By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
I think Kanye was such a critical smash because hes the only person more insecure than a rock critic.
Christopher R. Weingarten
New York, NY
General workplace changes? Seriously?
San Diego, CA
Generalist, buffet-table pop criticism is dead. Specialist genre criticism is all that matters anymore, because listener communities are atomized, self-sealing, and frequently hostile to outside input. I know who Im writing for, and more importantly, I know who Im not writing for. And Im not gonna pretend to give a flying fuck about Taylor Swift or Kanye West just because all the other writers on my Twitter feed still think platinum-selling records say something about the culture. There is no monoculture. Pick a niche and grind it out.
Phil Freeman Elizabeth, NJ
What are you planning to call the section devoted to oh-so-clever comments about Sasha Frere-Joness premature hip-hop eulogy?
I was hemming and hawing about whether to put Trains Hey, Soul Sister, in my year-end Top 10; its massively catchy, but so deeply uncool that I really have no idea what other critics, if any, will vote for it. That it was used, sarcastically, as an example song title in the ballot instructions e-mailed to Pazz & Jop voters was what helped me decide to go ahead and give it its props. Why even bother trying to be cool about such a nerdy hobby/profession, anyway?
Hardly any labelsand certainly not any tastemaking onesare keeping track of Americas compositional wilds right now, which is why Mikel Rouse released Recess on his own imprint, Exit Music. I wanna fuckin build my own goddamn documentary and say it the way I wanna say it, he sings in Designing Women, just after dropping a field recording of a woman flacking a Medicare for All campaign. Or, to put another way, Fuck this industry.
Seth Colter Walls
I had a dream this year that I was in a bar, and a man came up to me and slapped me in the face with a paperback copy of Thomas Pynchons The Crying of Lot 49, and then sat down beside me and yelled for a long time about how theres a conspiracy to distract the public from the content of M.I.A.s and Julian Assanges work by focusing on the sordid details of their personal lives.
David Marchese Brooklyn, NY
So, chillwave? At least now I dont have to hide my Christopher Cross records when girls come over.
Forest Hill, MD
Im calling bullshit on the entire indie/alternative rock scene. The staggering proliferation of alternative artists of colorand your mulish refusal to acknowledge sameis the four-ton pink elephant in the room right now. This is underscored by the glut of column inches, blogs, and Tweets on white mid-America expatriates washing up on the Wallabout Channel co-opting Afrobeat, retro soul, high life, and lo-fi crunk-punk.
Just wait till Jamey Johnsons admirers discover Mickey Newbury and Harry Chapin.
For me, 2010 was a year to reassess the resilience and importance of artist collectives and small, artist-owned or artist-friendly nightclubs, as musicians must continue to fiddle as the morphing monolith formerly known as The Music Industry burns. Tiny East Village enclaves like Nublu, Banjo Jims, and the Bowery Electric may each serve slightly different musical demographics, but each is open to letting both emergent and established acts curate and promote theme nights that keep their weekly bookings lively and diverse. The San Franciscobased Round Whirled Records showcase at Nublu; the vintage pop-rock solo projects that Maura Kennedy and Edward Rodgers brought to Bowery Electric; and the local blues, bluegrass, and ragtime players that anchor Banjo Jims weekly programming were all fluid, collaborative examples of how new bands and songwriters might survive the heat-death (by homogenization) of corporate pop-music monopolies.
New York, NY
Jay Reatard and Captain Beefheart. That hurt.
After writing a music and nightlife column in the Los Angeles Times for 15 years, I find Facebook and Twitter frothy nirvana. Look, Ma: no editors.
Sherman Oaks, CA
Das Racists Fake Patois is the funniest song Ive heard in years, but, damn it, I cant stand the thought of hearing it again.
2010 is really the first year that I became a fan of a label as much as any band. Merge Records may have scored mainstream wins with the likes of Spoon and a label-first #1 from Arcade Fire, but four of my top 10 albums came from the outskirts of their stunning 2010 catalog. Not only did label heads Mac McCaughan and Laura Balance rally their band Superchunk for its first album in nine years (the endorphin-laden Majesty Shredding), but quiet masterpieces from Versus, Tracey Thorn, and the Extra Lens (to hold us over until 2011s Mountain Goats release) proved that the North Carolina operation has the kind of enviably balanced taste that most people lie about.