there is no accounting for taste
Back in 2004, The Fiery Furnaces released their second album, Blueberry Boat, to decidedly mixed reviews.
In an excessively nostalgic review (of course), Pitchfork rated the album a 9.6 out of 10 and raved that it was a “record for the overgrown part of our brain that craves engrossing complexity.” On the other hand, NME was far less generous in its review of the album, deeming it “toe-curlingly unlistenable” and punishing it with a 1 out of 10.
So go the arbitrary evaluations of aesthetic value and musical taste. And nowhere is the arbitrariness of artistic judgement more apparent than in an indy music scene that is largely propelled by a highly self-conscious quest for novelty. The result is a wholesale dissolution of the concept of ‘indy music’ insofar as there exists no clear understanding of just what, exactly, ‘indy’ was ever supposed to mean, let alone what it could possibly represent today.
As my musical interests become increasingly marginal, I have begun to realize that more often than not, the best music has a polarizing effect on its listeners. Some people like what others cannot help but loathe, and we should all be grateful for the delightful inevitability of subjective whimsy—it is the one thing that prevents us from turning into our parents.
