It’s not even that New Yorker critic Sasha Frere-Jones dislikes the Chris Cornell/Timbaland collaboration Scream. He seems disappointed by it, vexed that someone he idolized let him down.

When an article that’s ostensibly an album review begins with four long paragraphs about the producer’s background, you can tell that producer is someone special, worth noting, Frere-Jones brings out all the descriptors for Timbaland’s work: “fervid, breathtaking”; “silvery, weightless”; and this stunning, yet likely accurate sentence:

When you hear a rhythm that is being played by an instrument you can’t identify but wish you owned, when you hear a song that refuses to make up its mind about its genre but compels you to move, or when you hear noises that you thought couldn’t find a comfortable place in a pop song, you are hearing Timbaland, or school thereof.

In comparison, Chris Cornell–the guy whose name is on the album–is worthy of one paragraph that doesn’t mention his most recent group, Audioslave, but commends him for having the vision to collaborate with Timbaland, referring to the decision as “a smart move.” But then the album is listened to, and disappointment sets in. Very little about the album pleases Frere-Jones, but one track in particular seemed to be the tipping point.

“Never Far Away” could be one of the worst songs of the year, a rock ballad with all the bombast of Soundgarden yet with none of the heft or the force. The lyrics are like Bon Jovi with the fun sucked out, and could be moonlighting for an e-greeting-card site: “You are the road that I will travel, you are the words I write. You are the ocean I will swallow, you are the wind I ride.” Timbaland rarely puts sounds together in an infelicitous way: so why the swooping synth arpeggios? What we love about Timbaland is that so much of his music evades known templates, but figuring out what is happening on “Scream” is not, in large part, a pleasant hunt.

This might not be so surprising, considering the Cornell disc seems to be the official album of 2008 for writers to kick around like an old Baden playground ball. But when Frere-Jones seems so let down by one of his musical heroes, no one wins–especially those of us who will probably have to listen to Scream, if only for research purposes.

The Timbaland Era [The New Yorker]

Former New York Times music-biz reporter Jeff Leeds resurfaces on Sasha Frere Jones’ blog at The New Yorker, and the two discuss a few topics, including the current state of the art/commerce divide. This quote from Leeds, in particular, resonates: “I always think of music as Patient Zero in all the disorder that is changing everything in entertainment and media, including, by the way, newspapers.” SFJ says that if the e-mails keep coming, he’ll keep posting ‘em, and surely I’m not the only one who hopes that this conversation stretches for a while. [Sasha Frere-Jones]

Former New York Times music-biz reporter Jeff Leeds resurfaces on Sasha Frere Jones’ blog at The New Yorker, and the two discuss a few topics, including the current state of the art/commerce divide. This quote from Leeds, in particular, resonates: “I always think of music as Patient Zero in all the disorder that is changing everything in entertainment and media, including, by the way, newspapers.” SFJ says that if the e-mails keep coming, he’ll keep posting ‘em, and surely I’m not the only one who hopes that this conversation stretches for a while. [Sasha Frere-Jones]

Yes, that’s right–Sunday at 7:30 p.m. ET is when our live coverage of the Grammys, which will be filled with the walking dead and the incredibly awkward, begins. It’ll be my first liveblog from my four-person orange couch! Here’s the nominee list, so you can read up on who’s in, who’s out, and who’s up for Best Polka Album. And to get you even more excited for Sunday, here are a few final news items on the show, presented in handy bullet form:

• Jimmy Jam is reuniting with The Time for their performance with Rihanna on Sunday night. And the group has apparently mended fences with Prince, for those of you who want to taunt yourself with the possibility of the Purple One returning to the small screen.

• Kanye West is planning on paying tribute to his mom during his just-announced set.

• John Mayer is playing too! Please God I hope he’s not going to dress up like Borat.

• There’s a company out there that’s trying to scam people by selling fake tickets to the Grammys. Wouldn’t fake tickets to the Hannah Montana movie have been a more profitable enterprise?

• Sasha Frere-Jones thinks Soulja Boy was robbed when it came to Grammy nominations. Tell it to Mims, dude.

Every year pop critics await the coming of January with a sense of trepidation and a healthy amount of schadenfreude, because it’s time for our own year-end analysis, Jason Gross’ annual rundown of year’s worst music writing. (Gross’ long-running look at the dregs of rock scribbling is actually part of a package of the worst and best music writing of the year. But c’mon, we all know which part we really care about.) And now that our trepidation has passed (nothing we wrote in ’07 made it to Gross’ “Bottom Of The Barrel” category!), we can get to the schadenfreude (which of our peers did make it to Gross’ “Bottom Of The Barrel” category?).

The funny thing is that not many of our “peers” actually made it to this year’s list, unless that peer group now consists of Jermaine Dupri and Ted Nugent. There are two limp attacks on funk and post-bebop jazz by crit folks writing for Slate and the Guardian. But the bulk of Gross’ worst list is made up of bonehead industry types and equally boneheaded musicians. And that’s gotta be more of a sign that the corporate flunkies are cranking out more awful propaganda than ever as the industry collapses than a sign that the quality of music criticism is on the rise. What’s really disheartening, if that’s the word for it, is the total lack of blog entries in the “Bottom Of The Barrel” category, which probably just proves that most bloggers’ “bad” writing is as forgettable and bland as their recycled PR stuff “good.” (Step up your crappiness game, MoveableType jockeys! You’re getting beaten by the Nuge!)

The top spot (though the entries aren’t ranked) rightly goes to Sasha Frere-Jones’ much-dissected New Yorker essay on indie rock’s de-blackening, but since the fallout from said essay proved that SFJ enjoys bad attention regardless of the effect it has on his writing or rep, I’m not sure if this accolade will necessarily be healthy for him or his productivity. We wouldn’t want to distract him from his hard work profiling all those funky indie rocking white people he’s covered since “A Whiter Shade Of Pale” ran in late October.

Best Music Scribing Awards 2007 [Popmatters]

Who knew liberal do-gooding race man Sasha Frere-Jones would have a secret BFF in New York Times conservative goof David Brooks? In an op-ed fretting over the “segmented society,” Brooks references both SFJ’s infamous New Yorker “indie rock ain’t African-American enough” tract from last month and critic Carl Wilson’s class-focused rebuttal, as he points out popular music’s heretofore unnoticed contribution to average folks being “anxious about fragmentation and longing for cohesion,” which is the “driving fear behind the inequality and immigration debates, behind worries of polarization and behind the entire Obama candidacy.” Crap, we were pretty chill when the shocking revelation was that the overeducated indie rock leisure class wasn’t funky enough, but dividing us as Americans and failing to groove? Only Professor Stevie Van Zandt can save us now.

Technology drives some of the fragmentation. Computers allow musicians to produce a broader range of sounds. Top 40 radio no longer serves as the gateway for the listening public. Music industry executives can use market research to divide consumers into narrower and narrower slices.

But other causes flow from the temper of the times. It’s considered inappropriate or even immoral for white musicians to appropriate African-American styles. And there’s the rise of the mass educated class.

People who have built up cultural capital and pride themselves on their superior discernment are naturally going to cultivate ever more obscure musical tastes. I’m not sure they enjoy music more than the throngs who sat around listening to Led Zeppelin, but they can certainly feel more individualistic and special.

I knew there was a reason music sucked these days that we hadn’t happened upon yet, and of course, it’s because people are too smart! Plus they can listen to whatever they want rather than being stuck with the top-down playlists of media conglomerates. Brooks’ solution? The heretical teachings of Bruce Springsteen’s guitarist.

[Steven] Van Zandt has a way to counter all this, at least where music is concerned. He’s drawn up a high school music curriculum that tells American history through music. It would introduce students to Muddy Waters, the Mississippi Sheiks, Bob Dylan and the Allman Brothers. He’s trying to use music to motivate and engage students, but most of all, he is trying to establish a canon, a common tradition that reminds students that they are inheritors of a long conversation.

Establish a canon?

The Segmented Society [New York Times]

If you read just one response to Sasha Frere-Jones’ attempt to ramp up his Google Blog Search hits, make it Carl Wilson’s argument in Slate that the problem facing indie–aside from the fact that it’s a “genre” with boundaries that are seemingly defined by the biases and record collections of whoever’s doing the defining at the time, ahem–isn’t rooted in race as much as it is in class. A sample: “With its true spiritual center in Richard Florida-lauded ‘creative’ college towns such as Portland, Ore., this is the music of young ‘knowledge workers’ in training, and that has sonic consequences: Rather than body-centered, it is bookish and nerdy; rather than being instrumentally or vocally virtuosic, it shows off its chops via its range of allusions and high concepts with the kind of fluency both postmodern pop culture and higher education teach its listeners to admire.” [Slate]

If you read just one response to Sasha Frere-Jones’ attempt to ramp up his Google Blog Search hits, make it Carl Wilson’s argument in Slate that the problem facing indie–aside from the fact that it’s a “genre” with boundaries that are seemingly defined by the biases and record collections of whoever’s doing the defining at the time, ahem–isn’t rooted in race as much as it is in class. A sample: “With its true spiritual center in Richard Florida-lauded ‘creative’ college towns such as Portland, Ore., this is the music of young ‘knowledge workers’ in training, and that has sonic consequences: Rather than body-centered, it is bookish and nerdy; rather than being instrumentally or vocally virtuosic, it shows off its chops via its range of allusions and high concepts with the kind of fluency both postmodern pop culture and higher education teach its listeners to admire.” [Slate]

Well, after three days at CMJ it’s official: Judged on the guidelines laid down by New Yorker music critic Sasha Frere-Jones, our worst fears are confirmed and indie rock has actually failed at being convincingly “black.” It is now the Jamie Kennedy of musical genres.

A quick recap of the rules:

- Subtract 10 points each if band lacks “swing,” “some empty space,” and/or “palpable bass frequencies.”
- Subtract 10 points if the band identifies more as “punk” than “funk.”
- Add 20 points if that punk band is the Clash.
- Subtract 10 points if the words “noise,” “art-rock,” “prog,” or “math-rock” can be used to describe the band. Ditto the following metal subgenres: thrash, death, grind, tech. Automatic disqualification: black metal.
- Subtract 15 points if the band primarily draws from folk traditions other than the blues.
- Subtract 15 points for slap bass. (That’s a red herring.)
- Subtract 20 points if artist in engaged in wholesale recreation of a particular era of African-American music.
- Subtract 50 points if swing revival band.

It is at the discretion of the researcher to fudge the numbers a little if they feel that a particular band has just a little more swing and a little less indie in them.

We Are Wolves
Possibly European/definitely European-sounding dance-rock band, with more of a Moroder throb than a Stubblefield groove. Their commitment to moving bodies is half-hearted and doesn’t keep from them losing 30 points off the top, and another 10 for being punks at heart.
SFJ SCORE: 60.

Cut Off Your Hands
More British punk than American funk–and not remotely punk-funk–these tense New Zealanders don’t sound like they could relax long enough to swing for more than a second, plus they’ve got the treble cranked hard.
SFJ SCORE: 60

Imperial Teen
Motorik indie-pop with twee harmonies and as much grit as two-ply Charmin, even less sex.
SFJ SCORE: 55

Yo Majesty
Disqualified: hip-hop group. They were so effective at proving the SFJ score, in fact, that I’m deducting 20 points from the next band just because.
SFJ SCORE: N/A

Trail Of Dead
Melodramatic bombast whose idea of groove is revving quickly to an ejaculatory climax. And that ain’t very groovy.
SFJ SCORE: 40

Jay Reatard
Thrashing garage punk that’s far too punk and far too removed from garage rock’s 60s roots to have much trace of African-American influence left in its wound-up bashing.
SFJ SCORE: 60

Dirtbombs
Disqualified: The mere existence of Mick Collins is kind of an atom bomb dropped on SFJ’s equation. Or at least a radar scrambler.
SFJ SCORE: N/A

DAY THREE COMBINED SCORE: 53
TOTAL COMBINED SCORE: 58.7

A failing grade. This is actually kind of depressing. Is Frere-Jones actually right? I don’t even know if I should bother to continue calculating for the last two days of CMJ. On the one hand, I haven’t even seen Black Kids yet. On the other, it’s only going to get worse. Maybe we should just accept the fact that indie needs to go back to school to bone up on its essentialism, and say better luck next year? Probably a good idea for everyone involved in this debate.

FURTHER RESEARCH: A Paler Shade Of White [New Yorker]

Presenting the next installment of the Sasha Frere-Jones score, where Idolator rates the indie rock bands we see at the CMJ Music Marathon based on how musically “black” they are, taking the learned teachings of New Yorker pop critic Sasha Frere-Jones as our guide. This time we lay down the ground rules so you can play along at home, and we offer a little more explanation of the reasoning behind our little experiment.

Judging by the e-mails, some people got a little cranky over this! (The following gets a tad emo/serious, so feel free to skip ahead to the part where I start making fun of things if you wish.) People thinking this is me saying that indie rock should somehow be held exempt from its often dodgy racial politics–this wounds me. Forget indie rock, there’s not a single aspect of white–and especially white male–culture that doesn’t need to be mercilessly picked apart for both the covert and overt, conscious and unconscious racism that it perpetuates every day! This seems self-evident, but you’d be surprised how many white men are content to let their privilege go unchecked. (Wait, no you wouldn’t.) And indie rock is a subset of white maledom that’s notorious about letting its cultural assumptions go unexamined.

So I understand why Frere-Jones wrote the piece. I just happen to think the piece was bullshit, especially his bizonkers internal inconsistencies and wild generalizations over genre. Indie rock’s race issues are more cultural than sonic, and though musical choices are always tied up with a musician’s social outlook, someone choosing to emulate Bruce Springsteen rather than Larry Blackmon hardly constitutes a cultural crime. Indie rock’s cultural, social, racial, and sexual hangups are not going to be resolved via the forced “miscengenation” Frere-Jones is looking for. This process of reexamining white male (musical) privilege needs to have begun, like, yesterday, but nothing is gained by the guy who writes for The New Yorker wagging his finger at Win Butler and shouting J’accuse! in his out loud voice because his band isn’t living up to some ideal he formulated in junior high. Otherwise “serious longform criticism” becomes just as silly as, say, assigning point values to bands based on some critic’s dubiously defined racial characteristics. Just as silly, but a lot less funny.

Now on with the mockery.

THE RULES
- Subtract 10 points each if band lacks “swing,” “some empty space,” and/or “palpable bass frequencies.”
- Subtract 10 points if the band identifies more as “punk” than “funk.”
- Add 20 points if that punk band is the Clash.
- Subtract 10 points if the words “noise,” “art-rock,” “prog,” or “math-rock” can be used to describe the band. Ditto the following metal subgenres: thrash, death, grind, tech. Automatic disqualification: black metal.
- Subtract 15 points if the band primarily draws from folk traditions other than the blues.
- Subtract 15 points for slap bass. (That’s a red herring.)
- Subtract 20 points if artist in engaged in wholesale recreation of a particular era of African-American music.
- Subtract 50 points if swing revival band.

It is at the discretion of the researcher to fudge the numbers a little if they feel that a particular band has just a little more swing and a little less indie in them.

O’Death
Celtic-style band that “thrashes” on its banjos and whatnot. Not only do the they have the temerity to play white people folk music but then to “punk” it all up.
SFJ SCORE: 45

Peasant
Singer-songwriter with acoustic guitar and harmonica. Sadly for his score, he draws more on the side of Bob Dylan influenced by Woody Guthrie than the side influenced by the blues.
SFJ SCORE: 55

The Airborne Toxic Event
Off-brand indie rock by a mixed-race, mixed-gender crew that dresses like really stylish undertakers. The “palpable bass frequencies” (though that could have just been shitty acoustics) help them pull out a respectable score, however.
SFJ SCORE: 70

Health
Noise-rock that takes abrasive frequencies and the term “herky-jerky” to irritating extremes (if you’re SFJ) or awesome extremes (if you’re me). The drummer’s caveman syncopations and the low-end do their best to save their bacon.
SFJ SCORE: 60

Ezra Furman and the Harpoons
Four guys who listened to the Violent Femmes a hell of a lot in junior high. Score should be self-explanatory.
SFJ SCORE: 60

Ponytail
Despite being the most rhythmically interesting band we saw all day, these Baltimore art-punks lack any trace of funk. Depressing, but the numbers don’t lie.
SFJ SCORE: 50

Charlotte Sometimes
Typical shouty and loud post-alt mall emo fronted by male falsetto singer. Beat is for Sonny Bono.
SFJ SCORE: 70

The Pack
Disqualified: hip-hop group.
SFJ SCORE: N/A

Cobra Starship
Trust-fund emo with keyboards that cost more than your rent and purple couture sweatshirts that cost more than their keyboards. Fail.
SFJ SCORE: 70

DAY TWO COMBINED SCORE: 60
TOTAL COMBINED SCORE: 61

Proving that this is shady science at best, the emo bands are kicking everyone’s ass. But indie rock is still keeping its head above water. Barely.

FURTHER RESEARCH: A Paler Shade Of White [New Yorker]

So while I was out mixing with the creative underclass at CMJ, some of you were very concerned with this New Yorker article where the world’s wealthiest rock critic, Sasha Frere-Jones, claims that indie rock ain’t “miscegenated” enough for his liking, i.e. it ain’t got enough African-American in it. You were so worried, in fact, that you actually took the time to write and ask what Idolator’s “response” would be. And the response is that though I am sympathetic to the argument on a surface level, the piece is typical jury-rigged SFJ rhetoric that ignores pertinent facts–i.e. there’s still (indie) rock that draws from African-American sources, among others too numerous to mention–to keep a shaky argument afloat until he’s used up his word count. But in the interest of mad science, I’ve also decided to put Frere-Jones’ theory to the test. I’ve come up with a handy metric that will allow me to determine, over the course of CMJ, just how “black” any band happens to be.

Spurred by friend-of-Idolator Christopher Weingarten‘s assertion that this year’s CMJ line-up seemed to only bolster Frere-Jones’ theory, what I’ve dubbed the “Sasha Frere-Jones Score” is determined by listening to see if a rock band–or a band comprised of white people…same thing, right?–features any or all of the defining characteristics Frere-Jones applies willy-nilly to all African-American music: “a bit of swing, some empty space, and palpable bass frequencies.” At the end of the week, we should know for sure whether or not rock music is now terminally white. And whether or not Black Kids live up to their name.

Saturday Looks Good To Me
Squeaky-clean indiepop with keyboards and nary a syncopation in sight, though a bit of soul in the vocals.
SFJ SCORE: 65

Another Animal
They had one song they referred to as a “blues,” and they were even helpful enough to put “blues” in the title. Just in case you forgot what the blues sounded like, and were scratching your head wondering where you might have heard those 12-bar chord changes before.
SFJ SCORE: 75

Alter Bridge
Vestigial traces of African-American music buried under 15 years of post-Pearl Jam alt-rock. Still, you’d have to be pretty hard up for fat beats to mistake them for funky.
SFJ SCORE: 70

Juiceboxxx
The only band/artist of the day who a.) rapped and b.) had “palpable bass frequencies.” Still, his annoying yelps over uptempo club tracks had little space and absolutely no swing.
SFJ SCORE: 64

Team Robespierre
Shrieky, rhythmically fidgety art-punk that’s probably the textbook definition of what Frere-Jones defines as “the problem.”
SFJ SCORE: 50

Dan Deacon
Well, he does incorporate the lyrics to “What’s Your Fantasy?” on one song. And the bass can hurt your teeth when it hits you right. But yeah, despite the oversized glasses, no one’s going to be mistaking Deacon for Bootsy Collins.
SFJ SCORE: 55

DAY ONE COMBINED SCORE: 63.1
TOTAL COMBINED SCORE: 63.1

That’s barely enough blackness to qualify for a passing grade! Things aren’t looking good for the crackers of indie rock. And it’s only been a day!

A Paler Shade Of White [New Yorker]