I am sure many publicists are aware by now that I no longer write reviews or conduct interviews. And yet they still keep sending CDs (tons of them, which I dump straight into the trash) or emails to schedule a talk with «artists» (which I proceed to delete in bulk). Let me be clear once again: I am no longer a music writer for newspapers or magazines or internet sites peddling the same bullshit. And the reason is simple (and this goes especially to that Austrian, Miami-based shitty pianist calling himself a jazz musician): I work as an editor, translator and teacher in order to support myself as an independent writer. Because if there’s something I’ve learned from the many years of writing cultural criticism is that having the option to say FUCK YOU is indispensable. There’s no other way.

Of course, this being an «option,» a choice at hand, one is always to refrain from using «fuck you» nilly-willy. What is the point of driving an opinion down to the mud just because you can? Like any other intellectual exercise indeed, criticism should (and must) adhere to the highest standards of thinking. And the more creative that thinking, the more precise and persuasive, the better. Criticism, after all, if not an art, is the ability to justify preferences, prejudices, inclinations. (And those thinking of themselves as liberated from judgment are free to cast the first stones.) The option of sending a resounding «fuck you,» however, is a reminder that crap should be fought with a blow.

Sure, criticism, an argument goes, is also an exercise in futility. That same argument tells us that artists, creators and peddlers are just tying to make a living. (Aren’t we all?) To which I say granted, because embracing art has never been an easy choice, never a call without its extreme hardships. I get it. But I suppose this suggests that criticism only adds noise rather than harmony. And while this is no doubt a valid point, I am not so sure it’s a smart one —which is precisely the point of criticism.

When someone, for example, argues that criticism only seeks to destroy those dedicated to create, that art is there to be appreciated only, or that critics are frustrated artists trying to bring down creators, we are confronting the typical (though subtle) realm of emotions. Feelings, the argument goes on to illustrate, are more important, more noble and certainly more worth of consideration because they come from the heart, not the head. The head, bah, is incapable of feelings. That is, the head is incapable of loving, of appreciating an effort. Is it only trough feelings that we are able to reach love, that cozy, democratic state where everything is relative, everything is good, homey and sweet. Love, you know, can conquer all. This is how thoughts and ideas, opposing views and perspective have become enemies of enthusiasm, hard work, honesty and (I know) compassion. These psychological candies of publicity may also explain why many, including artists with brains, regard any deliberate exercise of the mind as a symptom of emotional poverty.

But this is not so terrible in itself. In fact, it is the stuff that moves the world, making for the history of human experience. The problem is that this sort of reasoning (straight from the heart, no doubt) has always led, sooner or later, into a habit anyone dealing with illumination should be concern with: self-deceitfulness by way of corruption. Which is far worst than deceiving others (as bad as this is). The first victim of this habit is language, and it is hard not to point out that when language becomes murky, imprecise, ambiguous, poor…. neither heart nor head can work properly. And if they do, well, you should get the picture.

Artists who take great offense at criticism have usually moved by motu proprio (pushed, some of them, by stubbornness) into believing that because their work is the result of a labor of love or it is done as a vehicle for entertainment, it is not possible to appraise it with the head. When a dialogue is open, which is one of the primary missions of criticism, they «feel» attacked. This is so because «thinking,» one suspect, has never been an exercise they rely upon, or relish, or care for. Most of them use the term «constructive criticism» to feel (again) that they have a strong point. One has only to press, however, for what this obnoxious term really means to see in their faces a reaction akin to those who had just smelled a silence fart in close quarters.

These, of course, are artists only in name —so why bother?, you may ask. Well, because even popular culture has been degraded, littered with banality. And with popular culture, language has taken the worst. Numbers, money, celebrity status… has turned idiots into heroes with an upper-hand to use words such as “art” and “artist” like common currency. Our disdain for knowledge and language has let it slip. No questions asked. No debate whatsoever. Indifference, once again, reigns supreme.

No wonder the word «love» is rarely a source of beauty, mystery, enchantment. More so in songwriting. Cole Porter saw it clearly back in his days when he wrote in a letter to a friend: «Yes, love means nothing, but it is still a wonderful ideal to restore elegance in our lives, which is why we still write some love songs. [But] I am afraid that now the word only means hump hump.» Even that «hump hump» is poetic, unlike our «fuck.» And not because fuck lacks poetic values, but because it has been tainted with stupidity. Like love, this raw word for the act of screwing has also become corny. I think this has do with the bread and circus that is our democracy. Once a private province praised and sung by those with great taste, the subject of sex has now become a public billboard dominated by illiteracy. You can say an artist with a potty mouth can amuse; a dumb-ass poking his fingers into crap is only that, a dumb-ass.

When criticism retorts with a «fuck you,» better believe it, it is only sending a lovely mockery.