A critic’s criteria, pt. 2
by Seth Rogovoy

(WILLIAMSTOWN, Mass. Oct., 01 1998) -- Ten years ago this month I first began writing about popular music in the pages of the Berkshire Eagle, so it seems like an appropriate time to take a step back and reflect on just what it is that goes on here. One hopes that in a decade of writing about music -- interviewing musicians and reviewing concerts and recordings -- some sort of criteria emerges, either by accident or design.

By necessity a critic has to be open-minded not only to individual artists, but to entire genres which might not be to one’s personal taste. Indeed, a decade’s worth of listening has opened my eyes and ears to a wider variety of sounds and experiences than I might have considered worth checking out when beginning this work.

Over the years my appreciation for the specific characteristics of such sub-cultural genres as bluegrass, Celtic, blues and Klezmer has grown enormously. But at the same time, I have come to realize that when performers in any of these or any other genres are at their best, they share more in common than they don’t.

That is to say, ultimately, the best music has the potential to be a cross-cultural, transformative experience, one that combines aesthetic beauty with intellectual challenge. The commonly-used term “soul music” hints at this transformation. Although it usually refers to a type of modern rhythm and blues, what soul music is really is music played by a master at its best.

I’ve heard soul in bluegrass by Bill Monroe and Del McCoury, in blues by Buddy Guy, and in Klezmer by Andy Statman and the Klezmatics. Sonny Rollins and Cassandra Wilson have certainly performed their share of soul music in these parts. In its prime, what was the roots-rock group The Band if not a soul outfit, and what is Lucinda Williams’s new album of white-trash country songs if not the soul album of the year? And in that singular space he has carved out that includes equal parts rock, folk, country, blues and poetry, what is Bob Dylan if not a soul man?

What all of these artists have in common is that at the height of their particular genre, they use the genre’s conventions merely to transcend it, to speak of and to more universal, ineffable human truths. This, of course, is the secret of great art of any kind, whether it be music, painting, sculpture, architecture, dance or poetry. And to expect anything less of our artists -- to settle for the merely competent or mediocre, for that which does not aspire to greatness -- is to deny our very humanity.

Which is why at the same time that I have grown more open to the wide range of musical and artistic expression, I also have grown more puzzled and confused by those who would settle for less, both artists and audiences alike.

While in several genres of popular music, such as jazz, blues and bluegrass, virtuosity is a sine qua non, in large part a folk aesthetic rules in pop. In the words of Roger McGuinn, “So you wanna be a rock and roll star/Just get a guitar and learn how to play.”

Its accessibility is undoubtedly part of pop’s appeal. But too often the ease of entrance comes at the expense of originality or artistic ambition. Too often people seem to become musicians simply because it seems fun, or because they just want to. Too rarely it is because they actually have anything compelling to say.

There is nothing wrong with being a journeyman musician: playing an instrument in a band or an orchestra. But to presume to have a claim on an audience’s time and attention without offering anything of value -- without taking listeners somewhere new or different -- is not only the ultimate in egotism, it is downright insulting.

Unfortunately, I have a mile-high stack of CDs full of such insults. I try not to take them personally, but it is part of a critic’s duty to act as an advocate for the target audience, and therefore, to just say no to music that lacks flavor or nutrition, or music that is the equivalent of drugs, meant merely to trigger a chemical stimulus through artificial means as opposed to artistic ones.

Read the biographies of any great artist and a characteristic they all share is an insatiable curiosity, not only about their own provincial concerns but about the world around them: other genres in their form, other art forms, politics, nature, the entire gamut of human relations. The most ardent jazz fans I know are all poets; most visual artists love music; David Byrne and Tony Bennett are only the tip of the iceberg of musicians who are also visual artists.

Therefore, I find a lack of curiosity on the part of aspiring musicians to be a stunning lapse. If all they know is their own work, or the work of an insular group of like-minded trend-hoppers, then what could they possibly have to say to anyone outside of their own clique? How can they possibly shed any light on the lives of their listeners if they live cloaked in the darkness of their own preoccupation? Communication is a two-way street; far too many self-absorbed, self-appointed “visionaries” offer only a dead-end.

The only other thing more frustrating than a musician who lacks curiosity -- after all, the person he’s hurting the most is himself -- is a promoter who lacks curiosity. Go to enough concerts in and around the county and pretty soon you get to know the familiar faces. What is perhaps most astounding is how, with only a few rare exceptions, none of the key Berkshire promoters or venue operators or whatever it is they call themselves apparently go out to hear live music anywhere but at their own venues. And this is as convincing a reason as any as to why the playing field for good live music in the Berkshires is no better now than it was 10 years ago.

Well over 30 years ago Bob Dylan sang, “I’ll know my song well before I start singing.” It’s good advice for everyone to follow. Even a critic.

[This column originally appeared in the Berkshire Eagle on Oct. 1, 1998. Copyright Seth Rogovoy 1998. All rights reserved.]