I’ve talked a lot of shit about rock critics. The blame can be shouldered both by the smugly overzealous egghead types at pitchforkmedia.com and by the industry shills of Rolling Stone, Spin, and their ilk.
Reading an anthology of Lester Bangs’ writings, Mainlines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste, reminded me of the self-evident fact that it’s possible to write about rock and roll without smothering it, to evoke the fuck-all spirit of punk without getting caught up in irony or self-referentiality. As I read the book I was continuously inspired to seek out or revisit artists as diverse as Miles Davis, Eno, Wire, the Comedian Harmonists (who?), and Patti Smith. His ever-evolving relationship with the Stones even adds a nice narrative element to the middle section of the anthology; nice editing by John Morthland.
This archive at rockcritics.com stands as a solid supplement to that anthology. The previously unpublished Eno interview, “A Sandbox in Alphaville”, gives Bangs’ keyhole view of Eno’s enigma from his standpoint as a downtown NYC acquaintance.
I want to read the original Bangs anthology, Greil Marcus’s Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung. I’ve also heard that Jim Testa’s biography, Let it Blurt, is a fine read — this from a NY Public Librarian who mentioned that Lester was always a “wreck” every time said librarian ran into him around town. (Was I maybe helped by Tom Verlaine???)