Flogging A Dead High-Horse - The Increasing Irrelevance of Critics

In one episode from The Simpsons' undisputed golden age, terrible lawyer Lionel Hutz invites Bart to imagine a world without lawyers. What he imagines is a world in which everyone gets along in a blissful harmony so infectious that stereotypical representatives from every conceivable culture cannot help but link arms and smile at each other in a gesture of beatific acceptance.



Earlier this year, The Independent fired all of their arts critics, which obviously resulted in much furore. But amongst this, in his assessment of Mark Kermode's book about critics, Will Self penned a reaction that essentially extends to “Good! We didn't need them anyway”.

It appears that the role of The Critic in society has never been more hotly contested. The latest development is that Simon Price, an erstwhile Independent arts critic who doubtlessly has an axe to grind, has written a piece for The Quietus which critiques every conceivable critique of The Critic whilst arguing, once and for all, that The Critic is an essential part of any society.

To re-read the disaster that was the preceding sentence is all it takes to appreciate how much of a mess this situation is. Simon Price's argument is neatly summed up in a gobbet that probably took him months to hone. “A world with uncriticised art,” he concludes, “gets the art it deserves.”

I don't usually swear on this blog, because certain resources have convinced me that some modern writers use profanities as a lazy shortcut to come across as “edgy” or “passionate”. But in response to Simon Price's conclusion that “a world without uncriticised art gets the art is deserves”? Does it fuck.

Or to put it mildly: prove it.

This is one of the closing paragraphs from Simon Price's piece:

“Historically, criticism has also had a crucial role in honing and refining the art it describes. An ongoing dialogue existed between critic and artist, even if the latter was invariably loath to admit it. To put it bluntly, in the past, bands knew they could not get away with releasing the same lazy shit over and over without someone calling them on it. Furthermore, by championing uncommercial but innovative music, critics have often pointed to the art's next step forward in a way which the industry could not... If critics are taken out of the equation, and bad art goes unchallenged, ask yourself: who wins? Follow the money for the answer. It won't be the readers. It won't be the art. Only the major entertainment corporations.”

It seems that, in the past, if a blogger without influence has taken exception to a comparatively influential piece of writing, then they'll take it upon themselves to tear apart the offending piece on a line by line basis. Seeing as such hatchet jobs often come across as unbearably sanctimonious (and that's coming from me), rather than picking apart Price's argument one line at a time, I'll instead respond with a simple “Citation Needed”.

Throughout Price's article, there's not a single example of an instance where a critic has influenced, positively or negatively, the prevailing artistic trends. There's a very good reason for this: We just don't know what course art would take without the snivelling intervention of critics.

This is largely because the role of The Critic has only ever been jeopardised by the emergence of The Internet, and The Internet has only been so widespread as to pose a threat for the past decade or so. So if you're to take Price's arguments at face value, it's only in the past ten years that the world has received “the art it deserves”.

And has the past decade been a windswept artistic wasteland in which only “the major entertainment corporations” have been allowed to flourish? I hate to resort, once more, to swearing, but has it fuck.

Price invites us to imagine a world without critics, and implies that he and his kind are the last bastion of resistance against an onslaught of mediocrity. This idea is pathetic and more than a little insulting.

I'd be tempted to argue that a world without critics would be a lot like Lionel Hutz's world without lawyers – a peaceful utopia in which all are free to follow their own paths. More likely though, especially in this age of the internet, a world without critics would be absolutely indistinguishable from our own.

Critics have always vastly overrated their importance. How often have you read about “alternative universes” or “just worlds”, in which this week's obscure gem was more popular than Titanic or Coldplay? If critics were truly so instrumental in repelling the forces of “bad art” as Price believes them to be, then critics would never need to paint imaginary worlds in which all is well, and nobody watches the wrong films or listens to the wrong music.

Thanks to the internet, everybody has access to everything all of the time. In this landscape, critics can either mutate or die. They must accept that they're no longer tastemakers or arbiters of the good and the bad (as if they ever were). Instead, they must realise that they're essentially competing on the same level as bloggers. Granted, they might have more experience, and they certainly have bigger platforms, but they must no longer assume that they somehow know more or know better than anyone else. This notion could only ever be based on the assumption that a critic has simply heard more, seen more or read more than a layperson. But now that everybody's got internet access, the playing field has been significantly levelled. Critics have lost their edge.



Are they therefore to fade into obscurity? Not at all. Price laments that publications have become little more than “Which CD?” guides, but this is a predictable response from a self-styled fallen god. I sway more towards Will Self's assessment:

“Now we have instant access to an unparalleled library of films, books and recordings, we are wallowing about, really, in an atemporal zone of cultural production: none of us have the time... to view all the films, read all the texts, and listen to all the music that we can access, wholly gratis and right away. Under such conditions the role of the critic becomes not to help us to discriminate between "better" and "worse" or "higher" and "lower" monetised cultural forms, but only to tell us if our precious time will be wasted – and for this task the group amateur mind is indeed far more effective than the unitary perception of an individual critic.”

People blog because they really, really like music, films, television, books or comics. Furthermore they're confident and articulate enough to express their passion in writing, and so skilled are they with the written word that their passion can be infectious, even inspirational.

Critics must accept – gracefully – that they've never been anything more than particularly popular bloggers, or impressively articulate fans. They must peacefully abandon their delusions of grandeur and quit their presumed roles as gatekeepers. There has always been a tide of “bad art”, but even without their guidance, people are really quite good at sourcing more appealing waters, thank you very much.

It might be the case that there has never been a better time to be a fan of music. We have unprecedented access to everything that's ever been created, but even better, it's never been so easy to create and distribute art of your own.

If anything, the death of critics has been accompanied not by a corresponding drought of good art so much as a tsunami. When there's a greater danger of drowning in good art than there is in never finding any in the first place, what's the use of critics, with their hatchet jobs and their gleeful slaughtering of sacred cows? I've said it before and I'll say it again: Life's too short to dwell on things you don't enjoy.

Liberated from their self-imposed responsibilities as guardians of taste, critics now have a brilliant opportunity to use their platforms, their talents, their influence and their knowledge for good. Rather than assuming the last word in any matters of opinion, critics can now lead and join debate. Music writing is no longer a tablet, handed down from the clouds. It's now a dialogue. True, some voices might still come to the fore, but they'll do so not because their ideas are inherently superior. Perhaps they'll just be better at expressing themselves.

But what of the “bad art” that Price cannot stand to go uncriticised? Ignore it. It won't go away, but consider how much better the good art looks in comparison.

The internet has knocked the loftiest of critics from their pedestals. When they rise, rubbing their foreheads, they can either accept that the world has changed and so must they, or they can languish miserably in the snarky and sneering world they once knew.

But where does that lead us? Bitter axe-grinding. Sanctimonious think-pieces. Pseudo-academic non-reviews and, worst of all, odious “concept reviews”.

It seems that this is what you get when you write from a position of assumed superiority. Yet just as we can ignore bad art, we can also ignore bad music writing. And you will know bad music writing when its written by someone who describes themselves, with glowing pride, as a Critic.

Post-Rock - Then What? Bill Drummond Says...

Some ten years ago Bill Drummond – a pretentious stain who's successfully post-moderned himself into almost total obscurity – did something utterly unforgivable. He took his midlife crisis and attempted to turn it into an art movement.

Upon realising that he didn't like music as much as he used to, he transformed what was most likely a dopamine release failure into a much wider “problem” with music itself and attempted to instigate an international day of “no music”.

He wrote:

“All recorded music has run its course.
It has all been consumed, traded, downloaded,
understood, heard before, sampled, learned,
revived, judged and found wanting.
Dispense with all previous forms of music and
music-making and start again.
Year zero now.”

And, with all due respect, the moment I read that I immediately lost all respect I could ever have harboured for Mr. Drummond. What a tedious embarrassment of a piss-artist.

Anyway, Mr. Drummond just turned 60, and he spent 17 hours of his sixtieth birthday stood on a manhole cover at the bottom of Liverpool's Matthew Street (because he's Bill Drummond). It turns out that he's been training a choir, and he didn't want to unleash it upon the world before turning 60 (because he's Bill Drummond).

In his words:

“People who have ever had any success within popular music (which I guess includes me) should never think their success gives them the right to do other art forms. The history of pop being littered with examples of highly regarded musicians who then go and embarrass themselves and compromise their achievements by attempting to mount exhibitions, publish novels, compose concertos, or even save the world.

"I did not want to be one of those.”

If his ethics make doing anything such an immense problem, surely he'd be much happier not doing anything at all? I for one would applaud his quiet retirement, so long as it was as quiet as it could possibly be. Silent, even.

But this is interesting. To quote Carrie Bradshaw, I got to thinking...

Specifically, I got to thinking about the subsequent careers of those “who have ever had any success with popular music”. It's fascinating, isn't it? If you've spent a significant portion of your young life playing chords, singing songs and giving interviews, what then?

I'm always keen to find out.

I once read that an ex Boo Radley now teaches IT, and that someone from The Thrills is now quite a whiz at LinkedIn.

And whilst those two fates are, in themselves, quite interesting, I have a couple of case studies which I find to be almost inspirational. As in, despite what Bill Drummond insists, creative minds need not be consigned to a single medium. Everyone's got a “right” to do whatever they want with their lives – not just “other art forms”, Bill.

For starters (and, you'll soon see, that that was a very clever pun), let's look at Sam Herlihy.

Sam used to sing and play in The Hope of the States. Now he writes about food. Sam Herlihy is a food writer. I don't read many food writers, but I don't think I've ever read better.

Sam Herlihy can write. His lyrics for The Hope Of The States could tend to be a bit overwrought, but Jesus Christ, his food writing's incredible. It's tangled, rambling, caustic and utterly delicious. It's like haggis served atop a bed of green spaghetti washed down by cheap wine that tastes expensive.

Some choice excerpts:

“Quorn is to food what Japanese-porn is to porn; weird, the best bits blocked out, really grim and miserable.”

“I have been forced to change my cooking style. Out with my usual spicy Asian Szechuan hipster fatty nonsense and in with plainer food. More simple food? No, I can still render our kitchen as downtown Nagasaki if a fridge had exploded instead of an atom bomb. Quicker food? Nope, I can still take four hours over the cooking. Nicer food? Nah, it’s not my world this butter and potato and rosemary planet. My food is trying to be ‘Bladerunner’ and Raiden from ‘Mortal Kombat’ and this stuff is all period drama Keira Knightly and Mr Darcy britches or something.”

Not only do I want to eat that man's food, I want to listen to him – all night – talk about whatever he wants to talk about. Having read just one of his articles, Sam Herlihy instantly leapt to the top of my fantasy dinner party guestlist. He's not only the guest of honour, though. He's now also the chef.

What makes his writing so compelling is its very groundlessness. His tangents, his anecdotes, his crazy ideas and the impression you get – probably accurate – that he's writing this in one sitting and has something of a cavalier attitude towards editing.

He's apparently burning up with bitterness and resentment (he doesn't have a lot of nice things to say about Morrissey, for example), but never is his writing more engrossing than when he hates on himself. This one, where he talks about finding his first ever restaurant review, is priceless.

But it's never more fascinating than when he veers wildly from the topic of food to talk about what must be his deepest passion – music. This one, on the discrepancy between skill and technique, is truly one of the finest, most compelling pieces of music writing I've ever read.

So that's Sam Herlihy. The Hope Of The States were brilliant, but I do believe that in food writing he may have found his true calling. Take that, Bill.

And then comes Crispian Mills. It may not be wholly accurate to talk about his latest endeavours as a “post” musical career, as Kula Shaker still seem to be an ongoing concern, having released an album as recently as 2010. But again, as much as I enjoy Kula Shaker, I do believe that Crispian Mills was always supposed to be a writer/director.



His debut film is A Fantastic Fear of Everything. It didn't appear to make much of an impact upon release, but having just watched it, I believe it to have all the trappings of a future cult-classic.

It's a strange film set in a strange world. Like the films of Wes Anderson, it's not exactly a period piece, but nothing's new. This is a terrifyingly oppressive world in which bookshelves turn into skulls, launderettes are the scariest places imaginable and you're still allowed to smoke in restaurants. Everybody's dressed like it's the 70s and they listen to gangsta rap on cassette.

Simon Pegg plays Jack, an accidental children's author with a carving knife glued to his hand. He's driven himself to the point of insanity through researching Victorian serial killers, and his life becomes unbearable when he learns that he'll have to visit a launderette.

Jack is like a cross between Withnail and I, and it therefore comes as no surprise that the film's based on a Bruce Robinson short story. But what's truly remarkable was the look and feel of the film. Crispian Mills, responsible for such lyrics as “you're a wizard in a blizzard”, directs like Edgar Wright and Michel Gondry collaborating on an episode of Psychoville. It's unhinged, hysterically stylised and absolutely beautiful to look at. Best of all, though, are the periodic forays into stop motion animation by co-director Chris Hopewell (who was responsible for Radiohead's There There video).

A Fantastic Fear of Everything is one of those films that's “not for everyone” (but what film is?), but it left an indelible mark on me. I won't stop thinking about this film for some time. It's imperfectly structured and, at times, somewhat clumsy in its execution, but credit where it's due - this is a directorial debut. I'm just...stunned that the man who wrote Govinda should go on to create a film that pays tribute to both Michael Mann and The Hedgehog in the Fog. Incredible.

Bill Drummond wouldn't like A Fantastic Fear of Everything, and he'd probably find Sam Herlihy's writing a little tough to swallow. But then, Bill Drummond doesn't actually like anything (because he's Bill Drummond).

Personally, I find it quite wonderful that these two musicians (who were, in the grand scheme of things, “also rans”) should have avoided disappearing completely. That their subsequent work is, in some ways, a lot more appealing than their music perhaps ever was should be a real “egg on the face” moment for old Bill.

I hope for similar changes in direction for all of the stars of Britpop and its immediate aftermath. Maybe Shed Seven could open a holiday camp!

Dancing To Architecture Part 3 - Disapointed By Idiocy

Why is it so disappointing when the people we respect and admire turn out to harbour wilfully obtuse and misinformed opinions?

I'm not talking about the soul-destroying moments when it transpires that a beloved children's entertainer liked children a little bit too much; or when your idolised prog rocker is a member of the Countryside Alliance; or when a seemingly-sensitive country singer has sympathies for either Bush. That's a different matter entirely.

I'm not even talking about the head-shaking disbelief felt when a thrilling literate rock band proclaims that Radiohead lost their way after The Bends; or the bemusement felt when your trusted writer of spellbinding spiritual wonder proclaims that there's no magic left in music; or when your favourite psychedelic wizard uncle attacks your favourite indie rock preacher.

No. I'm referring to the moment at which someone you believed to be a sensible, open-minded and forward-thinking purveyor of genuinely interesting music turns out to be just as unimaginative and regressive in their beliefs as your average middle-aged hack.

Earlier this evening, Patrick Wolf appeared on Steve Lamacq's Round Table on 6Music. For those unfamiliar, Patrick Wolf is a singer songwriter who, in 2004, seemed to be a viable alternative to the dominating glut of the sort of landfill indie that romanticised crack, Stellar and squalor. Steve Lamacq's Round Table is a show where they ask musicians to comment on a series of new singles. 6Music is the single greatest radio station that ever has or will exist.

Anyway, they played Steve Mason's latest single. For those unfamiliar, Steve Mason is the erstwhile singer and guitarist of The Beta Band who has also recorded as The Black Affair, King Biscuit Time and under his own name. His music is often heart-stoppingly beautiful, and he's apparently come close to doing something awful so many times that his every single release is undoubtedly a gift to be treasured.

Patrick Wolf didn't like Steve Mason's latest single. Now, had he just said “no, I don't like this,” I'm sure he and I could still be friends. But no. He went further. He suggested that it's completely without any merit, giving it 0/10 and saying something along the lines that “music like that shouldn't exist in 2013.”

Some might say that Steve Mason's latest has something of a 60s vibe about it. I'd disagree. I'd say it sounds timeless, soulful, organic – and it just so happens that a lot of 60s music also happened to sound timeless, soulful and organic. But that's not the point.

The point is, since when has Patrick Wolf been the arbiter of what sort of music “should” and “shouldn't” exist in any given year? If a song's well-written, meticulously structured and of such touching poignancy that it strikes a devastating chord for some, then surely it doesn't matter in the slightest how it sounds? Also, ten years from now, nobody will care what year a song was released. Instead, they'll judge their song on its own merits, beyond any notions of relevancy. You know, like normal people do; Those who listen to music without an agenda but because it gives them a reason to live.

Also, Patrick hinted that the reason such music “shouldn't exist in 2013” is because it sounds a bit like the music of the 1960s. For someone who makes music that sounds like it could have come from the 1760s, such a comment goes way beyond being “a bit rich” and enters the realms of “downright hypocritical”.

My ethos is that there's so much good music out there that it's a waste of time to dwell upon anything you don't like. I therefore apologise for the negative tone. But it's interesting. If some anonymous moron on an internet board said something similar about the music of Steve Mason, I could write them off as a reactionary, misinformed troll. If one of my friends said such a thing, I could at least talk to them and point out the flaws in their argument.

But Patrick Wolf?

I suppose what's irritated me is that I thought he was above such opinions. I thought that somebody who made such imaginative music might be a bit more imaginative in their outlook. You know – a bit more open to the idea that there are alternative ways to look at the world. Yes, I appreciate the irony that I'm attacking someone on exactly the same grounds, but come on – what right has someone who's music could belong to any decade from the 1760s to the 1980s to attack a song on the grounds that it has a 60s vibe to it?

Wind In The Wires and The Magic Position are great albums, but I've not heard any others. It's a shame, though, because I know that this single moment of poor judgement on Patrick's part will forever colour my future enjoyment of his music.

It's immensely and unforgivably hypocritical on my part too, I know this. I suppose that people are just precious and protective about some things – and in some instances it really is the case that it's one rule for some and a different rule for others.

Which just goes to show that you must be really careful when writing about music. Writing about music is not the same as talking about music. When you talk about music, you can at least pass off your statements as being transient. They belonged to the then and now. Writing, though, has a real permanence about it. Because anything you write has the potential to outlive you, it belongs to the ages.

Music is an intangible and intensely personal entity that, at its very best, represents the absolute pinnacle of human endeavour. It speaks to different people on different levels. Everyone has a different relationship with music, and any song that's ever been written has the potential to change someone's life – for better or worse.

How could you possibly put something so powerful into words? How could you ever do something so all-encompassing and transcendent the justice it deserves with something so comparatively banal as words on a page?

Or a screen, for that matter.

So there you go. All Patrick Wolf did was give his ill-thought yet honest reaction to a song, and, having written about it, suddenly I'm questioning the very idea that we should ever attempt to put in words the indescribable power that a good (or bad) song can have on us.

That proves one or all of the following:

1. I think too much (but I already know that to be the case).
2. That you really can get so defensive that, with just a few words, former allies can become enemies.
3. That music creates such complex feeling and ideas that it can, at times, lead to moments of intense confusion.

So, either I now hate Patrick Wolf, or myself.

I still love Steve Mason, though.

Dancing To Architecture Part 2 - Gateways To Obsession

Continuing my dubious denouement of Nick Hornby's 31 Songs, I'd like to call your attention to something.

No, please, stay with me. This is interesting. You might like where I'm going with this.

This is Nick Hornby in reference to his love for Rod Stewart. Ignore his irritating and outmoded tendency to refer to all music that isn't jazz or classical as "pop music" and look at this:

“...the people who stick with pop music the longest...are those who entrust themselves at a tender age to somebody like Stewart, somebody who was clearly a fan himself. Those who fell for The Stones got to hear, if they could be bothered, Arthur Alexander and Solomon Burke and Don Covay...Zeppelin fans might have been moved to seek out Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf.”

Remember, Hornby believes that those whose opinions differ to his don't really like music. Witness:

“The antecedents of Yes and Genesis were Pink Floyd, and before that nobody much, really, and that was, in retrospect, part of the reason I didn't like them very much. The music felt airless and synthetic, and it seemed even then as if all the prog rockers would rather have been classical musicians, as if pop were beneath them, somehow. They led you up a blind alley; there was nowhere to go.”

OK. Ignoring, for one moment, the fact that Pink Floyd's very name is derived from two old bluesmen (the work of Pink Anderson and Floyd Council could therefore be considered as highly valid antecedents to Pink Floyd), what's wrong with a rock musician aspiring to be a classical musician? Nothing much, really.

Hornby claims to dislike prog rock because it's a “blind alley”. Once you've listened to the big names, there's nowhere else to go.

This is nothing short of absolute horsetwaddle. Beyond the classical and avant-garde composers from which prog rockers ostensibly took their cues (Hornby evidently believes that such music is beneath him), it's important to remember that a major antecedent to prog was psychedelica. Psych is to prog what punk is to New Wave; and psyche is an ocean of considerable depth into which millions of intrepid musical obsessives delve every day.

With psyche, you've got a vast pantheon that thrived on both sides of the Atlantic. For just the very apex of the iceberg, think of The Kinks, The Beatles and The Who in the UK; Jefferson Airplane, Jimi Hendrix and The Grateful Dead in the US. Each of those bands offer a unique entry-point into a vast world of new musical discoveries, and you'll have a vastly different experience depending on where you happen to start. The Grateful Dead alone must surely have enough material to keep you happy for life.

And every single one of these musicians took inspiration from expansive swathes of roots, folk, country, blues etc; again from both sides of the Atlantic. Also, going on at the same time was a vibrant scene of bands who might only have recorded and released one single before fading into obscurity. So if the past holds no interest for you, why not explore the present? Nuggets is just a tiny, tiny bite of something immense. That's why they called it Nuggets. And trace a path forwards from Nuggets and you get to garage rock, punk, New Wave, indie...

So you see, even if you use Pink Floyd as an entry-point, you've got enough musical exploration to be getting on with to nourish you for a lifetime.

From this we can draw two conclusions. First of all we can reiterate that Hornby is a pretentious bore who, when you apply even a base amount of scrutiny to his assertions, clearly doesn't have the slightest idea what he's talking about.

Second, we can conclude that, if you like music enough, it really doesn't matter where you begin. Any band, scene, musician or genre can act as a viable entry-point into an obsession just as deep as Hornby's. Just as deep, but if you grew up with internet access, your love will likely be a lot more open-minded.

To illustrate my point, I'd like to talk about my own entry-point into what I already know will be a lifelong obsession with music (and not just “pop music”).

I believe I started with Radiohead. I still consider them my favourite band, and one major reason as to why I continue to value them above all others is because it's now possible to view them as the centre of an immense hub from which everything else I love stems. I could likely trace any band or musician I value back, in some way, to my early love for Radiohead.

It began when my brother bought the Paranoid Android single from a street vendor in Glastonbury (the town, not the festival). That song, and the two b-sides (Polyethylene pts. 1-2 and Pearly) would sow some highly potent seeds, but things wouldn't take off in earnest until the release of Amnesiac. You And Whose Army?, heard on a Q best of the year CD, was unlike anything I'd ever heard before. You could say it blew my mind.

I saved up for, bought and immersed myself in the album. It was the start of something beautiful, and I freely acknowledge the role of the internet in kindling my love. I would scour online archives for hours for any material pertaining to Radiohead, and as I went I was making an unconscious mental note of any and all bands or artists listed as influences or descendents.

In this way I got into Aphex Twin and, as a result, most everyone on the W.A.R.P roster. Brian Eno, too, and Jeff Buckley. Remixers such as Four Tet and Zero 7. Krautrockers such as Can, Faust and Kraftwerk. Contemporaries such as Martin Grech, Beck, Sigur Ros and Clinic. In recent years I've started to discover the daunting but enthralling world of jazz. Call me a philistine if you must, but I entered via the very sounds referenced by Radiohead – John Coltrane, Charles Mingus, Miles Davies – the same names that get everyone into jazz, surely; but I know that I might never have even considered making the leap were it not for Radiohead.

But perhaps most importantly, my love for Radiohead made me pay more attention to the music to which I already had access. Adventurous 90s guitar bands such as Blur, The Auteurs and Super Furry Animals wouldn't hold nearly as much sway over me were it not for Radiohead; whilst my parents' Pink Floyd and Genesis albums (on which I had basically been raised) suddenly seemed a lot more interesting.

So I got into prog rock. I even considered Radiohead to be prog rock. For a long time, I referred to myself as a prog rock fan. I still do, but for a long time I was all about the prog. The proggier the better.

And from there – well, see above.

If the potential for deep musical appreciation is within you, it doesn't matter in the slightest where you start. If it's in you, through an insatiable need for sustenance, you'll eventually find your way to achieving that ideal state – a love for music that's free from the artificial constraints of time, space and cool.

Nick Hornby thinks he's there, but he isn't. How can we tell? Well. Because he doesn't see how genres he dislikes (classical, prog etc.) can be worlds in themselves – worlds which are, importantly, inexorably linked to that which he values so much. And even if they aren't linked, they're no less valuable. And because he can't see that, well. I hate to say it, but it might be the case that he doesn't really like music at all.

Dancing About Architecture Part 1 - Nick Hornby's 31 Songs

I read 31 Songs by Nick Hornby. It could be pointed out that it's a waste of time to review a book originally released over a decade ago. But it's OK. Nobody reads this blog for hard-hitting opinions on things that are actually happening now.

There might even be scope for removing all but the first four words of that last sentence, but that's another argument.

31 Songs, then. In this book, Nick Hornby writes about 31 songs that he loves (or has loved). I was dubious to begin with, because on the surface the whole thing looks like a navel gazing vanity project. And that's exactly what it is. Though it's obvious that Hornby's love of music runs deep, I've no idea why he wrote this book. It's a loose and unusual concept; an answer to a question asked by nobody: So why do you like music, Nick?

The problem is that, for Hornby, appreciation of music is akin to membership of an elite club. It was probably this belief that influenced him to take to his keyboard to begin with. Hornby wants it to be known that not only is he a high-ranking member of this illustrious club, he's also the arbiter of who may and may not be granted entry. For you ultimately get the impression that, for Hornby, there's no greater insult than to insist that one doesn't “really” like music.

And, surprise surprise, throughout the book it's revealed that those who dare to like the music that Hornby doesn't (or, even worse, those who like music in the wrong way), don't “really” like music at all.

Those who like a song because it reminds them of a certain time, place or person don't really like music. Those who like classical music don't really like music. Those who listen to sample-based music don't really like music. Those who “still” enjoy loud guitar music don't really like music. Those who don't like Rod Stewart but who do like Pink Floyd or Elton John don't really like music. Those who enjoy solos don't really like music. Those who like Bob Dylan more than he does don't really like music. Those who don't listen to lyrics don't really like music. And, perhaps most heinous of all, those who like extreme or experimental music not only don't really like music, but they must also have lived unfulfilled lives to have developed such tastes.

Well. I'm a Pink Floyd fan. I definitely like Bob Dylan more than he does, and I often find myself moved by classical music, extreme music, experimental music and sample-based music. I love solos and I don't always listen to lyrics. I still love loud guitar music; and I attach strong memories of people, places and periods to pretty much all of my favourite songs. I definitely like music, but according to Hornby's condescending absolutism, I don't really like music.

So you'll forgive my pettiness in deciding that those who write intimate, confessional non-fiction in exactly the same voice as every single one of their fictional protagonists – be they male or female, old or young – can't really write at all.

Credit where it's due, though. The chapters concerning Hornby's autistic son are so vulnerable as to be genuinely affecting. Also, like all people who consider music to be more than simply part of a lifestyle, Hornby obviously spends rather a lot of time thinking about things. When he's not insisting that those who see or enjoy things differently to him are somehow inferior, Hornby strikes upon some genuinely intriguing ideas.

For example, he has the future of music criticism nailed:

“This is what has to change, if pop music is to survive...we must learn the critical language which allows us to sort out the good from the bad, the banal from the clever, the fresh from the stale; if we simply sit around waiting for the next punk movement to come along, then we will be telling our best songwriters that what they do is worthless, and they will become marginalised. The next Lennon and McCartney are probably already with us; it's just that they won't turn out to be bigger than Jesus. They'll merely be turning out songs as good as Norwegian Wood and Hey Jude, and I can live with that.”

31 Songs does contain a few moments of right-on inspiration, and all obsessive music fans are doubtlessly as arrogant as Hornby. Perhaps, in the face of his few genuinely thought-provoking ideas, we should forgive his small-minded tedium?

Perhaps. But then you come to the addendum, in which Hornby takes it upon himself to listen to the current top ten albums in America. And suddenly, 31 Songs is read through your fingers as Hornby unwittingly becomes the most out-of-touch square that ever walked the earth. This chapter perhaps marks the precise moment at which Hornby enters middle age, and it makes for an excruciatingly painful read. His “knowing” assessments of the music of Alicia Keys, Stain'd, D12, P Diddy and Blink-182 read like blustered biological field-notes. I don't hold any of those artists in anything approaching esteem, but it's suffocatingly cringeworthy when Hornby insists that, of course, his music is objectively superior. He even warns, in words that read like a 50s B-Movie horror announcer, that there might be someone listening to Blink-182, right now, on your street. Oh no!

At the very least, 31 Songs has made me able to decide upon the exact definition of “good” music writing. It's simple: Good music writing makes you want to listen to music. At times, 31 Songs undoubtedly achieves this. I certainly want to hear a lot more Teenage Fanclub having dragged my way through Hornby's book.

Bad music writing, on the other hand, can be many things; but three huge warning signs are that a) clear and definite battle lines are drawn between “real music” and, presumably, “fake music”; b) clear and definite battle lines are drawn between those who “really” like music and those who don't and c) it's hinted that music simply isn't as good as it used to be.

As a result, at its worse 31 Songs is a definite example of bad music writing; and reading it is often an experience akin to being cornered by that droning musical bore at a party who laughs at your Gomez t-shirt.