“Since its arrival in March, The Talkhouse has managed to produce more interesting journalism pieces than nearly every other publication because there are no real journalists or critics — who often approach the task of reviewing an album as an exercise in literary solipsism — on staff.” —Dean Essner
It shouldn’t take reading more than a few paragraphs in any recent review from Pitchfork’s pompous writer-editor Ian Cohen to realize music journalism’s fundamental problem: narcissism.
Reviews have become a platform for critics to practice and experiment with rhetoric, often at the expense of making any cohesive statement about the music. Even worse, in forgetting to take a specific stance, which many writers do after getting caught up in the intricacies of their prose, they have no choice but to haphazardly issue an absolutist rating. A sample piece might read something like this:
It’s brilliant. It’s oh so brilliant. You have no idea of its brilliance. Now chew on that verdict as I spoon-feed you some flowery descriptions of my childhood vegetable garden.
Music website The Talkhouse — where artists, not critics, review and discuss new albums — is a welcome respite from sensationalized music journalism; it cuts out the narcissistic baggage of the critic and replaces it with the humbleness of the musician. Musicians live for the art itself, not the scaling of it. If a Talkhouse contributor wants to talk about his childhood vegetable garden, you can be sure it’s in the spirit of analysis and not because it’s an easy, heavy-handed metaphor to wield.
Another key aspect of The Talkhouse’s writing is honesty. In the late Lou Reed’s review of Kanye West’s Yeezus, Reed wasn’t interested in refining his reactions for the good of flashy prose.
“But why he starts the album off with that typical synth buzzsaw sound is beyond me, but what a sound it is, all gussied up and processed,” he wrote. “I can’t figure out why he would do that. It’s like farting. It’s another dare — I dare you to like this. Very perverse.”
Here, you’re getting Reed’s unfiltered thoughts about the record, which he writes in a stream-of-consciousness style that almost suggests he’s live-blogging his listening experience. Does this piece make him look like a brilliant writer who cares about the placement of every word? No. But, the focus of the review remains squarely on the music.
Also in this vein is Annie Clark (St. Vincent)’s review of Arcade Fire’s Reflektor, written as a chronicle of her Google searches while listening to the record. Then, to sum up her stylistic decision, she says, “The Arcade Fire have released an album that elucidates our constant psychic vacillation between uber-connection and utter disconnection. They ask you to be aware of your fractured attention span/psyche/in touch with your humanity.”
Like Reed, Clark’s interest lies in channeling the ethos of the music. In terms of form, it’s abstract and seemingly pretentious. But she is in no way exploiting Arcade Fire’s album to practice her own, unrelated critical thinking and writing. Instead, the usage of Google searches highlights a discussion of “uber-connection and utter disconnection.” This is her study of the record. And like it or not, it’s thought-provoking.
Since its arrival in March, The Talkhouse has managed to produce more interesting journalism pieces than nearly every other publication because there are no real journalists or critics — who often approach the task of reviewing an album as an exercise in literary solipsism — on staff.
It’s no secret that the most curmudgeonly music critics wish they were artists themselves, which is why simple reviews can spiral into knotty, unreadable writing exercises.
If Ian Cohen really wants to build something, he should try a vegetable garden.
