This is for you, Randall Bader, who said years ago, “You should write about music.” He said it because I had written a book-length email about U2’s Achtung Baby album because he was recovering from surgery and wished I’d write emails with more than two paragraphs. (By the way, to all the people who handle the business affairs of U2, I sold an album for you, and to someone who previously thought U2 was completely full of shit.)
But no, I shouldn’t be writing about music. I’m not sure anyone should. I notice that many of my blog posts end up being about music anyway, but I am careful to only write about music if I have something positive to say.
I don’t remember if my Achtung Baby rambling essay was all positive–probably not, based on how I feel about that album so many years later and also because Randall Bader wouldn’t have commented if I had refused to criticize.
But sometimes what sounds like a criticism isn’t criticism. Sometimes it’s just my experience of the music versus what the artist’s intention seemed to be, and it’s more of a misunderstanding. (And there’s where I get uncomfortable–how can anyone but the artist know the real intention? Sometimes the artist may not know, but even if you assume she does, didn’t she just try her best to express it? Language is imperfect, music sharpens the message, but even so, we are all listening through the distortion of our perceptions. Nothing new in this idea–just noting it so that everyone knows that I know.)
An example from Achtung Baby–people whose first language is actually English have chosen “One” as a wedding song. Have they listened to it? I will never understand how anyone would choose it for a wedding. (Personally, I find it a very strong U2 song, but it’s clearly a “this relationship is going to destroy us and possibly bystanders” type of song.)
Today I found a reason to praise Bob Seger for lyrics for the wrong reasons. I heard “Like a Rock” while driving. I hadn’t heard this song in years but I tuned in, let the words flow through my brain, and soon I was remembering with Bob the nostalgic beauty of being eighteen, the brightness of it, the naive confidence, the blissful purity of those days before all the black and white faded to gray. Along with the anthem-like soaring chorus, it actually gave me mental images of my similar past.
And then, reality broke that image. Bob, my eighteenth summer was the exact opposite of the words I was just internalizing. (Well, except for the “working for peanuts” part.) My hands were not steady, my eyes were sunken from sleep deprivation, no part of me had purpose, and if my steps were quick and light, I had to have been stoned or drunk at the time. I may have appeared to have been holding firmly to what I thought was right, but that was really only religious bullshit crammed into my head. Nothing ever got to me? Everything was all over me all the time. How in hell did Bob have any of the experiences he sang about at the age of eighteen?
It must have been “two for Tuesday” on this radio station, because “Like a Rock” was followed with “Night Moves”. Again, Bob, you bring on nostalgia for things that weren’t even close to what you described. For most of us, the teenage back seat rumbles and fumbles could have been a song titled, “What Part of This Ritual is Supposed to be Fun for Me?” (My apologies to my back seat boys of those years–but it’s time you knew.)
But back to Bob, this isn’t a criticism of his work. It’s proof that he’s a genius as a lyricist and composer. He’s had me, and I suspect countless others, whitewashing their adolescent misery with his preferable warm wistfulness. (Was he also whitewashing his own? Bob, I’d love to hear from you about that.)
Though overused, “writing about music is like dancing about architecture” makes a lot of sense. Reading some musical criticism has left me wondering how any musician can go on creating. I imagine that they begin to feel about it the same way I do as a writer. Some people get me, some people don’t. Whatever.
I love the younger generations, unlike many of my fellow GenXers, and I truly believe they will create great changes for good in the future. Here’s the “but”, and it has to do with music. I’ve found very few of them that know enough about musical history to make comments on it. Even at all.
True, they have many more years of music to learn about, but they don’t seem interested in doing that. They’ll wear the clothes, though. For many years, I was stupid enough to believe that kids wearing Beatles t-shirts could converse about the Beatles. Couldn’t even name one.
When “Moves Like Jagger” was released, all the kids knew it. I would ask them “What’s a Jagger?” Crickets.
Kids have Nirvana shirts to make a statement. They know they’re making a statement, but they can’t verbalize it. Of all the kids I’ve asked to tell me the names of two Nirvana songs that weren’t “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” I never got an answer, but they love the shirt. I take that back–I believe one child knew “Lithium”, but she may have been asking if I had any to spare. (One asked me if I had a Nirvana tee. Straight-faced, I convinced him that everyone born between 1965-1970 was issued a Nirvana tee by the government.)
These people shouldn’t be writing about music, to praise or criticize. (Perhaps this is why I sometimes watch music reaction videos. It gives me hope that some of these younger people will take an interest in where their music came from.)
Much like my Achtung Baby email, this blog post has rambled and I’m not sure I’ve made a point. My points? One, I use caution when writing about music, realizing that there are many layers of vast perceptual differences between me and the artist/composer. Two, if you’re younger than me and wearing a t-shirt suggesting you’re a fan of someone, don’t be surprised if I ask you questions. Three, Bob Seger, if you read this and actually had the kind of adolescence you sing about, we need to talk.
Leave a Reply