on criticism pt. 2, "Adorno's World"

The second major implication (call it wishful thinking, if you will) is a revolution in the way art and culture is produced and devoured. It is a revolution the likes of which Theodor Adorno (thanks to the lovely, the talented x kr8chi for bringing him up) could've only dreamed. Adorno was a music critic/philosopher who wrote about how "art (mostly music for him though) can resist being co-opted by the status quo--hegemony--what not." He was concerned with how the dominate cultural "tastemakers," as it were, (dubiously linked with the dominant social class, even, or especially, today) take over the production of art and cultural elements for their own profit, having a degenerative effect on the products over time. This is linked with cultural hegemony, which would imply that it was a conscious effort on the part of the dominant class to keep the lower class low. As far as I understand, Adorno was less concerned with this and more focused on the tendency for art to become crap as time goes on. This isn't theoretical. Its real. Its a phenomenon that is going on now, has been forever and it is bad.

I think we are living in an age where it is possible for it to happen no more. We live in a time when it is possible for art and culture and popular taste to be completely user-regulated. This is happening right now in music and the industry is in a desperate panic. It is a perfect storm--the ease with which artists (especially musicians) can produce their work and make it accessible, and the ease with which people can share what they like. I think it is possible (we're not there quite yet) for word of mouth (or fingertip) to be the only thing we need. Advertisements, shameless plugs, etc. can become obsolete. It of course, will take work. But it starts with bold moves by the right people.

More later.

mark.

on criticism pt. 1

Last week's Time Out New York ran a piece about criticism. Its a fun little number that takes a look at the current and future states of criticism, what with all the blogs and the everyone's-a-critic and such. Some big names in print and blogging (or both) weigh in on the issue, with varying degrees of consideration. It doesn't really try to draw any conclusions, which is good because why would you do that? The piece begins chronicling a happening in New York theatre criticism that was similar to something I posted on not too long ago, wherein a critic's criticism becomes fodder for more criticism. Not that that couldn't have happened before the advent of blogs, of course, but with the instant, easy ability to react, I feel like these debates are more fiery, more personal. The piece then goes on to get some authoritative opinions on the matter of criticism through a series of questions. Its important to investigate criticism. I also think, however, that the situation has implications for the art being criticized. I'm going to investigate two of the potential effects, one negative and one positive.

The first lies in a possible change in how people approach art. I see it happening all around. Perhaps it is unrelated to the dramatic rise in blogs and faux-criticism, but it feels like we are becoming an overly critical culture. I surmise (on grounds of only my own nature) that members of the public who regularly contribute to blogs and e-zines and the like (meaning not already-established and paid critics) are looking to immediately put experiences with a work of art into words. They are approaching the work with the prospect of criticism at the forefront of their brain, thereby neglecting the openness it takes, I think, to be a good critic. This is bad. It prevents the viewer/listener/what-have-you from having a genuine experience, as pure as possible. It's impersonal. Not only that, but it also is very hard to get excited in that state. (Lack of excitement, as far as I'm concerned, is a plague on my generation and I'll probably be exploring it later.) This mindset drives a huge divide between audience and art, changing the nature of the work itself.

I should take a moment to point out that I think critical eyes are good things. But they should be thoughtful and learned.

I will write about the second of the major implications that I see tomorrow. And I will call it "Adorno's World." I am very excited.

mark.

Boxer

When listening to Boxer, the newest album by Brooklyn based The National, my mind drifts to the week I first heard it. A pile of pillows and blankets cover the floor of my girlfriend’s yet to be furnished Kalamazoo apartment. It is the night before I am to move to Brooklyn, entering us into what one would call a long distance relationship. My eyes are heavy, but I contemplate Matt Berninger’s steady voice, rattling into the early morning. Rewind to four years earlier. Another life. A film plays at the Ann Arbor State theatre, of which I have no recollection. A hand is placed on my ankle, and the touch is filled with electricity. I daren’t move for fear of breaking some beginning. Now, when I walk the newly icy streets of Brooklyn, I hear these songs and they echo in my headphones with a new power: home.

And so it is with the scope of this beautiful album. My vivid memories commingle with those of the band, and something new comes to the surface. Berninger’s narrative form focuses in on a detail, the color of a pair of gloves, and suddenly pulls out to reveal a sea of faces, brushing shoulders and bundling up a bit tighter for the winter. A strained relationship with heaven is here, too; a healthy skepticism and dissatisfaction with forms no longer able to access the depths found beneath them. The National’s choice of band name seems to me more than a little pointed. Every “I,” “we,” and “you,” actively implicates both the listener and the band. Even Berninger’s unabashed use of “la la la’s” and “mmm-hmmm’s,” reveal much more than a melancholy take on some of pop music’s oldest and purest lyric forms. They seem to be hiding a secret, some words exchanged that only the two of us remember, because it only holds weight in that place. To everyone else, “la de da, la de da…”

I would be doing this exquisite album a major disservice were I to neglect the music. These men are musicians in the truest sense, in that their instruments are natural extensions of themselves. They seem to be looking to unlock lost depth in form here, too. Tensions are layered patiently, finding release at the last possible moment. Lesser bands show their cards right when they are supposed to. The National has the chops to hang on, hang on. When Padme Newsome's brass and string arrangements thunder in, its enough to twist your gut and leave you breathless.This sort of confidence in detail pays off in ways difficult to define. Most, amazed at the way the extra piano flourish holds more power the tenth time than the second, resort to calling the album a “grower,” and leave it at that. I would attribute this power to the band’s ability to craft a song without neglecting the weight of any one of its collective parts. It is impossible to tell if lyrics were written before music, or vise versa, because they are tied so tightly to the same emotional anchor. This becomes most obvious with Bryan Devendorf’s incredible drumming. No fill is added superfluously, no tempo chosen without care of the structure of the song as a whole. In fact, the contemplative work from a drummer of his capacity brings to light just how rare this sort of craftsmanship is. Perhaps I am not looking in the right places, but the indie albums that weigh each instrument’s emotional quality this heavily are few and far between.

Brian Wilson once said that he crafted the bassline of “Don’t Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder)” as the song’s emotional heartbeat. However, I felt that power in my chest long before I understood what he was doing intellectually. Wilson knew, possibly better than any pop musician in history, the world of potential in how an artist puts sounds together. When he sings “Surf’s up! Aboard the tidal wave!” and his piano laps gently against a California dock, I don’t contemplate the coming storm; I actually brace my knees. Now, when Berninger boldly confesses “You know, I dreamed about you for 29 years before I saw you” as the band weighs in with him, fully aware of the delicate situation, I realize that The National left someone they care about in Kalamazoo.

Seth.