Richard Meltzer

One of America's premier rock critics, Meltzer wrote features for the Reader from 1985 to 2000.

Articles by Richard Meltzer

Autumn Rhythm

The joys of geezerology

Haiku #1 where the fuck’s my car? don’t even gotta be drunk no more t’ lose it! Gig Let it be known, to begin with, that I didn’t ask for this, but was asked — ...

Third Spud from the Sun: Cameron Crowe Then and Now

Mr. C. Crowe was not one of rock-crit’s TOP TWENTY-FIVE figures.

By the time Cameron showed up, Rolling Stone was little more than a highwater marker for self-effacing, slave-drudge careerism: the most conspicuous place, nationally, to have your copy butchered, your ideas reshaped to fit the moment’s market-driven party line.

CD review: Alan Lechusza/Christopher Adler Duo, Pleistocene

There’s nothing wrong with this — it’s great. Oh, okay — so what izzit? Two guys playing, well, one of ’em’s on saxophone, two saxes actually — soprano and baritone — and the other on ...

The Magnificent Meatsticks

CD review: The Magnificent Meatsticks, You can download all of this from, including a little ditty called “Richard Meltzer Is My Fucking Hero” — I kid you not. But it couldn’t be me ...

Wild and Crazy S.O.B

Gave up on the family thing.

Perhaps it’s a question of semantics, who knows, but I feel incredibly relieved to be done with “family,” “home” — these are things you grow up to leave and be done with, at least as ...

Richard Meltzer on the 1900s

Final notes on the only century we've got for another week

MY CENTURY, YOUR CENTURY BOBO OLSON'S CENTURY Century’s short but centuries long should be limited. — "Microwave," William Carlos Williams [It ended abruptly around 1970, or slightly earlier. ’69 would be a good likely date. ...

Vinyl reckoning

Robert Christgau, the Fugs, Moby Grape,the Germs, Joy Division, Jaki Byard, Ernest Tubbs, Gershwin, Lavender Hill Mob, Lester Bangs

Things we’ve saved and saved and SAVED. For all the stupid reasons you or I or anybody saves things. You can’t take them “with you,” not all, not any, but chances are what’s left is ...

Chump change touchstone of nothing

I have no context, no history (other than remote; remoter than remote; wholly, utterly adventitious) to plug into when I listen to classical music, no environment in which to meet and greet it even halfway.

Hey, Mr. Deejay, what's that powder on your face?

Why am I playing such crap?

Ten minutes later my guest arrives, John Cale, never my favorite member of the Velvet Underground, always struck me as a method actor, ugh, though some people thought of him as a progenitor of punk.

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