Wednesday, July 02, 2003
I hate music writing. Journalism. Writers. I hate it. I hate having to read it, I hate having to do it. It's an evil. A necessary evil perhaps, but an evil nonetheless. What is it? Why? I am compelled to do it because of... sins in a past life? Psychological weakness? I'm sure I'd be much happier if I didn't have to do this. You get no thanks, no nothing. Is it satisfying? No... What's it for? All these people who want to be Baudrillard or Borges or Burchill (god forbid)... Why? Why on earth would you want that? And why on earth would you see writing about music as the way to do it? All I want you to do is tell me what's going to soar my (non-existant) soul... Tell me how, tell me why... This is not the terrain of the romantic spirit... This is not the terrain of people who move through life as if through silken air... This is not the place for love and life and endless skies...
I hate it. And yet last night I was actually, briefly and strangely, reduced to tears by a piece of writing about music. What piece? What example of a medium, a form, that I hate, could reduce me to tears?
Ralph J. Gleason's liner notes to Bitches Brew.
Ridiculous, I know. I'll see if I can find them online somewhere, and copy&paste them into here so you can read them too.
7/02/2003 10:08:00 am