As one who started writing about music for publication in high school and started working professionally as a columnist for a regional music paper before college graduation, some might say I’ve earned space to vent about the state of the music press. Lucky for all of us, Paul Gorman wrote Totally Wired! The Rise and Fall of the Music Press, so I didn’t have to. A well-considered overview of the 100-year-old music press, it’s almost the book I would’ve written (though without the British accent. I wouldn’t have confused Penelope Houston for Penelope Spheeris, though I probably would’ve confused every guy who wrote for Rolling Stone named David, so there’s that). Anyway, I loved the book and you can read more about Totally Wired in my latest column for Tourworthy. And if you want a little bit more about my life writing about rock, there’s this:
By the time I was writing full-time in the ‘90s, it was a good time to earn a dime by writing about music, on assignment and for hire, with or without a byline, and for cranking out content for the nascent Internet which had very little in the way of information on offer until we entered the data.
(Me getting it together while Laurie Anderson patiently looks on – photo by Bobby Castro)
I contributed to what was called the first online music magazine, Addicted to Noise (consult the Wayback Machine) and the reboot of Crawdaddy! and newsstand magazines like Paste, Harp, Ray Gun, Q, MOJO, and others I care not to name. Digital back issues are hard to come by with rights having been bought, sold, and rendered inaccessible by the general public. Every few years I write a plea like this, hoping a tech savvy reader will lend a sister a hand and free my digital archives (no such luck). If a print edition existed, I have at least one copy archived (in case anyone is seeking material for a time capsule or a bonfire).
Even without digital evidence of my work, I continue to gather knowledge, form wild opinions and indulge in some meandering riffs, online and in print. I’ve written on jazz and blues, punk and hip hop, and all forms of arts and culture. But my interest in rock has waned, considerably, and perhaps understandably given its late stage decline (see: latest works by the AI-assisted Beatles and the ungodly Rolling Stones). I am rarely surprised when I hear the music business or the publishing trade being cited for racism, sexism and homophobia, or when artists and writers claim victimization (I often cover these angles in my occasional Soundinista columns). The latest case of the Go-Go’s co-founder Jane Wiedlin and several more women accusing DJ Rodney Bingenheimer of sexually assaulting them when they were teenagers at his underage disco is disturbing and heartbreaking (though for those of us paying attention, not entirely unexpected).
Sometimes it’s unclear to me what I would do if I could ascertain whether rock ‘n’ roll never forgets or rock ‘n’ roll always forgets; whether time waits for no one, if I could turn back time or if time has told me. I do know at one time I loved rock ‘n’ roll and everything about it — the way it sounded, its hair and its clothes. The music imprinted my soul, provided sanctuary and inspiration, gave me a lifetime of listening and a wide, now small, circle of friends. Yes, I’m certain that’s all true and yet, these are the good times.
Filed under: Arts and Culture, Books, rock 'n' roll, classic-rock, music, rock, rock-and-roll, rock-music, rock-music
Denise Sullivan 