By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
We have seen, even within the memory span of our youngest readers, the social furor raised over some instances of artistic expression gone awry: the Mapplethorpe photographic exhibitions; the manufacture and sales of allegedly pornographic videotapes and CDs, the topless/bottomless go-go/strip bars that at least keep a substantial number of our citizens off both welfare and the streets, and the poor hapless souls who manage to get themselves caught tickling their privates in public. Am I missing something here? Despite MTV's refusal to present certain tapes for the delectation of its massive prepubescent audience -- as if those kiddies were not already semi-crazed and hairy-handed from far too much self-jollification before this -- the numbers show that neither Madonna nor Michael has suffered in any way from this form of censorship.
So why is it that whole bunches of pumped up, bleached blond, kindergarten dropouts are being threatened with loss of income and perhaps even jail time for doing the same old grind that millionairess screwhead Madonna is doing under the sanction of artistic freedom? Paul Reubens was disgraced in front of the world for performing an act of self-gratification in the privacy of his own seat in a darkened theater. A dumb thing to do, but was it in essence any more immoral or any less an act of creative expression than the comparable groin-scratchings and simulated orgasms of rock's and Hollywood's biggest stars? While our culture has always denigrated word play as a legitimate form of humor, we have simultaneously reveled in broad farce and slapstick.
Once upon a time, way before the Rock Era, probably during the Stone Age, someone must have remarked, upon examining a particular cave drawing, that it was either too abstract, lacking in depth perspective, or, possibly, not expressive enough of the collective psychic energy that went into the hunters' killing of the beast. Whoever that person was, he or she was the first art critic and the progenitor of all commentators to come. After another several thousand years we had a vital, self-generating home industry of critics of all sorts of things, everything from pyramid design to self-adornment and cosmetology, from gladiatorial skills to architecture and etiquette. The first critics of drama arose in ancient Greece, and, tellingly, they came from the educated class, not the peasantry. They were not the type of people for whom personal preference alone determined the quality of a work of art. Rather, they sought to discover and identify the basic characteristics of transcendence in a work and distinguish those from what was merely technically proficient or superficially appealing. And in one way or another, that is what the better of today's critics are still trying to do.
It doesn't really matter whether the medium is film, stage drama, dance, musical performance, literature, or stand-up comedy. What matters is whether the critic is reporting a sincere, well-considered evaluation based on objective analysis, or whether he is just trying to attract attention to himself by being controversial. If it is the latter, then sooner or later he will lose his credibility. But if, over a period of time, his appraisals are proven valid often enough, then his voice will ultimately assume the dimensions of final authority.
The field of jazz criticism is no different from any other exercise of personal opinion in public print. We are all protected by our First Amendment rights, so if I write that I am bored beyond belief by certain types of popular musical entertainment, no one can challenge my right to make that statement. But that is not really criticism. It's not enough to simply voice an opinion. To qualify as legitimate criticism, the writing must also explain why a particular artist or performance is either superior, inferior, or merely commonplace.
There is a basic assumption inherent in the critic's role that goes against the grain of the public. This is the notion that, for one reason or another, the critic has better taste than the reader, who proverbially just knows what he likes and doesn't want to be confused by the facts. We've all read scads of angry letters from readers who would apparently like nothing better than to see the object of their indignation, the critic, editorially restrained from expressing unpopular views or, failing that undemocratic extreme, being tossed out on his ear. What could possibly be more upsetting than to have some pompous, arrogant elitist imply time and again that his taste, by virtue of his greater experience and training, is superior in terms of refinement to that of the masses?