Customer Reviews

A Whore Just Like The Rest: The Music Writings Of Richard Meltzer

5 star:		(7)
4 star:		(1)
3 star:		(1)
2 star:		(1)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

Very funny book, I laughed almost all the way through. Richard Meltzer is good on Connie Francis' "Grandes Exitos del Cine de los Años 60" his review of which I can't imagine any editor turning down. Meltzer is the perfect antidote to all rock and roll pieties and his writing helped me to re-appreciate Love, Moby Grape, the Beach Boys. Great piece as well on Lawrence Welk Hotel and Resort. Who else would say of Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring" that it isn't "a tenth as rhythmically interesting--let alone exciting--as the first three bars of 'West End Blues' by Louis Armstrong"? Or: "That's what 'rock history' is: collective bad memory"? As many readers have commented, his writing got better over the years but I still like his early stuff--actually read "The Aesthetics of Rock" and like it even though not one of my friends I lent it to ever managed to read it. Oh well, there is that great picture of the Dave Clark Five contemplating the immensity of New York with Meltzer's comment: "Vastly susceptible, the Dave Clark Five is just generally baffled as well as baffling, as exemplified by this captioned photograph:" Generally baffled, baffling, this is some of the best music writing ever, right up there with Tosches' "Unsung Heroes of Rock and Roll."

Make no mistake: this is a Richard Meltzer anthology, not an anthology of music writing. It's a funny and fine autobiography, produced piecemeal through the various obscure journals that indulged Meltzer over the years.

As for music, there doesn't seem to be anyone Meltzer even remotely likes, except for Jim Morrison, and I wish Meltzer had a less embarassing idol than that "crooner in the rock mileau." Also, I was annoyed with Meltzer's potshots at music writers who became bigger than he did, specifically, Bangs and Christgau. He did it before Bangs, Meltzer reminds the reader, as if Bangs didn't do it better. As for his criticism of Christgau, it's strange, to say the least, for Meltzer, who makes a point of NOT listening to anything he reviews, to accuse the Village Voice reviewer of not listening hard enough. Huh?

Still, a fun book.

OK, so this book is not for everybody. In fact, it's not for me, and it's certainly not for you! All of the articles in this anthology were written for no one but Dick Meltzer. The rock reviews won't help you decide on your next album purchase in the slightest (there may be more pages devoted to pro wrestling than to music), and the "autobiographical" bits don't make Dick sound like the kind of guy you'd like to meet, or even an interesting person. And yes, no matter what Dick says, Lester Bangs was a better writer (better than Keroac, too).

But you shouldn't let any of that stop you from reading this. It's better than Dick's lame "Aesthetics of Rock" and it makes "Gulcher" unneccessary. Yes, you need to know the skinny on Dick's Beef with the Blue Oyster Cult. Yes, you need to know how little he remembers from his college philosophy courses. Why would you want to read a book of articles that you agree with?

This is stimulating, if petulant, material that you'll want to read from cover to cover, especially if you keep it in the john like I did. I don't think Dick would mind my saying that.

Rock and read on!

When my sister asked me for Christmas gift ideas a little more than a year ago, she mentioned possibly getting me a couple of grammar and style books to befit the Journalism degree that I was about to receive, as well as my own still-budding -- "stillborn" -- future as a writer. I thought about it long enough to realize that this book here, even based on the title alone, probably reflected journalism and writing much more realistically than anything that Strunk & White had to say going on a century ago, so I suggested it to her. Well, she got it for me off here, but it still came bundled with those damn grammar books, which made for an odd pairing, indeed, to say the least.

For one thing, "A Whore Just Like the Rest" doesn't really flout the rules of standard English as much as it simply NEGATES them altogether -- as the product of some hotter, looser realm. It pretty much does that with standard rock criticism, too. The only differences are that, by his own admission, Richard Meltzer practically gave birth to that beast and regularly produced his share of bastard offspring with it. In contrast, many of those who've followed his path -- "all the way to the bank," as it were -- probably still can't acknowledge that Bastardization was only the first milepost that they faced.

That is to say, Richard Meltzer is probably one rock critic you'll never see as a talking head on VH1. (Hell, how many OTHER Baby Boomers do you know who were more shaken by Darby Crash's death than by John Lennon's?) The roughly 30 years of work anthologized in this book includes windy, philosophical treatises that you'd probably need a Master's degree (or a good joint) to decipher; record company junket write-ups that focus more on the available food, booze, sex and drugs than on whatever musical act was supposed to be getting hyped; reviews of sub-cutout-bin-caliber LPs that Meltzer never bothered to open -- much less play -- and described, at best, from the sleeve artwork and song titles; and latter-day pieces in which the ghost of rock criticism is given up entirely, in favor of such diverse subject matter as wrestling, classical music, jazz, Lawrence Welk, piano bars and adult video stores (in the same piece), MTV (as something "worse than heroin" -- this is in 1983) and the L.A. Riots.

Granted, some of this stuff is as off-the-wall as it sounds, and some of it is a great deal more so. But there are also some pieces that serve as both priceless glimpses and brutal demystifications of, among other things, the '60s, the New York pre-new-wave and L.A. pre-hardcore scenes and Lester Bangs. (The two were companions as dysfunctional as they were sincere, and Lester gets a sordid chapter of his own sandwiched between "Punk" and the intriguingly-titled "Weddings, Breasts and Dirty Clothes.") It also goes without saying that most of Meltzer's stuff is as funny and a blast to partake in as a drunken conversation at a good dive show.

Of course, there's also a swath of darkness that runs through the core of the book from the second paragraph of the introduction onward. Meltzer's an old man now (he turns 57 this year, I think) and feels alarmingly strongly that he's about to check out. Lester Bangs, who acknowledged Meltzer as one of his only real literary influences, still hogs the spotlight from him even in death. And while many other rock critics have gone on to command six-figure salaries and almost-professorial respect in the mainstream, Meltzer's often relegated to banging out concert listing blurbs in the "San Diego Reader" for a paycheck that can't even buy a good seat at a U2 concert now. (Not that it matters.) But, then again, some of Meltzer's most uncompromising work has come dripping with rage. His take on the L.A. Riots is filled with such real vitriol for the police, the government and the white hierarchy in general that it makes "The White Noise Supremacists" sound like a quiet plea of resignation for people to be a bit nicer to each other at shows. And around the time of "Almost Famous," a friend of mine from San Diego mailed me one of Meltzer's cover stories that deconstructed -- as in DISEMBOWELED -- Cameron Crowe and the whole "Rolling Stone" School of Rock Criticism. (That one won an award, I think.)

So, who should read this book? Well, on the journalism/writing side, those who just take their work too damn seriously, those who are pretty sure that it won't get them anywhere and those who repeatedly must "whore" themselves. (That should be just about every J-school grad of the past two or three years, I reckon.) Besides that, though, this book is a great choice for anyone who enjoys blasting loud music on their speakers while high on, if nothing else, adrenaline.

For the uninitiated, Richard Meltzer is one of the most fearless, insightful, hysterically funny people to ever take up a pen. In this collection of short pieces, he merrily takes on (and in the process, deconstructs) the punk rock scenes of New York and LA; the late, lamented Lester Bangs, and a host of other topics, all of which are given the full Meltzer treatment. Provocative, brilliant and hilarious.

Joe Carducci and Byron Coley are better interpreters of rock music. Lester Bangs was certainly a better writer. If you're looking for good rock writing/good rock interpretation you're not going to find it here, Blue Oyster Cult lyrics or no BOC lyrics.

Meltzer's consistently ambivalent position about what he was doing, married to some rather bogus notions about what rock music actually is (I suspect he's the prime founder of the "rock music is attitude" school) make the first half of the book incredibly annoying, as well as a real chore to get through. Meltzer seemed to interpret rock writing as basically license to get away with as much as possible -- as such you can't rely on his work for anything except a glimpse into his skull. I find it amusing that he consistently cracks on Robert Christgau -- I'm no fan of Christgau's myself, but strip away the stylistic quirks and the two men have much in common (both men are former "angry young rebels" who've become crusty old fuddy-duddys; both men are more interested in the surfaces being presented than the music beneath them; both men have ultimately very conventional outlooks lurking underneath the bohemianism).

I'm giving this three stars, though. For one thing, Meltzer's pieces have become legendary, and it's damn nice to have such a representative selection available. For another, Meltzer did improve as a writer, and the second half of the book is far superior to the first. Meltzer is quite interesting on jazz music -- I would have liked to have seen more of that sort of thing. (I remember he published some jazz reviews in Forced Exposure.)

Final verdict? If you're "hip" enough to know who Richard Meltzer is, you'll probably want this volume. There are good things to be found here, just less than I'd hoped.

Well, here's something new: a music critic who doesn't like music -- kind of makes me want to go to this year's National Embroidery Festival and write 50,000 words on it just for kicks. In truth, Meltzer's a lightweight bore. I'm sure in 1966 (or whenever he started writing about rock music, I forget exactly when it was and the thought of flipping back through this lame, vindictive volume again to check my facts fills me with dread) his stuff was "interesting" -- maybe even "shocking" -- but now it all sounds dated, disingenuous, and dumb. (Hey! That last line, with all the alliteration, was pretty good -- maybe I'll send it into CREEM magazine.....naw, Christgau will hate it.)

I first read R. meltzer when he was doing phony horiscopes for a Philly hippie rag called The Drummer in the early 70's. I then continued to read his writing in the various music magazines of the day. His writing stood out for it's humor and honesty. If nothing else, R. Meltzer is totally honest, the title of the book says it all. R. Meltzer was around at the birth of Detroit Punk, New York Punk, and LA Punk. He gives you a first hand eye witness account. His writing in the LA Reader in the early eighties was the only thing that kept me sane during that time and place. All this and more is in this collection. You have not lived untill you read the writings in this book.

On the cover of the book sits a review by a fellow from the Los Angelas Reader. It simply states, "Meltzer is a writer who will hook you like a drug." Unbelieving at first, I scoffed at the notion of a book having such a power over a person. Two pages into it, I was officially a Meltzer junkie. As I turned the last page, I realized it was time for my family to ship me off to rehab. For an unbiast, cynical, sarcastic and all-around brilliant look at the music and events that shaped our culture, read Meltzer.

Tanya Tucker's sandwich. Flinging mac salad at the dude from the New York Dolls. Comparing Springsteen to the Fonz. "Redd Foxx Gets off the Pot" with its justly famous last line "(Tastes rather like beef Redd and the texture sure beats sushi!)".