1.11.2006
Looking for one thing real
The most interesting thing about the JT Leroy and James Frey unmaskings is that it offers a great example of the fact that people crave authenticity in their art. Anyone could write a novel about a lot lizard addict or a writer facing down drug addiction (I overgeneralize here, as I've read not a word by either "man"), so to set oneself apart, it is important to cloak the work in a veil of supposed truth. For the folks behind Leroy, it meant creating a character out of thin air; for Frey, it meant passing off a lively bit of autobiographical fiction as memoir. In both cases, perhaps the writing itself wasn't enough of a selling point. No surprise: A well-tuned sports car wouldn't sell as well if it were under the chassis of a K car (not to suggest that the work of either writer is any more powerful than a Honda, of course).
This notion of authenticity is why you don't see many punk rock musicians owning up to middle class roots, or rappers who will admit that maybe they actually didn't sling drugs on the corner. People crave something real. Stories about street hustlers, junkies and AIDS victims written by a young artist who claims to be all three are a visceral, voyeuristic rush. Those same stories coming from the pen of a 40ish housewife in a crappy rock band? No thanks, a bit too creepy.
Little in the world of art is presented without the trappings of what is known about the creator, be it truth or something else. Great hoaxes have been perpetrated because people want to believe fantastical things that have an air of mystery. It's why people still buy Klaatu records hoping that they really are lost works by the Beatles, and why Garth Brooks' attempt to go pop as "Chris Gaines" fizzled. While Brooks' was indeed the man behind that work, the fact that everyone cruising the aisles at Wal-Mart knew as much meant the mystery was gone. Left with the music and no story to make themselves feel like they were in on something, fans took a pass.
JT Leroy always seemed fake to me -- we Midwesterners get a bum rap from our jaded cousins on the coasts, but we can see through crap as well as anyone -- though I didn't imagine this depth of deception. I expected something more like Breece D'J Pancake, a kid of privilege who pretended to be of poor stock like the characters about which he wrote. People were so eager to believe, however, that even seeing a goofball in wig and sunglasses hanging out with Courtney Love wasn't a tipoff.
Odd segue here, but I've been thinking a bit about this as I work on a review of Robert Pollard's new disc, From a Compound Eye. I think it's a great album, among the two or three best he's done. How does my knowledge of his past work color that view, however? After breaking up Guided by Voices and deciding to truly jump into a solo career, Pollard clearly is reinventing himself a bit. What would I think about this disc if I was coming to his music for the first time, without hearing the music as a clear extension of what he had done on GBV's latter discs? I think I would like it even better, actually, because it would be a pretty stunning debut from an unknown. My enthusiasm in reality is tempered just a bit because I know that, as good as it is, it could be better if Pollard had taken the cream from the discs he released under a variety of names in the past couple of years and chucked a couple of clunkers from the final tracklist.
Are there discs out there by unknowns that I would like as well as this? Of course, but admittedly I don't give them a chance because it's easier to go with a known quantity than to explore the unknown. Also, some of that music might be made by people who don't have a complementary backstory or who frankly just don't look right. Much as a JT Leroy book might not go over well if the author was known to be a 40-year-old housewife, a great psych rock record might flop if it came from... well, a 40-year-old housewife. That might not be fair, but it's reality. For some that means working a little harder; for others, it means going to any lengths necessary to make it. Who's to say which is right?
This notion of authenticity is why you don't see many punk rock musicians owning up to middle class roots, or rappers who will admit that maybe they actually didn't sling drugs on the corner. People crave something real. Stories about street hustlers, junkies and AIDS victims written by a young artist who claims to be all three are a visceral, voyeuristic rush. Those same stories coming from the pen of a 40ish housewife in a crappy rock band? No thanks, a bit too creepy.
Little in the world of art is presented without the trappings of what is known about the creator, be it truth or something else. Great hoaxes have been perpetrated because people want to believe fantastical things that have an air of mystery. It's why people still buy Klaatu records hoping that they really are lost works by the Beatles, and why Garth Brooks' attempt to go pop as "Chris Gaines" fizzled. While Brooks' was indeed the man behind that work, the fact that everyone cruising the aisles at Wal-Mart knew as much meant the mystery was gone. Left with the music and no story to make themselves feel like they were in on something, fans took a pass.
JT Leroy always seemed fake to me -- we Midwesterners get a bum rap from our jaded cousins on the coasts, but we can see through crap as well as anyone -- though I didn't imagine this depth of deception. I expected something more like Breece D'J Pancake, a kid of privilege who pretended to be of poor stock like the characters about which he wrote. People were so eager to believe, however, that even seeing a goofball in wig and sunglasses hanging out with Courtney Love wasn't a tipoff.
Odd segue here, but I've been thinking a bit about this as I work on a review of Robert Pollard's new disc, From a Compound Eye. I think it's a great album, among the two or three best he's done. How does my knowledge of his past work color that view, however? After breaking up Guided by Voices and deciding to truly jump into a solo career, Pollard clearly is reinventing himself a bit. What would I think about this disc if I was coming to his music for the first time, without hearing the music as a clear extension of what he had done on GBV's latter discs? I think I would like it even better, actually, because it would be a pretty stunning debut from an unknown. My enthusiasm in reality is tempered just a bit because I know that, as good as it is, it could be better if Pollard had taken the cream from the discs he released under a variety of names in the past couple of years and chucked a couple of clunkers from the final tracklist.
Are there discs out there by unknowns that I would like as well as this? Of course, but admittedly I don't give them a chance because it's easier to go with a known quantity than to explore the unknown. Also, some of that music might be made by people who don't have a complementary backstory or who frankly just don't look right. Much as a JT Leroy book might not go over well if the author was known to be a 40-year-old housewife, a great psych rock record might flop if it came from... well, a 40-year-old housewife. That might not be fair, but it's reality. For some that means working a little harder; for others, it means going to any lengths necessary to make it. Who's to say which is right?
