“Face it,” challenges Eleganzophobe John Leavy of Astoria, New York, “people who’ll say they like Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska must lie about other things too.

“I’ll give you an example of why I hold your profession in contempt,” he writes, betraying a shocking misperception of Eleganza as rock, rather than social, criticism. He goes on to note that in his New York Times review of the videotape Asia In Asia, Stephen Holden first wrongly identified the group’s singer as John Wetton (rather than the unmistakably tubbier Greg Lake), and then described the song “Don’t Cry” as one of the concert’s high points—even though the group never played it!

“You probably detest ‘corporate rock,”’ The Leav quite correctly presumes, “and don’t see the harm in what Holden did. You figure, ‘People who like Asia will ignore him. They always do.’ But in that case, why should readers listen to Holden when he raves about Elvis Costello, Lou Reed, Laurie Anderson and all the other usual critics’ favorites? How do I know he really listened to R.E.M.’s latest record?”

Well, let me say at the outset that you’ve asked the right person. I’ve been writing about rock ’n’ roll longer, often to my limitless chagrin, than many of you have been alive, and much less long than others of you. I’ve seen it all and done most of it. I’ve been given a huge bag of primo shit backstage in Las Vegas by Ike Turner. Greeted David Bowie, wearing a dress and makeup, at an international airport. Sipped java with Adam Ant. Been threatened from the stage of the Anaheim Convention Center by Led Zeppelin. Helped Ian Dury off a stage. Exploited the hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Greil Marcus and taken potshots in print at Dave Marsh. Been humiliated at tennis by Pretenders producer Chris Thomas, and humiliated John Cale. Watched Robin Trower read an Agatha Christie mystery on an Ozark Airlines jetliner. Begrudged Iggy Pop a cigarette. Dropped names. Carried a torch for Capitol Records’ West Coast head of publicity. Munched chick peas and hobnobbed with homosexual tastemakers at Max’s Kansas City with Lisa Robinson. Been complimented on my attire by Jimi Hendrix.

I’ve performed in makeup and pink hot pants on local television. Been ignored by Foghat groupies and Billy Altman and Spin, ridiculed by David Lee Roth. Stolen cans of chilled beer from Alice Cooper’s dressing room in view of brawny roadies. Ridden in Pete Townshend’s chauffeured automobile years after deciding not to steal his unguarded gold sequin stage jacket from the Who’s Winterland dressing room. Giggled appreciatively while Ray Davies phoned Zippy the Chimp. Written a book about Ray Davies and other Kinks that he’s condemned in no uncertain terms. Affixed chewing gum, in a fit of pique, to the forehead of noted Doors co-biographer and poet Danny Sugerman. Caused Neil Young and Rolling Stone to cease to be on speaking terms. Watched television with Mick Jagger, glimpsed a former member of Jethro Tull in his jockey shorts, and been sneered at, because of my long hair and American accent, by the Clash. Been mistaken for Freddie Mercury. Nearly had one of my songs covered by the Paley Bros., whoever they are. Harmonized, while drunk, with Al (“Year Of The Cat”) Stewart, and regretted it later. I know whereof I speak.

TURN TO PAGE 56

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 34

Most rock criticism (like most movie criticism) is worse than worthless, has nothing to do with anything but its perpetrators’ yearning for easy money and attention, is written by parasites with neither a clue as to what they’re talking about nor the ability to talk about it in a way that’s fun to read.

Because music’s an emotional, rather than an intellectual, medium, rock criticism should be relied on no farther than you could throw Greg Lake if he were tied to John Wetton. You don’t need a rock critic to tell you if a record touches or excites you, or fails to. Bruce Springsteen’s “Dancing In The Dark” makes me, who has seen it all and done most of it for longer than many of you’ve been alive, tingle. If it makes you yawn, is it because your tastes aren’t as sophisticated as mine, or because you’re not as knowledgeable? Who cares, when any emotional response is as legitimate as any other? Consider that I’m entirely unashamed to admit that, the trillions of ecstatic reviews it’s received notwithstanding,

I myself continue to find the music of X, for example, unlistenable. I’m unashamed never to have been able to fathom Lou Reed’s appeal. I’ve always thought Tom Petty sounded as though he’d been made up by Stan Freberg, and unrepentantly.

The key notion here is that music criticism is fundamentally futile because it necessarily tries to discuss emotional responses in intellectual terms.

Let’s consider another example. I regard Greil Marcus’s chapter on punk rock in Rolling Stone’s Illustrated History Of Rock And Roll, specifically the part about the Sex Pistols’ “Pretty Vacant,” as some of the best writingabout-rock I’ve ever encountered. It, in fact, makes me tingle. And yet, on my own list of fave Pistols hits, “Vacant” ranks well below many that presumably didn’t excite Greil at all. Is he at fault, or am I? Again, nobody’s at fault.

Similarly, I regard J.D. Considine as the most musically perceptive rock critic at work today, while I’ve long disdained The Los Angeles Times' Robert Hilburn, to name but one member of what let’s call English Teacher School of rock criticism—that which virtually ignores music (or, at best, mumbles inanities about its “textures”) and instead talks endlessly about lyrics. And yet, it wouldn’t perplex me in the slightest to learn that Bob and I both adored something that Considine loathed, or vice versa.

In my own perception, the best rock critics are those who write most entertainingly, content be farted at. But most, like The San Francisco Chronicle’s Joel Selvin, whose stuff is both literarily inert and littered with such imbecilic pronouncements as that Phil Collins’s voice is “squeaky” or that Paul Kantner (clearly the worst songwriter in rock) is an estimable artist, make it on neither count.

For the record, I know I haven’t even addressed John Leavy’s question yet, let alone answered it. But before I continue not to do so, I’d like to offer a couple more observations. The first is that rock critics are almost invariably hostile to technique, that which lots of audiences find most exciting. That Toto, say, or, better yet, Asia play their instruments extraordinarily skillfully serves only to antagonize the average rock critic, even while it thrills the average audience. (I admit to the same bias— acknowledging, as I do so, that it probably has much to do with my own musical powers of conception having always far surpassed my powers of execution.) But where is it written in stone that Lou Reed, of the incompetently expressed idiosyncratic vision, is artistically (wince!) superior to, say, Foreigner’s Mick Jones, of the flawlessly expressed, but utterly prosaic vision? Nowhere is where, and you have no reason to be ashamed for being made to tingle by “I Want To Know What Love Is,” to squirm by The Blue Mask. Your visceral responses are every bit as legitimate as Robert Christgau’s, Jay Cocks’s and Joe Fernbacher’s. Let no one tell you different. . g