On Christgau

I flinch whenever senior journalists are canned through some corporate nonsense or other. So it was pretty alarming when Bob Christgau was unceremoniously shoved off his perch at the Village Voice. He has enough stature that he’ll land on his feet someplace, but I’d love to know how got that high in the first place. I think very highly of rock criticism as a genre – when done well it is an entertaining and insightful blend of unabashed fanboy enthusiasm, home-cooked literary theory, and bold, creative leaps and connections that define what is best about postmodernity. And while I can, if pressed, dig appreciations on Christgau (like this one in Slate) I don’t wholly agree with them.

His signature column – the “Consumer Guide” – was a periodic list of capsule reviews, and as a regular act of journalism they were darn near useless. Reading it is like intercepting fragmented telegrams aimed to one of his close friends. In-jokes, awkward grammar, unclear frames of reference, no sustained thought beyond a snap judgment (his longer pieces, I might add, are little better. Or rather, they may be incredible, but I’ve never gotten through any). I’ve read the Voice pretty regularly since high school, and I’ve never understood what he was on about. Frankly, it’s not English. And I’d love to learn more about this “fearsome line-editing” Jody Rosen write about. I’m afraid to admit I always believed he was a once formidable critic and intellect who had gotten a bit too cozy and lazy and was phoning them in.

To his credit, he maintains a terrifically comprehensive website, and looking back – especially if you look at whole columns as they originally appeared – turns out he was always that way. However, if you search by particular bands, bits and fragments jump out through the fog with some impressive – and concise -- insights. And he starts to look more like the Ezra Pound of rock critics. He’s an important figure at a critical time, he’s incredibly grouchy, and his vast body of work is a giant ash-heap with a few gems buried inside.

And about that grouchiness… Some gloomy critics are like doomed lovers in Gothic romances. Sometime, somewhere, they had a powerful, transformative, ineffable encounter with Art. Maybe it was one night in the dark at the theater, and some mix of words and performance laid raw some experience. Perhaps it was alone at home one night with headphones and some LP record sent shockwaves down your spine. Or maybe it was hours hidden away one quiet summer afternoon with a book. Something snapped in that moment and you can’t explain it, but you are so moved by its power you roam the earth seeking to find it again. But all you meet, over and over again, is the bitter taste of failure and the frustrating twilight of only seeing shadows of the wonders in your memory. That personal journey is all well and good, and often, it’s even fun to read.

And you can’t deny he’s dug deep, so visiting his website is a fun way to waste time. Consider this blurb on my favorite Soviet rock-band, which, amazingly, he got his hands on…

Kino, Grupa Krovy, 1989: Just Russian new wavers, their translated lyrics unobtrusively poetic, alienated by habit, politically aware, resigned. But Victor Tsoi's solidly constructed tunes have a droll charm that's fresh if not new, and to an English speaker, the physical peculiarities of his talky voice, which saunters along as if a low baritone is the natural human pitch, seem made for the offhand gutturals and sardonic rhythms of his native tongue. When his boys ooh-ooh high behind "It's Our Time, Our Turn!," it's as if someone has finally concocted an answer record to "Back in the U.S.S.R."

Here area a few I can certainly dig…

The Ramones, Ramones, 1977: But my theory has always been that good rock and roll should damn well make you uneasy, and the sheer pleasure of this stuff--which of course elicits howls of pain from the good old rock and roll crowd--is undeniable. For me, it blows everything else off the radio: it's clean the way the Dolls never were, sprightly the way the Velvets never were, and just plain listenable the way Black Sabbath never was. And I hear it cost $6400 to put on plastic.

The Eagles, The Greatest Hits, 1976: Hum 'em high--ten poptunes from the Four Lads of I'm-okay I'm-okay are probably a must for those who've concluded they're geniuses by listening to the radio.

Pavement, Slanted and Enchanted, 1992: Though no outsider wants to believe it, they're not just the latest scruffy rumor. And though no insider wants to believe it, they're more well-schooled than inspired--skilled, gifted, of enduring artistic value, condensing a decade of indie thrashing about into a two-year recording career that takes off with their debut album.

Pulp, Different Class, 1996: This year won't produce a more indispensable song than "Common People," but that doesn't mean young Americans know enough about the bourgeoisie to get it.

And these just make me say ‘y’ouch’:

The Doors, The Doors, 1967: I admit that some of the tunes retain considerable nostalgic appeal, but there's no way I can get around it--Jim Morrison sounds like an asshole.

The Stone Roses, Stone Roses, 1989: Their music is about sound, fingers lingering over the strings and so forth. And in the end they're surprisingly "eclectic." Not all that good at it, but eclectic.

Son Volt, Trace, 1995: Finally the answer to a question that's plagued me for years. I'd pound my pillow at night, drift into revery at convocations on fun, plumb forget how my dick got into my hand, wondering why, why, why I could never give two shits about Uncle Tupelo. But the answer, my friends, was blowing in . . . no, I mean hopes "the wind takes your troubles away." Name's Jay Farrar, never met a detail he couldn't fuzz over with his achy breaky drawl and, er, evocative country-rock--and needn't trouble with the concrete at all now that that smart-ass Jeff Tweedy is Wilco over-and-out. In the unfathomable Tupelo, Tweedy whiled away the hours writing actual songs, leaving Farrar the drudgery of mourning an American past too atmospheric to translate into mere words. As sentimental as Darius Rucker himself, Farrar is only a set of pipes and a big fat heart away from convincing millions of sensitive guys that he evokes for them.