The pretentiousness of the pop critics

Spectator

a day ago

Pop music criticism, said Frank Zappa, was the work of people who can't write, about people who can't talk, for people who can't read. Half a century later and he's still right. Although pop is essentially a juvenile art form – its clearest strength and most obvious weakness – that doesn't stop reviewers pumping up performers as though Johann Sebastian Bach had decided to form an all-star band with Beethoven and Brahms. The Three Bs! Sign 'em up!
The current pop reviewers for the Times and the Telegraph, Will Hodgkinson and Neil McCormick, clearly think they bear witness to giants. Like Pinky and Perky, these mature teenagers can trill 'we belong together', batting balls over the net in a contest of perfumed superlatives. Should Hodgkinson open with a 'sublime', his oppo will almost certainly return serve with an 'achingly beautiful'. 'Perfectly formed'. 'Apocalyptic opus'. 'Emotional depth'. 'Kaleidoscopic riches'. It can be difficult for readers to swivel their heads swiftly enough to follow these rallies. Pity the poor umpire, longing for a change of ends – and a restorative glass of Robinson's Barley Water.
In recent years, the tousle-haired Hodgkinson has delivered his share of forehand smashes. He's fond of 'art music', which less credulous listeners call 'pretentious drivel', but it never hurts to take the folk they write about at their own estimation. McCormick can certainly smack 'em back from the baseline. Selecting 25 'albums that rocked the world' – those long-players which 'shaped the soundtrack of our times' – he came up with some scorching winners.
'New template… transformative power… cynical political epic… profoundly sincere… creative synergy… towering, symphonic wonder… new vistas of self-expression'. As weary copy-takers used to ask journalists in the good old days: 'Much more of this?'
Plenty. McCormick can keep it up for five sets – without a banana. Nevermind by Nirvana, he said, 'recalibrated a genre that had become fatuous and overblown'. How they love their genres – and oh, the recalibration! Dark Side of the Moon, meanwhile, Pink Floyd's multi-million copy seller, offers 'perhaps the most epic conclusion to any album in rock history'.
What, pray, is that history? Sixty years, tops. Pop became rock in the summer of 1966, when Eric Clapton, Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker formed Cream, Jeff Beck left the Yardbirds, and Chas Chandler persuaded Jimi Hendrix to leave New York for London. Beck, Clapton and Hendrix changed the sound of the electric guitar – and what has followed is essentially a footnote.
There is a paradox here. Although pop writers care little for longer-established forms, like opera and orchestral music – which are deemed to be snooty – they love to coat the music they like with a patina of significance, if only to convince themselves they are not wasting their time. Hence those empty words.
The list of 'essentials' is bog-standard: Michael Jackson, Fleetwood Mac, U2
McCormick's attachment to jargon is truly impressive, so it was no surprise to see 'template' appearing once more in his choice of the No. 1 album, Abbey Road. There was also a 'sublime summation' – the sort of alliterative guff Leonard Sachs gave punters as he banged his gavel on The Good Old Days.
Abbey Road at No. 1, and Rubber Soul nowhere! What kind of judge is that? If a critic can't get the Beatles lined up properly, he ought to find a kitchen that needs a pot washer. Nor did McCormick find room for Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys – though there was space for the ghastly Bitches Brew by Miles Davis, which is not a pop record at all.
As for Joni Mitchell, the Alpha and Omega of Californian self-absorption, she is 'lyrically… on a plane where Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen are her only serious rivals'. Clearly this chronicler of popular music has never heard of Lorenz Hart, Cole Porter, Ira Gershwin, Johnny Mercer, Dorothy Fields, Johnny Burke, Frank Loesser, Stephen Sondheim and Hal David. Paul Simon should also be there. To borrow from the late football writer Brian Glanville: 'Mitchell, me no Mitchell. Simon towers above her in sheer class.'
The list of 'essentials' is bog-standard: Michael Jackson, Fleetwood Mac, U2. There is (gulp) no Pet Sounds or Music from Big Pink – and Revolver limps in at No. 11. Even the dogs in the street know that was the best record the Fab Four made. You may not be surprised to learn, however, that Revolver established yet another 'template'. So it's game, set and match to Master McCormick. The centre court rises.