Last week it was nothing but good news from me, but that was last week.
This was a tough week for me, with allegations against probably my favorite white musician, Ryan Adams, arriving a day before Valentine’s Day, which I of course spent alone, lurking certain subreddits.
It’s like the lord was trying to tell me something—what I’m not sure. I might have to spend some time reflecting on that this weekend. It would be disrespectful to the alleged victims to say that I’ll be listening to Heartbreaker, possibly on repeat, as I may very well have been anyway, so I won’t say what I’ll be listening to.
Although, if my understanding of the music industry serves correct, Taylor Swift makes most, if not all, of the money from streams of the Ryan Adams version of her album 1989, which is much better than Pitchfork would have you think. Something to think about, for anyone suggesting that Adams’ music should be removed from streaming. God forbid.
Something else to think about: The allegations against Adams aren’t especially bad, as far as these things go. This is more of an Aziz Ansari situation than a full-on Harvey Weinstein. Ansari, you’ll recall, was criticized for, among other things, ordering a bottle of white wine before his date could announce that she wanted red wine … in a damn oyster bar. He was merely trying to save her from herself. (She later gave him a consensual blowski, IIRC.)
Similarly, Ryan Adams has been criticized for telling Mandy Moore that she isn’t a real musician, because she doesn’t play an instrument—which, on the one hand, is no way to treat Mandy Moore (and I’ll be telling him this, if I ever see him in person), but on the other hand, why is this in The New York Times?
Adams was married to Mandy Moore for a hot minute, back when she was trying to transition from being someone who was once on TRL to someone who would be appropriate for an adult to listen to. She was probably hoping he’d produce her next album. Apparently they did record music together, but he wouldn’t let her release it. This may have been another matter of a guy trying to save a woman from herself, only to have his efforts misconstrued.
None of Adams’ efforts in the studio with his various female protégés seems to have led to anything other than perhaps a brief romp atop a 48-track mixing board, and I’m thinking that might be the problem more so than anything else. It’s one thing to dangle career opportunities in front of a woman in exchange for some stank. (At the very least, it’s presumptuous.) It’s a whole other thing to completely fail to uphold your end of the bargain.
Would we be having this discussion if Mandy Moore, not Kacey Musgraves, had been the mediocre white woman who won Album of the Year at this year’s Grammys?
Another alleged Adams victim, Phoebe Bridgers, has an album named after a line from the censored, TV version of The Big Lebowski, which you’d think would make her a woman after my own heart. I’ve been walking around quoting from Lebowski since it came out, i.e. back when it was completely (not just mostly) socially unacceptable. In all that time, I don’t know that I’ve met a girl who’s seen that movie, or even a guy who wasn’t sweating. Nullus.
Bridgers was young to know from good movies, especially for a woman (haha jk), but she was perfectly legal. Another of Adams’ alleged victims, on the other hand, was on the young side. When they met, she was only 14. Damn.
Fortunately, Adams’ sexual interactions with this girl didn’t extend beyond randomly popping up naked on FaceTime, Chatroulette-style. Or so she says. His lawyer, who must be Jewish, says Adams can’t recall exposing himself to any middle-school-age kids. She admits to having sent him noodz, which was illegal for her to do, and to having told him she was 18.
Adams’ lawyer says she looks like she could be 20. What exactly he meant by that I’m not sure. I wish I had a (fully clothed) photo of her, not “for my own personal amusement,” but to aid in my decision-making progress.
Take it easy on yourself,