In a fit of selfish boredom, I googled myself tonight. Some expected things-Student Life articles, Riverfront Times articles-came up, along with some less-expected things. One of the latter was a Web site maintained by a graduate student here at the University, who, for reasons of ethics and privacy, shall remain nameless. What was my name doing on a graduate student’s Web site, and a computer science graduate student at that?
It turns out that more than three people read my column last year, back when it was called “Head Rush,” and pseudo-specifically focused on neo-hippie culture and the related jam band scene. Last spring, my critic wrote an entire rant about me, an entertaining and funny bit of bashing that was print-worthy if only because of its high quality. His piece was entitled, “When you’re high on pot, anything sounds good.”
“I’ve been meaning to write about this for some time,” he writes, “but today just feels like the day to do it. In every week’s Cadenza issue of Student Life, there is a musical column called ‘Head Rush,’ authored by one Jess Minnen. I use the word ‘musical’ loosely here, because mostly the column is about how high Jess got the previous weekend and which random crappy jam band she saw while in her altered state. Apparently others feel the same way that I do, since every couple of weeks or so she starts off her column with ‘so-and-so says that all I ever write about are jam bands, which is so not true, man.’ She then goes on to briefly mention some hip-hop band, then gets back to the subject of how great it is to watch the Yonder Mountain String Band while passing joints with her buddies, or follow Phish around the Midwest, doing shrooms with random strangers.”
Clearly this cat is a good writer, and I mean that in no sarcastic terms. If I didn’t know me, I’d think I was a tool based on this review. For the most part, he’s right, of course. I rambled rather nonsensically last year, waxed poetic about dope, talked about a lot of local psychedelic rock bands, and in some cases, digressed so far as to talk about my weekend rather than talk about music at all.
But the point I’d like to draw from this first bit of constructive criticism is that the critic isn’t really reading my column: he is reading an interpretation of it. I can reference lots of material from the column that is not about jam rock at all. I can pull up an entire review relating just how bored I was at the Yonder Mountain String Band show. I’ve never shroomed with strangers. We can read the good in something we like, or hear the good in music we like, but it is far easier to read and hear the bad.
Uninterested in defending myself, my curiosity is instead piqued by the provocation, the idea that my critic read the column every week even though he clearly had no love for it. I’m interested in his apparent disregard for some “crappy jam band” that he’s never seen or heard. He’s obviously a music lover. Why, then, do music nerds, people who so often profess to promote art, so love to malign other genres and other sounds, just because they do not suit their own personal tastes?
Are we all masochists at heart?
My well-written critic goes on to introduce some comments I made regarding last year’s WILD performer, Better Than Ezra. He was no more enthused than I about the prospect of seeing the New Orleans pop rock band. But he seemed to not understand the idea that fall WILD is always a hip-hop act and spring WILD is always a rock act.
“If Jess would put down her doobie for a minute and try and regain some of that long-term memory,” he continues, “she would remember that we just had a hip-hop act last semester. And the semester before (if it hadn’t been rain-aborted). And the semester before that.”
Well, I’m getting older and wiser and I’ve had my doobie down for about a week and a half now. I will advocate marijuana legalization till the day I die, but that certainly doesn’t mean I’ll be smoking it that long. After reading his extensive comments, I can’t help but wonder who else read my critic’s online flame, and of those who did, how many of them then began reading my column? Should I be grateful that people were reading it at all and adhere to the “all publicity is good publicity” adage?
Musicians and writers have more in common than either would probably like to admit. We can all learn a lot more from criticism than from accolades. John Steinbeck makes a point in his journals that we cannot know great joy without first knowing great suffering. What would good music sound like if we didn’t have the bad to compare it to? Perhaps for this reason alone, we should all embrace our critics, read bad writing, and listen to crappy music.
My critic did what I wish other readers would do: he stepped up to the plate and swung back. Music criticism is a team sport, and without a reading team to spar, the writing team looks pretty silly all dressed out on the field.
Live music is live art. Be a part of it.