So, there I was, reading a piece of rock writing—a fresh slice of 2009 work, in a reputable publication, concerning an established artist of some renown—when within the first couple of paragraphs I encountered the word seminal. I’m not a fan of the word, and I believe it is ripe for retirement from the music trade. And just as I was recovering from the sighting of it, a paragraph later saw me confronted by another offender: Penchant (English or French pronunciation, as you prefer, though I’ll take neither). As it happens, I find both seminal and penchant to be among the two most misused and overused in all of rock criticism. I guess I should’ve just been grateful that the established artist wasn’t referred to as a stalwart, and gotten on with my day. But instead, I got to thinking: How did these words—rarely, if ever, used in conversation—come to live large in the jargon of rock writing? I can’t claim to know the answer, but I can certainly offer a few opinions, a whole lot of conjecture, and my suspicions, as I have a penchant for criticism. Perhaps the time has finally come for me to pass on to my colleagues, past, present, and future, my thoughts on our profession and how we, as well as the rock critic laity, can do better.

For as long as I can remember, seminal has infected our waters, polluting the stream of good, clean music journalism (I know, I’m no master of the metaphor, but you get the idea). Used properly, seminal describes an influential artist, usually the originator or heaviest hitter in a genre who provides the basis for all future creation in that style. More often, though, the word is used to describe a band or artist that’s just plain… old. Other times, it’s used as a prefix, as if it’s a style of music or an obligatory cliché, much like auspicious debut and sophomore slump. Seminal band, indeed. Seminal is so epidemic in music writing that, like a bad virus, it needs to be eradicated. Try Googling “seminal band” and you’ll see what I mean. I haven’t heard of half the bands said to have launched a thousand bands, so why must we insist on using seminal at all? I beg of you, brothers and sisters in my profession, as well you customer reviewers out there: For the love of Lester Bangs, please observe the boycott on seminal.

How can I mandate that? Well, as what some might call an inveterate rock critic, in lieu of the cash, I’ve earned my opinions. So here are a few more: I do not wish to read a guitar part described as tasty ever again. In fact, I don’t want my music described in food terms at all. Personally, I pledge to delete mix, blend, bland, spicy, and even masala (which I once thought was clever), from my record review recipes. Gone are the other (delicious, delectable and scrumptious) taste-related descriptions I’ve come to rely upon. These words have lost their spit, their juice, their fire and pepper for me—the meanings overcooked in a tasteless stew made from the dead language of music journalism. All I ask you to do is start by giving up seminal.

It seems my vocation has been poisoned and may die by choking on what I heard someone once refer to as “rock-crit-speak” (yes, I winced when I heard it too). I think it means “the language used by people for whom guitars are blazing, anthems are fist-pumping and ballads are poignant and heartfelt.” Our basses thump, our indie rock is loud/quiet/loud, the garage rock is stripped down, and bombastic arena rock is the only kind of arena rock we know. I hate to say it, but we have become a disgrace to the world of arts and letters. There is a certain form of rock writing that’s fried, overcooked, overdone, burnt to a crisp—in essence, toast. While I’m here, I’d like to say, I wish we could banish everything that’s countrified as well as country-fried. If a groove is fat or greasy, please don’t serve it up to me or anyone else. I’m thinking there is still time for rock ‘n’ roll writing redemption, but I realize the hour’s getting late.

There are other picks on my critical hit list: How about we ban the hyper-hyphenate (you know, the-we’re-so-cool-we-can-hardly-stand-it-ourselves) way to describe a musical genre? How about, while we’re there, we off the word genre too? And you can spare me the shapes, textures, and colors of music and save your choices for the interior designer.

We need to stop using words like yielded when it comes to explaining how many hit singles came from one album (and the same goes for spawned). And why say garnered when you can just say got, as in, what kind of reviews a record got at the time of its initial release. (In fact, if the word garnered comes up in a review, you may want to start reading or writing another review).

What has our profession come to, that we have offered up such colorless, utilitarian, workman, shall we say journeyman words to our readers? We have codified the record review to the point where anyone with a laptop can fill in the blanks on a by-numbers satire. This isn’t a newsflash—lazy journalism, hackery, and poor writing have all been with us since the dawn of time; I know because I’m as guilty as the next gal. But I’d like to appeal to the younger professionals, old hands, and could-bes to invent some new language. Who knows? You could be the change, like music writing/poets LeRoi Jones and Patti Smith were.

Back in the day, “before computers,” I used an album cover as my writing desk and took notes long hand before I’d hit the old Smith-Corona electric to give my first draft a go, a tumbler full of something by my side. Usually, the first was the only draft, as the sheer labor intensity of a second would’ve done me in had not the tumbler done its job first. That’s my excuse, as well as the fact that I was like, 20, but you needn’t make the same mistakes as I did. Besides, innocence and inexperience has a bittersweet side to it as well (and yes, I realize bittersweet has approached its last date of sale too). Could it be that naïve rock criticism makes for better reading? Given all the writers who launched careers writing under, what I believe to have been, similar conditions as mine, the amateur, semi-pro, and professional writers who worked in the heyday, salad, and halcyon days of punk rock, turned in work that was unstudied and tossed off by design, sloppy at its worst, brilliant at its best, but usually surprising. There is nothing surprising about music writing anymore—too many gatekeepers have made sure of that. The fanzines of the late ’70s and early ’80s used paper, ink, and Xerox as opportunities to tear down and break free from the styles and conventions offered up by Rolling Stone and Creem, both venerable publications that had taken what the, erm… seminal Crawdaddy! had done, then honed it into fine art. It worked ’til it got slick and then it didn’t, which is where the zine stepped in, to take back rock writing. Now anyone could write a review, of anything they wanted, especially if it wasn’t getting coverage elsewhere. If it turned out you could throw down some words like seminal, you might even get a full-time job as a top critic (or as one at the bottom). If you were simply good at pretending you knew what you were talking about, there’s a chance there was a job for you too—’til things shifted again.

The change in perspective, from critic back to fan, coincided with the beginning
of the post-modern era of music journalism. As the ’80s wore on, the language and concepts of critical and cultural analysis (studies in which the word seminal is frequently used) started to gain more and more ground in music spheres. When applied to pop music, academic theory can certainly contextualize its subject, though more often, I find it sucks all the good stuff out, rendering it dry and lifeless. Mercifully, that style of hyper-analysis and the prevalent use of language that leaves even the most intelligent reader behind, never truly caught on with regular folks and rock fans—a public can only survive so long on a diet of reviews that barely touch on the emotive power and sources of music, while attempting to justify the artistic merit and cultural relevance of Kylie Minogue. And yet, for a brief moment in time, just like sloppy zine writing, critical analysis of empty music fulfilled an important function, if only to force the pendulum swinging full-throttle toward the rebirth of DIY music journalism. Suddenly, fussy editors who once insisted on matters of cultural context not to mention pesky notions like “correct syntax” and “grammar,” were asking for more authentic, raw copy. I was told by a famous online music provider that I would need to dumb down should I be hired to work for them. I didn’t and I wasn’t, but then that’s the story of my life, though it needn’t be yours. Conversely, I was also told a lot of things by editors I wish I’d ignored. The reason I mention any of this? Well, if you don’t like the predominant style of criticism out there, or if your style isn’t what’s in, don’t let it bring you down—it’ll all come around by the time you’re my age (usually described as old, mid-life, or of a certain). Invent something new or stick around long enough and someday they may call you seminal.