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
Schlepping through the Union Square subway station last week, blithely cranking M.I.A.s Vicki Leekx mixtape and still internally scowling over her 2010 critical indictment, I passed a disheveled African-American woman with a defiantly jutting jaw hunched over a set of bongos, wailing Stevie Wonders Living for the City, the 1973 synth-funk opus about a kid who comes to New York looking for work but quickly gets nicked in a minor drug hustle, earning a 10-year bid and the memorable bon voyage, Get in that cell, nigger!
Pausing M.I.A.s squelchy frenzy and snatching off my headphones, I harbored conflicting thoughts: This grimy lady is on key and killin it (especially compared to the godawful drummer whos usually posted up). M.I.A. should hear this (and listen to more Stevie and less dubstep). How would Stevies music have sounded if hed grown up like M.I.A. (and vice versa)? How many Pazz & Jop critics would argue that this subway gig was a more authentic protest than the agitated gestures on M.I.A.s vilified Maya (and should those critics be forced to eat a bowl of dicks)? And why am I always trying to turn random mass-transit incidents into poignant epiphanies?
Such sputtering speaks to music critics increasingly chaotic thought processa rush-to-refresh ticker of childlike enthusiasm, glib put-downs, presumptuous advice, false dichotomies, fantastical speculation, abrasive careerism masked as political rhetoric, and honest revelation marred by cloying narcissism, all in a desperate quest to churn out splashy content and escape irrelevance. In other words, virtually the same shtick for which M.I.A. has been bitterly denounced, despite creating the years most vividly imaginative broadside (Maya) and New Years Eve 2011s giddiest free party (Vicki Leekx).
Dont get me wrongsometimes our critical clusterfuck catches a groove, like the one around the one-man carnaval that was Kanye Wests My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. Passionately reasoned cases were paraded on all sides, and Kanyes maximalist élan was fully inspectedthose who rolled up with self-righteous, ill-considered gripes (no, hes racist!) came off like carpetbaggers. The Internet free-for-allparticularly Kanyes gnomic Tweetsdid spotlight music criticisms lessened role as a gatekeeper, but it also proved how exhilarating (even enlightening!) the ritual can be when spirited voices testify.
Such was not the case with Maya, M.I.A.s third album and first as wife of a Seagrams heir, mother of an infant son, and U.S.-residing pop star (via the Wreckx-n-Effectsampling Paper Planes). From jump, the press formed a dodgy narrative: Maya was a problematic departure from 2007s Kala, her ebullient patchwork of fugitive, pied-piper field recordings. Ensconced in her new familys cushy Los Angeles digs, whiling away the wee hours online, shed become an information politics obsessive intent on making uncomfortably weird music that reflected her schizophrenic feelings about our digitally entangled future. Some mocked her as more Real Housewife than hyperreal hipster. She referred to genocide in her native Sri Lanka and reportedly got death threats. She ditched her management. Release dates were abandoned, songs and titles and mixes and track sequences were changed. The advance copy I received in early April to review for SPINs June issue differed from the finished album (which was released July 13); most notably, the introductory digital-conspiracy hambone of The Message was originally followed by the Suicide-invoking synth-punk grrrrr of Born Free, which functioned as a liberating, skull-snap manifesto. Oddly, on the final version, it was orphaned as Track 9, then diminished by a gruesomely reductive video.
Point being, her immaculately conceived quilt of cred was fraying. In retrospect, it didnt matter that the record sounded neither uncomfortable nor weird nor schizo (just poppier and punkier, with a touch of the young-parent hair-trigger familiar to us veterans of the 3 a.m. sirennot the DJ-booth prop). But that slight fraying was enough, especially when The New York Times Magazine inexplicably sent Lynn Hirschberg, celebrity journalisms queen of disingenuity, to shadow M.I.A. for a May feature.
Hirschberg has written, by my Googling, two significant music stories in the past decade (one, a clueless Rick Rubin puff piece; the other, a detailed chronicle of the pathetic packaging of pop wannabe Amanda Latona). She has made her name, in large part, with methodical eviscerations of prominent women: 1992s Vanity Fair shiv to Courtney Love that resulted in a loss of child custody, and 1997s dismantling of ABCs Jamie Tarses, the first female head of a broadcast network entertainment division. Of course, like both those victims, M.I.A. shouldve known better and dummied up. But when Hirschberg works a con, the mark rarely sees it comingin this case, the scam involved ordering those now-infamous truffle fries, encouraging M.I.A. to sample them, and when she bit, nailing her as a radical-chic phony. Co-producer/former boyfriend Diplo often seems to crave credit for his exs success (although that success boosted his stock immeasurably), so Hirschberg deftly deployed him as an outside man, quoting him to demean M.I.A.s talents, and to support the pieces distortion of M.I.A.s relationship with her once-militant dad.