Creating means being open to criticism – Saturday Night Live, Kendrick Lamar, and Tom Robbins

Are you not entertained? 

That’s been the mantra, the obsequious invitation for criticism, that has bedeviled creators since the dawn of time. Whether the artist in question banging a prehistoric beat on an antelope-skin drum (“I preferred Og’s earlier work”) or bending contemporary expectations with reinvented forms (“I think it is probably AI”), there never been a time when the critic’s sharp quill, pen, or tongue could be silenced – for better or worse. Sometimes, those critiques are built on a foundation of context and deconstruction of the creative process. Sometimes they are just somebody with a desire to be mean. Either way, to create means to open oneself to the opinions, solicited or otherwise, of any and all audiences. It’s just part of the package.  

I’ve been thinking about that relationship a lot lately. It’s no real secret that I have spent some time occupying that critic’s chair – hopefully while exercising the requisite level of responsibility. That idea of breaking down and talking about art, music, movies, and books continues to thrill me. It’s a habit I will almost certainly never break. But I’ve also been on the other end and, from time to time, been the subject of both praise and complaint. 

So, for this week’s Magic Three, I’d like to take a look at some creators, and the work they have produced, and the response that work has generated. It’s possible, in that process, that I might proffer an opinion or two or three myself. Like I said, being a critic is a hard habit to break. 

50 Years Live 

I’m not sure what episode they were on when I first checked in on “Saturday Night Live,” but I can tell it was early – there were still Muppets – and I was too young to both be up that late or to properly process that particular brand of anarchy. 

That didn’t, however, make me any less a fan. 

And while I’ve gone through my own peaks and valleys with the show, I’ve remained a fan of the concept. I’m that eternal optimist that believes that even when the show flounders – and it does on a regular basis – transcendence is only a cowbell away. My wife, who is English, finds the shows very American sensibilities grating after a while. But I have, and will continue, to stick with it – one ubiquitous catchphrase at a time. 

So, I am curious what the show’s big broadcast, a 50^th anniversary special airing – perhaps inappropriately - Sunday night, will feel like. Filling the basket with obvious successes seems easy enough to do, but that’s never been the show’s style. It was built on risk and, even when things started feeling a little staid and stale, the talent both behind and in front of the camera were always willing to take real risks. So, here’s hoping as the show takes a well-deserved victory lap that the opportunity to stumble remains part of its DNA. 

The Surrealist Exits Left 

As a young man, the writer Tom Robbins was particularly important to me. A charming surrealist whose books, most notably “Even Cowgirls Get the Blues,” “Still Life with Woodpecker,” and “Jitterbug Perfume,” combined elements of magical realism, unlikely-but-profound characters, and the slightly sweet stench of rot at the core of the American Dream. A friend of mine once described his books as ‘horny fairy tales for adults.’ He wasn’t wrong. 

As time passed, I found myself less engaged by his work. I’m not sure if this was a byproduct of the writer or the reader getting older. Perhaps both. Perhaps we just grew apart. It happens. Still, I found joy knowing that he was in the world, kicking over metaphysical stones and peering through kaleidoscope glass in my beloved Pacific Northwest. His voice may have felt different to me, but at least it remained. 

Sadly, Robbins, who felt eternally and Puckishly youthful, did have an expiration date. He died this week at the rather remarkable age of 92. A suitable tribute would be to return to those classic novels that earned him his reputation as a celebrated-if-askew man of letters. I will not be doing that. Instead, I’m choosing to re-read his final book, a sort-of memoire – the only kind he could write – entitled “Tibetan Peach Pie.” For me that will feel less like spending time with a writer’s work and more like spending time with a storyteller driven to spin yarns.  

That feels correct. 

Your Parents Hated Your Music, Too 

A punk rock act has never been asked to headline halftime at the Super Bowl and now they never will. As of Sunday, those 10 minutes between refilling the chips and dip and Terry Bradshaw’s final bit of analysis have experienced the most punk rock moment possible, an angry polemic aimed squarely at the man. 

A lot of people saw it. Not everyone got it. 

Kendrick Lamar’s “Not Like Us” might have started life as an admittedly epic diss track aimed at the reportedly unsavory leanings of his hip-hop contemporary Drake. But as Lamar capped his ferocious performance with the song’s deceptively slinky groove, it transformed into something larger – and infinitely more important – than just a rapper’s critique of another. 

Over the course of his short set, Lamar commented on, in no uncertain terms, the state of Black America, its place in historical discourse, ignored contributions, acknowledged stereotypes, and the necessity of revolutionary voices. That’s a lot to say, particularly in front of a sitting American president. Whether you agree with the sentiment or not, wrapping that sort of complex and meaningful messaging into a few pieces of popular music is an incredible feat. “Not Like Us” was not about Drake just as “Moby Dick” isn’t about the whale. 

Not unexpectedly, many have been critical of the performance. What’s interesting is the concern seems to be less about the message than the means of delivery. Complaints seem more focused on the musicality of hip hop, difficulty parsing Lamar’s rapid-fire delivery, and sort-of stripped down nature of the performance. People also seemed to have problems with Lamar’s bell-bottomed pants. Weird. 

Listening to these voices of dissent decrying his voice of dissent was not surprising. It’s the same sort of rhetoric older generations have been handing out to subsequent generations since, well, Og and his antelope drum. Your hot jazz is immoral. Your cool jazz is just noise. Your rock music is too loud. All those songs sound the same. I heard it from my parents, and they heard it from theirs. I would have loved for the Kendrick Lamar performance to have broken that cycle, but that’s probably asking too much.