![]() ![]() We live in a fractious, fearful world that requires no further divisions, aesthetic or otherwise. But it’s such a sloppy, politicized business, often more related to the identity of the listener, and the perceived identity of the artist–race, class, geography, faith, etc.–than to actual emic cultural values, auditory information, or slippery musicological signifiers like “style,” that we tend to avoid it when possible, at least amongst ourselves. It fulfills certain pragmatic needs, of course, to discuss expressive culture, and music in particular, by classifying and categorizing it. Lafferty, The Devil Is Dead (1971)Īs a record label comprised of old friends with largely aligned, often weirdly telepathic, curatorial interests–decidedly not the same thing as taste, which is a bourgeois ruse, but don’t get me started on that–Paradise of Bachelors has long nurtured a vexed relationship with genre. “Learn the true topography: the monstrous and wonderful archetypes are not inside you, not inside your consciousness you are inside them, trapped and howling to get out.” ![]()
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