Douglas Wolk and Ann Powers have both lamented to me on separate occasions that a younger generation of music writers seem less obsessed with general "good" writing, and more obsessed with generations of music writers. That the profession has become inbred (my words, not theirs). And while we all need living, breathing mentors (Douglas and Ann are good ones), it is also imperative that a writer keep some kind of bookcase of influences, no matter how positive or negative, outside the relatively new field of popular music writing. While fiction is the staple, I am starting to notice among my friends a great trend: passion for other senses and writers who capture them well.

When I was in Seattle last spring, the lovely Kate Silver asked me "Who's your favorite film writer?" and in thinking about it, I began to pay attention to which critics my other music writer friends admired "outside our circle." Matos and Beta are foodies, and Beta has started his own blog about food, the Clean Plate Club.

Douglas is, of course, the master of deep thoughts on comic books (I recently finished The League of Extraordinary Gentleman, at his suggestion and gift, and I was thrilled by its fussy language, the characters' crispness, of how the characters seem to be enshrouded in melancholy), which means he must attend not just to the writing, but to the eye. He and I had a kind of brain-cracking conversation about "language about lines" or how to describe the signature way an artist makes their line. It made me start paying attention to how art critics discuss the elements of art when critiquing it. Is it more a question of formal language, accepted metaphors, or a series of relations? What elements of a work fit which parts of language better? Does time-based work need different language then spatial work? Why are there more grades of language for the eye than the ear? Who, besides food writers, attends to the most ignored (and most sentimental) of senses, smell?

This is the beginning of a confession for a crime I have yet to commit. I think I really, really love fashion writing. This piece by Guy Trebay, about the Milan spring fashion shows is an inspiration to me, managing to find a way to approach the nearly impossible subject(summarize multiple events a la CMJ) with a writer's eye, a fashion-addict's sense of detail, and some leveling as to the greater significant of the event in our time.
A year ago I went to dinner with a fashion writer, and I found myself listening enraptured to her description of her beat. I remember going home on the subway daydreaming about a subject swap. What would I do if I were to spend a few months writing about fashion? Would I be a heifer to the slaughter? Certainly I would have a lot of reading to do, a lot of touching and looking to do first, and I would likely never escape making reference to music (Clearly "Sexyback" was just made for this fall's runway, in spite of the fact that the beat isn't really in a walking gait) in my writing. But maybe that would be good, if not for fashion readers, then at least for my music writing.
Or is this the logic that has lead a whole generation of contemporary writers working with popular music/memoir to become the dominant style of "the rest" of music writing, aka, the slow death of the critical part of music criticism. I mean, how many books are there with music critics as characters? Who reads these books? Is is not the natural end to a cycle where music writers only pay attention to themselves? I mean, being Almost Famous is not a career goal, at least not for me, and while I respect my predesseors, mentors, even adversaries (who have shaped me too, maybe moreso) the one thing I see from the pop music part of my library is that each writer comes from a unique voice, attacks their subjects/themes with a new eye, writes with passion and quirk, and has something more to say than simply about music or writing. And you don't learn those things just listening to, reading (or writing?) about music. In other words, I see a lot more chiffon in my future, and I hope it improves my sillouette.