Though many of my friends were in on the joke, at first I found the title of Jessica Hopper’s new book, The First Collection of Criticism by a Living Female Rock Critic, uncomfortably arrogant. Given all the female music writers out there slogging through the trenches of male opinion, I was concerned that the wink of the title concealed the old, tired music-critic habit of making grandiose declarations as a means of bulldozing any potential contradictions. Music writing always involves a strange struggle with the ego. The intersection of journalism and opinion is so messy that critics often shirk the responsibility of addressing it. By positioning herself as a singular authority, I worried Hopper was denying the agency of other female voices in an attempt to distinguish her work.
I’ll happily admit I was wrong—though it can be nerve-racking to watch a writer you admire play chicken with the line of provocation. In the foreword, she writes, “This book is dedicated to those that came before, those that should have been first, and all the ones that will come after.” I shouldn’t have been surprised. This balance of confidence and humility, the willingness to admit vulnerability and address it with humor, has been drawing me to Hopper’s byline for years. But I would be lying if I said the title did not give me pause. I was afraid she had teetered off the edge and placed more importance on having a public persona than encouraging her peers and fellow writers. But you know what they say about books and their covers.
Hopper was one of the first music critics I read who didn’t make me feel like an idiot. Her pieces “Emo: Where the Girls Aren’t,” “Louder Than Love: My Teen Grunge Poserdom,” and “You’re Reliving All Over Me” brought to mind all the times I couldn’t remember the name of the seventh track on the fourth album in a conversation that made me feel less than worthy about my fact-retention chops—which are all too often mistaken for listening skills and personal taste. As someone who lives in constant fear of not knowing enough, it was comforting to imagine a tiny, teenage Jessica Hopper pretending to love Soundgarden when she really wanted to listen to the B-52’s, or acquiring knowledge of Dinosaur Jr. in hopes of a make-out session in the woods. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to store up little bits of music knowledge in anticipation of being quizzed on a date. Hopper’s reflections inspire solidarity, as opposed to embarrassment.
Some of the pieces do wander into uncomfortable diary-entry territory. I could have lived without the open letter to Sufjan Stevens or the pilgrimage to Gary, Indiana, after Michael Jackson’s death, for example. However, these inclusions are counteracted by Hopper’s ability to remove herself from the narrative when necessary. After a brief introduction to the piece, she lets Hole tell the story of Live Through This for Spin; her questions disappear so producers Sean Slade and Paul Q. Kolderie can step to the foreground. But sometimes her presence is the essential ingredient. In 2013, when Hopper reopened the conversation with music journalist Jim DeRogatis about the charges of R. Kelly’s sexual misconduct, I removed “Ignition Remix” from my playlists and stopped laughing at Trapped in the Closet. It was a sobering moment.
Above all, Hopper remains excited about music. She often makes a case for why music is interesting in the moment she’s writing, as opposed to rooting her arguments in nostalgia. (See pieces “You Know What?” “Old Year’s End,” and “How Selling Out Saved Indie Rock.”) Her writing illustrates the music-writer spectrum. Sometimes we are more fan than critic, and vice versa. Hopper excels at moving between the multiple roles—friend, naysayer, mentor—the critic is called upon to play in any given piece.
Perhaps I was so stuck on the title of this collection, so wary of its joke, because I was loath to admit how much my approach to music writing owes to Hopper. Her work has made it easier to justify my belief that writing myself into the story is more honest and useful than feigning objectivity. The writing in this collection is a precedent that ultimately justifies the title. 