Light's competitors, those newly imported Brit editors with short attention spans and Yanks to whom Radiohead is still a thing of novel exotica, will surely damn his new enterprise before they see an issue. They will castigate him for pandering to the parents of their audiences while flogging dead dinosaurs in the process; to them, what makes life worth living is the Next New Thing, The Sounds of Today. But some of us happily await the first issue of Tracks, if only so we can open a music magazine and read about someone whose CD we didn't just listen to and forget in the time it took to put it back in its plastic coffin.
"You mean you're not listening to The White Stripes?" asks Fleetwood Mac's Lindsey Buckingham, on the other end of the phone line to discuss such hazy concepts as "timelessness" and "nostalgia." I tell him I liked the White Stripes' Elephant the first time around, when it was called Paranoid by Black Sabbath.
"To some degree, that's the way I feel about it, too," he says. "I appreciate a certain thing that goes on and what they're not doing, but, yeah, in some ways, God bless them, it's sort of [the rock critics'] latest rage, you know? But it's hard to find things that are new, you know, outside of what's going on in hip-hop...In some ways, the young artists, they're drawing from the echoes of something that was already an echo of something else to some degree. And without the perspective of time or maturity of craft."
Face it: We live in sorry times, as desperate and disposable a period in pop-music history as there's ever been--worse, yes, than even the Disco Seventies or the New Wave Eighties or the Hair-Metal Nineties. At least those moments were unique and not merely echoes of echoes of echoes; at least Starland Vocal Band and Adam and the Ants and Poison were pioneers. Today what sells are karaoke versions of cemetery-bound oldies (American Idols singing Paul Anka), twice-recycled scrap metal (Staind, Deftones), banal balladry sung like nothing means everything (Evanescence), old women in tattered drag (Cher, still Top 10) and cobbled-together soundtracks to sinking-fast films (The Matrix Reloaded). Look at the Billboard Top 50 albums and ask yourself if these are the CDs you'll want in your collection 10 years from now; would you really run into your burning house to save your Toby Keith and Linkin Park discs? 'Tis now as it's forever been, of course: Rare is the Quality Act that sells, and you should know right now that the Beatles will be the exception to every argument forthwith.
And critics are no better, overrating The White Stripes and Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the Sounds (meet the new new wave, same as the old new wave) because no one likes to look like the geezer too winded to catch the bandwagon. The CMJ charts are clogged with alt.country veterans whose best albums grow smaller in rear-view mirrors, reputable geezers coasting downhill in second gear and seventh-gen punks pretending that fourth chord is of their own invention. Writers give this lot a free pass; better Pete Yorn and Blur than Kelly Clarkson and Live, they figure. So what if they're right. Jimmy Page's hammer of the gods would destroy them all.
This isn't intended as a damnation of all things new--or New Pornographers, pushers of a highly addictive brand of pop narcotic. There are a hundred songs released each year worth a hundred spins apiece, a dozen albums per annum that wind up perched on the "essentials" shelf. Today's no different from yesterday: Crap always outnumbers quality a thousand to one, but enough survives to make the journey enjoyable, especially with the windows down and the stereo cranked up.