Carousel corner.(THE MUSIC)

NPR's "On the Media" ran a segment in January (it's archived at http://www.onthemedia.org/ otm012105.html) which posited the demise of my generation of pop critics, asserting that "we" spent too much time and ink wringing our hands over the next Springsteen release or why Elvis Costello's latest disc wasn't up to Armed Forces, that we'd lost perspective. More importantly, according to the editors of more than a few big circulation dailies, we'd lost the attention of a key marketing demographic: females between the ages of 18 and 34, who buy recorded music at a rate disproportionate to their share of the population and presumably turn to big circulation dailies as their first choice for critical review. The clear message: enough with the old farts; give us Britney, J-Lo, Christina, Justin, Avril and so on. Among the victims of the gray purge have been Joel Selvin of the San Francisco Chronicle, one of my early models of thoughtful pop criticism, and Richard Harrington of the Washington Post, who, despite my many disagreements with his critical judgment, blanketed the local music scene with dogged determination, setting a standard for metro dailies everywhere.

As I scan the list below, I fear that this is one critic who, consciously or not, falls into that mold. Only a small handful of the artists on parade this month (Joss Stone, The Iguanas, Rachel Yamagata, Nellie McKay) aren't fighting advancing grayness and the weight-shifting ravages of middle age. Even Sonic Youth should perhaps consider an appropriate name change, say, Sonic LongInTheTooth.

Even if we're wont to preach that rock'n'roll is the province of the young, we're equally prone to castigating them for being, well, young ... and feckless, self-absorbed, angst riddled--for shamelessly displaying all the trappings of young adults, who simply haven't lived long or hard enough to have achieved the lofty perspective of advancing age, as if the genus fartus antiquus has the answers, much less a clue. Our job, indeed if we've learned anything at all, is to critically assay the success, or lack, of an artistic endeavor on its merits, not by holding it up to some cultural, ageist scoring system, and certainly not by promoting things popular for the proximate reason that they're popular.

If this column has any objective, it is to suggest to you, gentle reader, the possibilities of pop music--especially in an audiophile environment where too many consider pop music steerage class. We are not afraid to toss brickbats, as with Fogerty's forgettable Deja Vu All Over Again or Mark Knopfler's regrettable Shangri-La last issue. Nor are we afraid to toss bouquets to artists whose visions or virtuosity broaden and mature (R.E.M.'s Around the Sun last ish or Sonny Landreth's Grant Street below), because in the end they're plowing furrows that are new to all of us, tentative responses to the persistent query, "What do you do with fat, gray, wrinkled rock stars?" Are they any different than aging conductors or jazz idols? Certainly, less was not expected of Leonard Bernstein or Herbert von Karajan. Similarly, Sinatra's and Armstrong's dotages were paragons of due praise for the mastery of their craft, despite diminished physical gifts. I don't think you ignore the Stones, Brian Wilson, Joe Jackson, or Prince in favor the flavor of the month (Franz Ferdinand, Modest Mouse, The Killers, Scissor Sisters, Sahara Hotnights, and so on--though all of these are wonderfully impressive acts who will nonetheless need more than one good record before being consigned to the One Hit Wonder bin). Nor do I think you fret interminably over those who should have shelved themselves some time ago (Sting, Fogerty, Rod Stewart, Kansas, etc.).

We celebrate bona fide accomplishments regardless of vintage. Conversely, pretension, manufactured images, sloth, and the plainly talentless don't get a free ride. Bottom line: we call 'em as we hear 'em. Yes, others will disagree, and you should consider their views as well. In the critical world, there is no truth, only perception. As Harry Pearson once asked, "Isn't that what they taught you in journalism school?"

John Butler Trio, Sunrise Over Sea (Lava)

John Butler's first full-length stateside release, Three, was an angry, bullet-spitting, chest-thumping whompus of politicized ecotestosterone, fueled more by the ragged urge to bash indiscriminately than the need to make an artistic statement. They're different, you ...