - or just one or two others - whose musical tendencies aren’t necessarily similar to one another, but complement one another, and perhaps even challenge one another, and then get them all to sit in a room and Make - together - that’s magic.
I think I wanna start a band.
-
Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue was famously recorded in a single take with no rehearsal. That’s not just improvisational jazz, that’s chemistry. That’s magical. I will never not be in awe when I think of this while listening. ↩
