Who Decides What Good Music Is? -or- The Arrogance of Musical Taste

Studio 54, in New York

Decades ago I was in a packed car on my way to a baseball game. The other passengers and I were all in our twenties. Young and hip, leaning into the counter culture. College students or recent grads. The car radio was on as it would always be back then. A Jackson Five song came on, sung in falsetto. One chap made fun of the singing, others laughed. I said: “ahh yes, making fun of Black singers, the new racism.”

Of course there were howls of protest. No such thing was intended, I was told.

No, I responded, of course, but it’s part of an on-going theme among young white people of our generation convinced that particular kinds of music are superior and other kinds are subject to mockery. Especially the very different sounds of African American singers. Mockery can draw upon racial stereotypes even when the person doing the mocking has no conscious racial intent.

Again there was insistence that this did not equate to racism. “No, nothing does,” I said sadly. “All you have to do while making fun of people of color is say that it’s all innocent fun and you can get away with anything, including evoking the most demeaning of stereotypes.

There were a lot of issues involved. One of which was that white people of a certain stripe couldn’t accept that something was simply different and not to their taste, they had to mock it. It’s like how so damn many Americans who don’t like soccer have to tell you in detail why they find it boring instead of simply saying they weren’t raised with the game and don’t understand it so it’s not for them. One Yank — and this is just a few years ago — said to me that soccer is a sport for people who don’t like sports. Can you imagine the ignorance and arrogance of such a statement? It was also — I hate to say — representative of a very common American (usually white, male) attitude. 

Sidenote: once in college a friend of a roommate was at our house. He looked through my record albums (ask your parents) then told me: “you have terrible taste in music.” (I don’t remember exactly what albums I had at the time but I’m sure they included The Beatles, The Who, Rod Stewart and Stevie Wonder). What did he imagine my response would be? “By golly, you’re right. I’ll sell these and buy some new ones. Please tell me what music to like.” It was a strangely rude comment and purposeless, betraying the white boy arrogance of the time (what do I mean “of the time”? It still exists!).  In mock seriousness I told him that I was sorry that my albums weren’t good enough and begged his forgiveness. Then I put one of them on the turntable (ask your parents).

It’s a weird thing about musical tastes. I recall being at our principal’s house for a large gathering of some sort back in my middle school teaching days. Someone was talking to the assemblage so the rest of us were dutifully quiet. A colleague and I were sitting near the boss’s records. He pointed to them and frowned, even pulling a few out and shaking his head disagreeably. I didn’t recognize the artists so could only assume his message was that this was inferior music. I shrugged. To me this brief interaction indicated that he was of the sort who classed popular music into categories such as: classic, good and beneath contempt. As opposed to: this is to my taste, this isn’t.

I don’t get it. Who set the standard for what is “good” music and what isn’t? What happens if we don’t subscribe to it? I had people look at me askance because, for a time, I mostly listened to jazz. I could never understand why people care what music someone else listens to.

I’m a regular listener of a podcast that’s about my favorite English football (that’s soccer to you Yanks) team. I very much enjoy the host who is wise, witty and insightful. But on occasion he’ll make known his contempt for the musician Phil Collins. I can never understand why. Okay, you don’t like the guy’s music, why the hell should the rest of us care? How do people who like Collins feel when you speak contemptuously of him? Were it a right wing politician you were lambasting I’d say: go for it. But this serves no purpose. I don’t get it. People treat musicians they don’t like as if they’re war criminals. Bizarre.

Before wrapping this up I’ll return to my original point with this observation: I’m not the first to point out that the hatred (and it was hatred) that emerged in the Seventies towards disco was beyond strange. There is good scholarship and contemporary commentary arguing that portions of the disco backlash were entangled with racism and homophobia, particularly because disco culture was strongly associated with Black, Latino and gay communities. 

Full disclosure: I loved disco. Going to a club and dancing to music that was — imagine the concept — perfectly suited to dancing, was one helluva lot of fun.

A successful white artist of the time named Bob Seger had a popular song which included the following lyrics: 

I like that old time rock 'n' roll

Don't try to take me to a disco

You'll never even get me out on the floor

Guess what, Bob, no one wants your grouchy old white ass on this floor.

Imagine having to express your disdain for a highly popular and totally harmless musical form in a damn song. Imagine that so many people liked it.

Was it racist? Not liking the same music that our African American brothers and sisters is not racist, it’s a matter of different tastes from different cultures. Ridiculing it? Looking down your nose at people who like it? When the thing you're ridiculing is a sound, voice or style closely identified with people unlike yourself, are you quite sure you're only making fun of the music?

Postscript: As I was writing this post I was listening to The Isley Brothers. I can picture some of the people I've known in my life who would make a snide comment about them. Their loss.

Meeting the Beatles, A World of Intoxicating Sensations (A Short Story)

Cordelia and I weren’t sure what to make of a musical phenomenon called The Beatles that our classmates were all atwitter about. Her exposure to music had been through Mr. McKenzie’s classical music collection while I’d been subjected to my parents’ love of bland male crooners who I believed existed to make people somnolent and bored. Peggy and Jim both collected rock and roll .45s which inspired me to do little more than tap my toes. I’d also been exposed to jazz, which I found too frenetic, and folk music which I thought too preachy. The absence of music in my life felt troubling as if I was missing something essential. Maybe The Beatles could fill the void.  Cordelia and I promised one another we’d watch the group's American television debut on February ninth. My family always watched the Ed Sullivan Show, so I didn’t have to engage in negotiations over TV rights as I sometimes did on those rare occasions when there was something I wanted to watch. 

There was talk at dinner about the English rock and rollers. “I want to see what the big deal is. I’ve liked it when I’ve heard them on the radio,” Peggy said. 

“I hear they make a real racket,” Jim added sourly.

“I imagine they’re a passing fad,” mother said as if that were the definitive word on the subject.

When The Beatles were introduced my mother immediately complained about the girls in the audience screaming. “How are they going to hear them sing if they keep screaming? What’s the point?” Jim burst into laughter at the first close of the group. “Look at that hair, they look like monkeys.” I wanted to scream at everyone to shut up but the room grew quiet anyway.

I was mesmerized. I’d never heard anything like The Beatles. Music had never moved me. Rhythm. Percussion. Those fascinating voices. They were interesting, coordinated and made me want to get up and move. I wasn’t listening to music, I was feeling it. It was lifting my — oh-look-what-I-found — soul, and consciousness, to a place I hadn’t known.

Transcendent.

But as if to snap me instantly back into reality, my mother was typically dismissive. “Just a lot of noise, if you ask me. A noisy passing fad. Don’t you think so, dear?” She asked my father.

Dad was loathe to contradict my mother on anything, particularly matters about which he held no strong opinions. “That’s for sure, hon,” he nodded after taking a swig of cognac.

Jim tossed in his unwanted two cents: “Pfft, give me the Everly Brothers or Bobby Vinton any day of the week. At least you can understand what they’re saying.”

“I think they’re kinna cute,” Peggy interjected, “I like their music.”

“Ahh, you’re crazy.” Jim said.

“What about you, David? Did you, my level-headed younger son, like them?” My mother asked.

All I wanted in the world was to hear more and re-live the reverie of their first set. I most definitely didn’t want to share my thoughts with Mom, so hoped it would suffice if I merely said, “yeah, I did.

“You would!” Jim said plunking me on the head with a pillow. He then announced he was going to study for a chemistry test. When he left the room, I felt like leaping for joy.

I sat transfixed during The Beatles’ second set. I’d fallen in love twice within a few months. First with Cordelia, now with The Beatles discovering the magic of two things I’d previously only had a passing familiarity with: girls and music.

When the show ended Peggy announced that she was a fan.

“And you, David, are you a fan as well?” Mother asked.

“Yup,” was the extent of my response as I headed for my bedroom.

“Well, I don’t understand it.”

You wouldn’t, I thought. 

The next day school dragged interminably. All I could think about was The Beatles and seeing Cordelia after school. I worried that perhaps someway, somehow she wouldn’t share my feelings toward these magical musicians. If she didn’t like them, would that do irreparable damage to our relationship?

The school day’s final bell sent me into the fastest sprint I’d ever run. I made the two blocks to Grove Street in less than a minute. Instead of stopping at home first, I continued my mad dash to McKenzie’s, only slowing down when I got within a block, to avoid arriving out of breath. Cordelia’s school got out fifteen minutes earlier than mine so she’d only just arrived. She was still deconstructing her school day with Mr. McKenzie when I walked into the bookstore.

“Goodness, me, did you leave early today?” Mr. McKenzie asked.

“Hi, Mr. McKenzie, hello Cordelia. No, I didn’t stop at home first.”

I joined my friends behind the counter. After a bit of idle chatter Cordelia led me upstairs. She poured us each a glass of apple juice.

“Well? What did you think?” I asked nervously.

“If you mean about The Beatles, I thought they were fantastic!”

Overcome with joy and relief I spontaneously hugged Cordelia.

“You’re wonderful!” I exclaimed.

We immediately went to a downtown record store where we each bought The Beatles’ first album.

Within an hour we were back at Cordelia’s house listening to Meet the Beatles. 

While listening the second time, Cordelia suggested we dance.

“But I’ve never danced before, I don’t know how.”

“It’s easy, silly, the music will tell your body what to do.”

This made no sense to me but, obligingly, I stood.

“Close your eyes and feel the music,” Cordelia suggested.

My hips started swaying, then my arms moved in rhythm to the music. First tentatively then freely, I moved my legs. I opened my eyes. Cordelia’s movements were similar to mine. She smiled at me.

I’d stopped thinking, and was reacting, my body movements in tune with the songs. Finally Cordelia took my hands.

“Let’s try to mix what we’re doing with traditional dancing.”

“I’ve never done any traditional dancing.”

“It’s not going to matter.”

She was right.

The parallel dancing had been great fun, but dancing in coordination with another person — especially Cordelia — created another world of intoxicating sensations. 

I felt free, uninhibited and at a total remove from any cares or concerns. But I also felt as one with another person. More than hand-holding, more than sitting together, more even than our first tentative kisses, dancing with Cordelia, especially to this entrancing music, made me feel connected to her.

We melded together and ascended to the heavens. When we finally separated I had the momentary sensation that half my body had been removed. But more than that I was overcome with the sense that I was well and truly in love. It was excruciating to leave her that day. I walked home still intoxicated by her smell, her looks, her touch and the sound of her voice. I was also buoyed by a new aural sensation: the sound of the Beatles. They’d elevated our love, animating it, giving it tempo and cadence.

I glided into the house unconcerned by Peggy’s surliness, Jim’s arrogance and the great distance that existed between my parents and I.

The Smart Ass Blogger Again Takes on Popular Song Lyrics

Both the Mamas and the Papas are her pictured

Regular readers (I’m looking at you Philo Von Blitzen of Thermopolis, Wyoming) may recall that in a recent post I took a few singers to task for from some of their song lyrics. Well today I’m dedicating an entire post to the subject and by god if you don’t like it you can do what everyone else does and ignore it. That said, I hope you don’t. 

I was listening to the Mama and the Papa’s song Monday, Monday which reached number seven on the year-end charts for 1967. Talk about emo. Dig this line: 

Every other day (every other day)

Every other day

Every other day of the week is fine, yeah

But whenever Monday comes (but whenever Monday comes)

But whenever Monday comes

You can find me cryin′ all of the time

Seriously pal? You cry all day Monday? You’re in need of a therapist. Imagine spending all of one day of the week crying. Get a grip. And you're what, a successful singer? What the hell does Monday mean to you? You're not getting up and going to a factory or pouring concrete. You singers can sleep in. 

Speaking of silly lyrics. What about the song, Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is? From the group Chicago which hit number five in 1971.

As I was walking down the street one day

A man came up to me and asked me

What the time was that was on my watch

Yeah, and I said

does anybody really know what time it is?

(Care) does anybody really care?

(About time) you know, I can't imagine why

(Oh no, no) we've all got time enough to cry

First of all the man asked, “what is the time that is on your watch?” Not, “say, buddy, you got the time?” What a weird way to ask a question. But more importantly rather than tell him you went into this whole philosophical tirade about time concluding with, “we’ve all got time enough to cry.” Maybe the guy had a doctor’s appointment and was worried about being late, or had to pick up his kid from daycare or had a meeting at work and you lay this heavy number on him. Next in the song a “pretty lady” says her diamond watch had “stopped cold dead” so she wondered if he had the time. Again he goes into his riff about who cares about time. The lesson: whatever you do don’t ask this guy for the time.

But let’s go back further in time to a song written in 1932 by Victor Young and popularized by Frank Sinatra. Street of Dreams is lovely song but check this section of the song out:

Gold, silver and gold

All you can hold's up there on a moonbeam

Poor, there ain't nobody poor

Long as love is sure on the street of dreams

Okay so we’ve got gold, silver and what else? Gold again. I don’t get it. Why wasn’t there a third different element or why not just say “gold and silver” if there was no third item?

The rest of the song is beautiful. But that line has always bothered me. How about diamonds, sapphire even copper, anything but repeating gold.

Let’s go back to the Sixties for a song that Rolling Stone magazine once named the greatest rock song of all time. I refer to Bob Dylan’s Like a Rolling Stone from 1965. One of the most revered songs in Dylan’ ouvré. There are no silly lyrics here. But what is the song about? Kicking a woman while she’s down is what. Here’s the beginning of the song:

Once upon a time you dressed so fine

Threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you?

People call say 'beware doll, you're bound to fall'

You thought they were all kidding you

You used to laugh about

Everybody that was hanging out

Now you don't talk so loud

Now you don't seem so proud

About having to be scrounging your next meal

The song continues along this vein. Dude, give the woman a break. What are the circumstances of her fall? Why taunt her? These lyrics are borderline misogynistic. Maybe you could give her a hand instead of reminding her she's fallen on hard times. Downright cruel.

But let’s conclude with the really stupid. One of the dumbest popular songs of all times comes — not surprisingly — from the world of country and western music. I refer to a gentleman named Charlie Rich who in 1973 had a song that topped both the C&W and Easy Listening charts. It was called, The Most Beautiful Girl and included these ridiculous lyrics:

Hey, did you happen to see

The most beautiful girl in the world?

And if you did, was she crying, crying?

Imagine the possible responses to that. Such as:

I saw a beautiful girl but I don’t know if she was the most beautiful in the world. Could that be her? As a matter of fact I did see. a woman crying but she wasn’t anywhere near the most beautiful in the world. Yeah I saw her but she wasn’t crying, she was glad to be shed of you.

Later in the song he asks that if one does see her to let her know he’s sorry and that he needs her. Find her yourself. Sheesh, some people.

Rich had another unintentional knee slapper called, Behind Closed Doors. It also hit number one on the C&W charts which tells you all you need to know about the people who listen to country and western music.

Here are a few lines:

Cause when we get behind closed doors

Then she lets her hair hang down

And she makes me glad I'm a man

Oh, no one knows what goes on behind closed doors

Yeah we know exactly what goes on behind closed doors. You two get it on. Maybe we don’t know the details but here’s the thing: we don’t want to. Why? Because we don’t care. In fact, for all we know when you get behind closed doors maybe you can’t get it up and you both lay there frustrated. Also, she makes you glad that you’re a man? Don’t you make her glad that she’s a woman? 

I’m sure Mr. Rich had many other popular songs with silly lyrics but these are the ones I was occasionally exposed to in my youth. Poor guy. More to the point, poor listeners.

Here’s a bonus one before I go (go where?). Also from 1973 (what a great year for bad music) and also a top charter. Written and performed by Tom T. Hall. It was called, I Love.

I love little baby ducks, old pick-up trucks

Slow movin' trains and rain

I love little country streams, sleep without dreams

Sunday school in May and hay

I’m with you on the ducks, trains, rain, country streams, not a big fan of hay, don’t like Sunday school and don’t care for pick-up trucks. But what bothers me here is liking sleep without dreams. What kind of mind doesn’t welcome dreams? They’re great fun and interesting to analyze. I’m quite frustrated if I wake up unable to remember any of my dreams and you don’t want ‘em? As if.

A Blog Post in Three Sections: Complaints, Trumpy and Music

Joan Baez supporting Dixie in song

COMPLAINTS

Nothing is “out of order” anymore. Instead a broken machine is “scheduled for service.” I see this at my gym all the time. I believe the idea is that “scheduled for service” indicates: we know there’s a problem with this stair master and we’re on it. Whereas “out of order” suggests nothing of the kind. It’s more like saying, “this is broke so don’t use it.” I have a suspicion that whoever came up with the idea of replacing “out of order” signs with those that say “scheduled for service” got paid a bundle of money. They don't deserve a dime. More euphemistic bullshit.

When I go to Hulu — a popular streaming service — after I click on my account — distinct from those of my wife and daughters — I’m told to wait a moment while they “gather what’s new.” What kind of bullshit is this? Am I really supposed to imagine that, having seen that I want to access my account, that there are now living, breathing people scrambling to “gather” all their new programming so they can present it to me once I’m logged in? Utter nonsense. Especially if I just logged on a few minutes before  but accidentally exited. Ninety-nine percent of the time I’m not interested in anything new and just want to watch the same old crap you've had on the service for months if not years. "Gathering what's new." What manner of idiot do they take us for?

Met younger daughter for lunch yesterday. The conversation and the meal were excellent. But what I didn't like was that there was no waiter or waitress. Okay so there was a person who told us there was no waiter or waitress and there was a person who brought our food and beverages but we ordered by entering a QR(?) code. What's up with that? I like a human being to come to my table who I can be friendly and polite with and tell what I'd like. I then enjoy giving a tip commensurate with their service. Is that so old fashioned? And speaking of tipping....Do we really have to tip a person when we order to go? Even for a lousy cup of coffee? I have mixed feelings about being given tip choices. Let me sort it out on my own. I'm a big boy I can figure out how much the tip should be and by the way I'm generally quite generous.

THE PREZ

I see where Trumpy is complaining that the Smithsonian focuses too much on how bad slavery was. Fair point. Why not look at the positive aspects of slavery such as…. I’ll have to get back to you on that. Here’s the full quote from the bumbling-idiot-in-chief: “The Smithsonian is OUT OF CONTROL, where everything discussed is how horrible our Country is, how bad Slavery was, and how unaccomplished the downtrodden have been — Nothing about Success, nothing about Brightness, nothing about the Future,This Country cannot be WOKE, because WOKE IS BROKE. We have the ‘HOTTEST’ Country in the World, and we want people to talk about it, including in our Museums.”

I’m curious about “how unaccomplished the downtrodden have been.” Does he want a closer look at the many achievements of downtrodden Americans? Maybe a special wing of the museum focusing on the many successes of the downtrodden. We’re all tired of hearing about how downtrodden the downtrodden are. After all, aren’t many of them uptrodden now? The U.S., he whines, is the "HOTTEST" country in the world (it's crazy the way he goes all caps sometimes with random words). Hottest in what respect? Are we trending? Is our popularity skyrocketing (quite the opposite). Maybe he's referring to global warming. Maybe's he means hot as in the way beautiful women and men are described. Maybe he doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about (never does).

MUSIC DEPARTMENT

I don’t get it. I’m talking about Joan Baez singing The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down which I’m listening to as I write these words. The song is the first person narrative of a man (Baez was a woman when she recorded the song and remains one today, far as I know). On top of that the narrator is a southerner at the end of the Civil War who, like his father “took a rebel stand.” That is to stay he supported the formation of the Confederate States of American a country that would have enshrined slavery into its constitution. The song was originally recorded by The Band but Baez made a hit of it in 1971. In doing a little research I note that there has been some criticism of the song and its tacit celebration of the Lost Cause but not until this century. Should have been a helluva lot of blowback from the get go if folks were paying attention.. 

There was a very popular song in the seventies called A Horse With No Name from a group named America. Here’s a line from the song: “There were plants and birds and rocks and things.” Things? What “things”? That’s pretty weak. Perhaps worse was this line: “The heat was hot, and the ground was dry.” So you say the heat was hot? Such poetry. Course if you’re stoned while listening to it — and evidently they were stoned while writing it — what do you care?

In a lot of songs singers demand that someone not waste their “precious time.” Bob Dylan in Don’t Think Twice it’s All Right sang this: "You could've done better but I don't mind. You just kinda wasted my precious time.” Then there was Brittney Spears in the song Wannabe: "Now don't go wasting my precious time. Get your act together we could be just fine.” Van Morrison even had a song called Precious Time that opens as follows: “Precious time is slipping away. But you're only king for a day. It doesn't matter to which God you pray. Precious time is slipping away.” Tot top it off last year there was a song called Wasting My Precious Time by someone called Cameron Reid which starts like this: “Boy you wasting my precious time. I thought I would be the one.” I suppose since our time on this planet is finite one can look at every second they live as precious. But it still seems an odd thing to say. "My time is precious." Everyone's time is precious, pal. You're no different than anyone else. Get over yourself.

Power to the People, The Impact of the Sixties

Having written a novel set in the Sixties that is very much about that decade it is natural that I might someday be asked how that decade impacted the world of today. I here proceed to answer that question.

One can point to Nixon’s landslide re-election in ’72, the Regan Revolution George W and the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq and finally the Tea Party, Trumpy and MAGA and claim that the Sixties had little political impact. One could claim that the Sixties did more harm than good having caused a massive conservative backlash. But that would be simplistic and wrong.

The Sixties were consequential in positive ways.

True, us revolutionaries, leftists, hippies and outside agitators had expected to create a modern day Eden in which the US stood for peace and love and equality and social justice. True, we didn’t come close.

But since the Sixties there have also been significant (though not sufficient) gains by previously marginalized groups such as African Americans, women, and the LGBTQ + community. Our language has changed and certain terms and depictions of people have become verboten. (Yes, there has been overreach in this but making certain slurs taboo is a positive step.)

The Sixties practically codified the questioning of authority. Our institutions are under constant scrutiny and people are less likely to swallow the company line. Indeed conversations in general have opened up. There are far less topics that “are simply not talked about.” Sex for example. It is no longer such a stigma to talk about mental illnesses such as depression and anxiety. Religion is less likely to be swallowed whole by the gullible. With the exception of those within the MAGA movement, people’s “feelings” are taken into consideration. Though some trigger warnings seem excessive, people’s hearts are in the right place and we are recognizing the power of words.

People no longer hide from their identity and instead take pride in it. Being African American, Latino, Gay are now celebrated. Where there was once shame there is pride. Black history month, women’s history month, gay pride parades are all nationally — if not universally — recognized.

Most of the changes that came out of the Sixties were cultural. Before the Sixties, men wore their hair short. Since the Sixties all manner of hairstyles are acceptable. The same is true of clothes. Everything under the broad category of fashion and style has been freed.

The Sixties brought us a musical revolution that we’re still bearing the fruits of. From the Sixties came new forms of music such as the various derivations of rock, along with hip hop and rap. The greatest musicians of the Sixties are still popular: The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Neil Young, Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and more.

In the late Sixties there began a revolution in the movies beginning with such films as Bonnie and Clyde and The Graduate. The production code was replaced by the rating systems freeing film makers to create realistic stories that could include sex, nudity, drug use, graphic violence and profanity. The ramifications of these changes was felt with the film revolution of the Seventies. At the same time TV moved away from witches, Jeannies and talking horses and started telling stories that actually reflected the lives of real Americans. 

The Sixties also brought marijuana use out into the open eventually leading to its being legalized in many states. LSD also was experimented with and is today used as a treatment for depression.

What was then called the ecology movement came out of the Sixties quickly leading to Earth Day (the first was in 1970) and a much-needed awareness of the harm humans were doing to the environment. 

The Sixties were not a panacea, indeed there was a lot of violence perpetrated by both the right and the left. But the military-industrial complex was recognized for what it was (is) sadly it continues to prosper at the same time we have a growing class of multibillionaires wielding outsized influence. But the press and citizen groups remain diligent and hope springs eternal for, if not revolution, reform.

Finally it should be acknowledged that the roots of the changes wrought in the Sixties came from preceding decades. Credit goes to the Civil Rights Movement which spawned the protest movements that symbolized the Sixties. Also the beats, specifically Kerouac and Ginsberg who prose and poetry had such a significant cultural influence. So too the rock and roll stars of the fifties — Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Bill Haley and the Comets — who set the tone for The Beatles and others. 

The Sixties were consequential and we owe the free spirits, revolutionaries and visionaries of that decade a great debt.