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The New Yorker

| May 16, 2005 | Frere-Jones, Sasha | COPYRIGHT 2005 All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of The Condé Nast Publications Inc. This material is published under license from the publisher through the Gale Group, Farmington Hills, Michigan.  All inquiries regarding rights should be directed to the Gale Group. (Hide copyright information)Copyright

Rock music has rarely encouraged clarity. The most celebrated rock artists of the nineties were proud obscurantists: Beck's songs sounded like Dadaist poems; Nirvana's Kurt Cobain substituted fragments for stories; and Pavement's Stephen Malkmus, a John Ashbery fan, wrote lyrics that were easy to hear but hard to unpack. Rock, during that decade, was a long afternoon of boys staring at one another's shoes and hiding behind noise. The effect was sometimes disappointing, but it made strategic sense. Hip-hop had taken over the franchise for rhymed, metered, sonically aggressive verse and become omnipresent. When the other guy is making a killing on burgers, it pays to sell ...

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