MUSIC
WAS an essential—probably the essential—art form of the 1960s. In a way that’s hard for anyone who didn’t live through the decade to grasp, music once reached deep into every facet of existence, from politics to fashion. It seemed destined to maintain a central role in people’s lives forever. Rock ’n’ roll was here to stay. Was its promise of eternal revolution one more false utopia? Today, music has retreated to life’s interstices, as a form of theater, iPod solipsism, an occasion for nostalgia, or an arena for the uninhibited celebration of personal freedom (usually expressed in portrayals of some sexual act or other). What happened?
If there is one writer equipped to answer this question, it is surely Alex Ross. The chief music critic of the
New Yorker, Ross has developed a loyal readership, and with reason. He is a musical omnivore, self-consciously exploding categories, ranging from Mozart to punk rock, juxtaposing Bob Dylan’s
Blood on the Tracks with...
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