Huffin', puffin', blowin' house down
The Village Voice redefines the art of the puff piece. Check out all that breathless wordplay: "…drawing 45,000-plus from all over the world to see the major gods in electronic music stand triumphant on 12 laser-saturated stages." I thought someone was being snarky, but no, given the run on adjectives here – "enormously commercially successful," "far exceeded, "icons chiseled in Mount Rushmore fashion on the psyche of electronic music" – you quickly realize that irony's not the point. Big up "the big boys." There's more puffery going on here than in a school full of blowfish. Stoner blowfish.
(It's weird, too, because Makkada B. Selah doesn't seem like the biggest rave fan, really, commercial massives or otherwise. Is the Voice even having to outsource enthusiasm these days?)
It's weird how often electronic music's defenders (and this is one of those times that I almost hate to be classed as one) fall back on the spirit of community service as a defense. "Faibisch says Moby deserves his hosannas: 'He's done a hell of a lot for electronic music in helping it get recognized in the mainstream.'"
Right, because god only knows, the only thing that matters is mainstream recognition. (Where I'm from, people like Ultra DJs have done more damage to techno's credibility than otherwise.) But to these guys it's more along the lines of: Who cares if the music's any good? It's all about the scene, maaaan. Semper fuckin' fi.
Problem is, bad music is still bad music, and lame scenes are still lame scenes. Tripe isn't a pearly gateway drug to transcendence; it's still just coiled, slimy innards. With friends like these, who needs friends? The good stuff will find its own audiences—the ones that deserve it, and vice versa. Just like the other stuff, actually.
