Review by New York Times Review
BEN RATLIFF, the longtime popular-music critic for The New York Times, is very much an enthusiast, which is in no way remarkable among those who write about popular music - that near-oceanic category that includes jazz, world, country, folk, hip-hop, reggae, punk, goth, heavy metal, nearly everything except classical. Why bother to write about it if you don't like it, unless you're taking issue with a disappointing live performance? What is remarkable about Ratliff, who has written an appreciative, at times passionate book about the artistry of John Coltrane, is his musical intelligence and his almost singular breadth of knowledge and sympathy for all kinds of music. He also writes very well, a quality not at all common among those who write about music in general, a famously tricky subject, as its appeal, whether visceral or ethereal, verges on the ineffable. Ratliff's new book, "Every Song Ever: Twenty Ways to Listen in an Age of Musical Plenty," consists of 20 individual essays addressing various aspects of music, some of them quite basic and familiar: repetition, improvisation, virtuosity, density, speed and slowness; and others that might not necessarily spring to mind: "Purple, Green, Turquoise: Endless Inventory," "Wasteful Authority" or "Stubbornness and the Single Note." Following each essay is a list of the artists and songs mentioned. At the end of the piece "Draft Me! Speed" the list includes Bud Powell, Franz Liszt, D.R.I. (whose version of "Draft Me" made a large impression on Ratliff at a CBGB concert in 1984), Jerry Lee Lewis, Domenico Scarlatti and Outkast. This sort of range is more typical than not in any given essay, and his takes on various performances, recorded or live, are often unpredictable, never pedantic or exhibitionistic, and in every case informative. Here are a couple of samples of Ratliff at work in his essay "I Forgot More Than You'll Ever Know: Wasteful Authority": "Tommy Duncan, the baritone singer for Bob Wills's Texas Playboys, had sprezzatura as much as any singer. He was nearly 30 when he became famous in 1940, when 'New San Antonio Rose' became a genial virus across America, and even then he sang like someone who has seen death in his own clan. He was an observer. He had a flat face and small teeth and did not smile easily." Here is Ratliff two pages later, on Dean Martin: "Though he might not have admitted it, his music promoted hypnagogic thinking: like M. D. Ramanathan, the great Carnatic singer of Neelambari ragas, singing 'Sri Jaanaki,' Dean Martin singing a slow song ('If' or 'You Belong to Me') might send you in the direction of pleasant, refreshing sleep." Among the other artists discussed in the essay are Fats Waller, Joni Mitchell, Lil Wayne and Nina Simone. In an interview, Ratliff has cited the film critic Manny Farber as a primary model for his own writing. Ratliff shares a number of admirable traits with Farber, not least his boldness (he doesn't give a damn if he's trampling on your own musical tastes or preconceptions: Just shut up and listen to what I have to say) and a capacity for surprising takes on individual songs or artists that at first may seem to come out of left field but, finally, make perfectly good sense. Ratliff trusts his own ears: "'Ain't It Funky Now' (Parts 1 and 2), not a particularly famous James Brown song but in my opinion one of the greatest recordings in the world." Perhaps so, probably not (and many of Ratliff's pronouncements strike me as overblown or unreliable), but it doesn't really matter, he makes his case, and he makes it robustly: "Brown does an amazing thing. ... He starts to talk, rhythmically, sometimes repeating himself, not really going anywhere, cycling through his catalog of phrases, as an improvising musician does, as a preacher does, as oral poets do. ... He keeps punctuating with his voice as he plays: 'Heh.' 'Huh.' And then in a sudden, gruff command: 'Hit me!'" Now, who's going to argue with that? If "Every Song Ever" has an overarching theme, it is an injunction to open your ears! Music, or a component of music like repetition or pitch, is around us all the time, even "the distinct blasts of the commuter train whistle down by the river." In his smart, provocative introduction Ratliff reminds us that we live in a different musical universe now, at least as regards the multitude of digital delivery systems and platforms along with the fact that "every song ever" is downloadable: total access around the clock. There has been a revolution, not so much in music itself as in how we listen to music. Our options have broadened exponentially. We live in the world of the "curatorial me," in which we can roam across the entire realm of recorded music, transcending time, genre, culture, eliminating the divide between kitsch and high art, in order to cobble together a personal playlist that is beholden to no tradition or concept of musical continuity, that is nothing less than a musical expression of our own individuality. In the peaceable kingdom where Palestrina lies down with Conway Twitty and Slayer, no expression of musical taste or judgment is better or less good than the next. We are each of us entitled and unique, free to ignore or jettison all that has come before and what has developed out of what. Ratliff tells us: "But Beethoven and Bach, even combined - and great as they still are - do not prepare or condition you for the range of music that in 2015 is already, or could easily be, part of your consciousness. It is up to you to come up with reasons for engaging as a listener that can encompass Beethoven and Bach as well as Beyoncé, Hank Williams, John Coltrane, Drake, Björk, Arvo Pärt, Umm Kulthum and the Beatles." Ratliff concludes in his introduction, "This book is about listening for pleasure, and about listening to more." He makes an eloquent case. Another case that might be made is: Listen to less, listen better and more carefully, and repeat - no matter what century it happens to be.
Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [March 6, 2016]
Review by Booklist Review
In this age of access and abundance, the seemingly impossible dream of listening to every song ever recorded now appears to be within our grasp. And with this overwhelming cornucopia of musical options comes the challenge of deciphering and filtering the sounds that we listen to. Departing from the precedent set by Aaron Copland's classic What to Listen for in Music (1939), Ratliff (The Jazz Ear, 2008), a New York Times music critic, veers away from discussing such musical terms as melody, harmony, and rhythm and, instead, concentrates on such categories as repetition, stubbornness, virtuosity, density, sadness, community, and the perfect moment. Drawing on his expansive knowledge and eclectic taste, Ratliff breaks down the act of listening to music into 20 distinct chapters, making perceptive connections between artists ranging from Shostakovich to Ali Akbar Khan to the Jackson 5, and on to the Beatles, Phish, the Mothers of Invention, and Kanye West. Ratliff's primer, while often dense and obscure, is filled with bold statements, close listenings, and playlists and will be immensely rewarding for those who stick with it.--Segedin, Ben Copyright 2016 Booklist
From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review
New York Times music critic Ratliff (Coltrane: The Story of a Sound) is known mainly for his books on jazz, but in this insightful guide to contemporary music appreciation, genre limitations are off the table. Proclaiming proudly his purposes of "listening for pleasure, and listening to more," Ratliff demonstrates 20 contexts in which music can be appreciated, now that centuries of masterpieces are available through the Internet. Ratliff employs a "strategy of openness" that dispenses with genre barriers, freeing himself to make leaps of musical logic. Famous artists such as Neil Young and the Jackson 5 share space alongside lesser-known acts such as Sleep and Aztec Camera. Ratliff's scholarship shines; there's a lot to be said for a book on music appreciation that can draw apt parallels between DJ Screw and Bernstein's rendition of Mahler's ninth symphony. Ratliff helpfully includes playlists after every chapter. Agent: Zoe Pagnamenta, Zoe Pagnamenta Agency. (Feb.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review
Given the practically unlimited access we have to songs today, New York Times jazz critic Ratliff (The Jazz Ear) argues we should experience music in a way differently than from the way we did in the past. Instead of focusing on genres, for example, the author suggests that we listen for repetition, improvisation, and intimacy. With his encyclopedic knowledge of music both popular and obscure, Western and Eastern, and traditional and experimental, Ratliff provides a stunning breadth of examples to work out each of the 20 categories of listening he has devised. In a chapter on density, he conjures up examples from Miles Davis, rumba artists Patato & Totico, Beethoven, R&B singer Chaka Khan, and the Eighties industrial rock act Big Black. The results can be overwhelming, especially since Ratliff's categories often overlap. If the author had reduced the number of categories here, he would have been able to fully explore each facet. -VERDICT Despite the issues mentioned above, this ambitious book is well worth reading. Though intended for a broad audience, it is geared more toward music cognoscenti looking for new material and fresh ways to listen, rather than casual listeners. [See Prepub Alert, 8/10/15.]-Brian Flota, James Madison Univ., Harrisonburg, VA © Copyright 2015. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review
A veteran New York Times critic, Ratliff here goes beyond the focus on jazz in his previous books (The Jazz Ear: Conversations Over Music, 2008) to explore the consumption of music in its widest variety and availability. This is the critical equivalent of a series of mixtapes, the playlists compiled (now on computer rather than cassette) to share favorite music and to illuminate and entertain through juxtaposition. Streaming and downloading have made just about everything available to just about everyone, for better and worse, as programming algorithms strive to give listeners more of what they like rather than push them into unfamiliar territory. Urging "a strategy of openness" and offering "a spirit in which to hear things that may have been kept away from you," the author proceeds to analyze common elementssadness, silence, intimacy, density, virtuosityamong musical performances and styles that aren't often considered to have much in common. At the end of each chapter is a playlist of the music covered. The best essay, "Blues Rules: Sadness," is as startling as it is provocative, meandering its way to what might typically be considered blues through the haunted mortality of Nick Drake, some Mozart, and then proceeding to Slayer and Black Sabbath. One senses that the author could write a whole book on heavy metal: "it's all inverse gospel, and the code for listening to it is as complex as gospel's." Other essays are all over the musical map, but it's fascinating how Ratliff can bring a fresh ear to such familiar musicmaking the Beatles the centerpiece of a chapter on "Closeness" while the Rolling Stones are their polar opposites in the power of "Discrepancy"and how inviting he makes some little-known music sound, particularly when everything is so available. A collection of essays that makes unlikely connections that will encourage music fans to listen beyond categorical distinctions and comfort zonesthough reading the book feels a little incomplete without the listening that should accompany the experience. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
