Songs Without Words

Bob Dylan, one of the greatest American songwriters, built his career and public persona around mystery. Despite recording dozens of iconic songs, redefining rock music, and winning the Nobel Prize in literature, the music icon largely avoids the spotlight, rarely giving interviews and offering obscure answers when he does. Scholars and fans alike have speculated for decades that the folk singer’s reticence is a carefully calculated strategy that has transformed Dylan into a larger-than-life figure in American culture.

Whether this appraisal of Dylan is accurate, his approach to media and the spotlight is markedly different from how musicians today engage with audiences. With social media playing a larger role in determining the music we listen to — and music streaming platforms increasingly resembling social media with features such as followers and likes — artists have claimed greater control over how their music and narratives are communicated to the public, shifting some of the responsibility away from traditional music journalism outlets.

In the leadup to his 2023 album “Subtract,” pop star Ed Sheeran posted a weekly series of videos on his Instagram page called “Subtract Sundays,” in which he gave previews of songs on the upcoming album and described the personal experiences behind each track. While much of the music journalism world labels Sheeran as a purveyor of commercialized pop tunes, these videos expressed to his 47.6 million followers that there is genuine emotional backing behind his music.

Misheard lyrics can be a golden moment of serendipity. Often, these mistaken lyrics, or mondegreens, are just words that slip past our attention. Despite their falsehood, these alternative listenings of a song can open up compelling new interpretations and personal connections to the music.

A classic example: In the chorus of the hit folk-pop song “Stick Season,” singer Noah Kahan famously belts, “And I saw your mom, she forgot that I existed.” Since my very first listen, something about Kahan’s New England accent and cadence at the ends of words has led me to hear the word “stalk” instead of “saw.” Undoubtedly, the original lyric makes more sense in the context of this tender and aching tune. Still, it’s interesting to imagine a more sinister mood under the stream of Kahan’s buoyant, fingerpicked guitar strums: What if the speaker maintained a sympathetic exterior while harboring resentment and bitterness that pushed them to stalk an ex’s parent?

Another mondegreen I treasure shows up in indie-folk singer Sufjan Stevens’s “Goodbye to All That,” a song from his 2020 electronic music album, “The Ascension.” In the first verse, Stevens perfectly captures the restlessness of youth by crooning, “I’m driving to wherever you are / Now that all of my dreams have been confiscated / Circa 1975.” The reference to the singer’s birth year suggests that frustration and broken dreams have been lifelong friends, a characteristically sad note from this famously melancholy singer.

When you think of the most important players in the music industry, pop stars, managers in suits, and record labels might come to mind. Yet today, one of the most powerful figures in music may well be a bespectacled man ranting into a microphone about albums from the comfort of his bedroom studio. With over 2.83 million subscribers, Anthony Fantono’s YouTube channel The Needle Drop has brought the record review to the main stage of social media and popular culture. Fantano’s success has pioneered a growing genre of content creators on video sharing and streaming services who seek to transpose music journalism to new media platforms and wider audiences. These video reviews share their print predecessors’ earnest zeal for sharing music, but they more fully embrace the subjectivity and the personal quirks that shape our music-listening experiences.

Structurally, video platform album reviews follow the traditional format for music criticism. Like Pitchfork’s much-scrutinized articles, content creators provide context about the artist, highlight key examples that shape the reviewer’s take on the record, and conclude with a reflection on the work’s impact for both the artist’s career and popular culture. The sweet spot for YouTube reviews seems to hover around 10 to 30 minutes, but especially meaningful or provocative works may evoke reactions over an hour in length. While the word and space limits of print journalism force writers to spare words, the freedom of self-produced content allows critics to gush, rant, and wax philosophical opinions to their heart’s content.

Indeed, an overwhelming passion for music once again seems to be what sustains and provides the appeal for this format of record review. Fantano begins videos by announcing himself as “the internet’s busiest music nerd,” a title he defends by posting near-daily videos in addition to holding livestreams on Twitch. It’s almost endearing to imagine him listening to all the latest releases and poring over liner notes to find trivia tidbits for viewers. Furthermore, seeing and hearing someone speak communicates emotion and tone better than the written word, and YouTube’s music creators use this aspect to the fullest extent.

On Jan. 17, the media company Condé Nast disclosed its plans to merge online music magazine Pitchfork into its men’s lifestyle magazine, GQ. Staff writer layoffs accompanied this announcement, and followers of the music journalism world expressed their dismay at the loss of a distinctive voice in the field.

Condé Nast’s decision demonstrated that music criticism can’t stand by itself. Music’s biggest stars have an undeniable presence in popular culture, making headlines with everything from surprise album drops and red-carpet looks to how and where they travel. Still, relegating music journalism to the realm of celebrity chatter and lifestyle brands ignores the intrinsic value of assessing the art and the artist.

This column, “Songs Without Words,” will explore the shift in how listeners read and think about music. In this first installment, I start by assessing Pitchfork’s distinctive brand of album reviews — the bread and butter of music criticism — as the standard for what is both valuable and frustrating about the genre.