A year of ends and beginnings: Jennifer Kelly
Another year, another couple hundred records. Not this year was, in any way, more of the same. I sent my only kid to college in August. I upped my commitment to paying work (at the expense of music writing, which doesn’t go far in when you’re covering $30,000 a year tuition). I saw two of my most consistent writing outlets sputter out and return—more than once—during the year. Dusted came back, as you can see, in an altered form.
And yet, even as everything around me changes, the process of seeking out and listening to and thinking about and writing about music remains remarkably stable. You hear a little bit. You want to hear more. You listen again.
Something I’ve enjoyed for a while - aside from having a twin who is also a music journalist, there is a writer (with really good taste) who has almost the exact same name as me and contributes to one of my favorite publications.
"Now the world knows of hardcore, and hardcore knows of the world. It has metaconsciousness. And so the wide-ranging four-band hardcore show on Thursday night in the Eisner & Lubin Auditorium of N.Y.U.’s Kimmel Center was only being true to hardcore’s past.
There was hardcore rendered by Sleepies, from Brooklyn, as amiable college-rock; by a band with an unprintable name, from Syracuse, as condensed, noisy self-analysis; by White Lung, from Vancouver, with big-gesture taunts and warnings; and by Ceremony, from San Francisco, as the breadth of hardcore, with changes of form, sound and attitude from song to song. There could have been a show like this 30 years ago, with four bands not too dissimilar from these. But it would have caused some confusion. And it might have been less likely for two women to emerge as the obvious stars.”
— Just one of many quotable passages from this review by Ben Ratliff
For all the nasty corporate influence, excessive sponsorship deals, gross product placement garbage, and general ‘selling of ones cool’ that is happening right now in the music press, I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why one would focus the brunt of those complaints on a handful of young female writers who primarily cover diy punk and indie bands that tend to be feminist or at least female-fronted, while simultaneously playing bro-dad to their male counterparts.
As far as I’m concerned, this is all that needs to be said about any of this.