Courtney E. Smith’s “Record Collecting for Girls” isn’t a how-to, nor is it about record collecting per se. The book instead offers a girly alternative to Nick Hornby, Chuck Klosterman and Rob Sheffield and their tomes of musical obsession.
On the surface, Smith succeeds. She explains how she’s come to love and depend on music, recalling nights spent arguing bands and geeky trivia with boys, how it all parlayed her fandom into a job at MTV. Smith’s tone is casual and personal; her story of obsession-turned-profession could certainly convince young women reading her book that the same is possible for them. Past this, the book’s merits are few.
Smith is more an enthusiast than a natural writer, and often sounds like one who is used to linking to a video or MP3 to do the explaining for her. Given more to rhapsodizing than contextualizing, Smith certainly conveys her passion for music, but she almost never qualifies the music, artist or why they matter: Smith assumes her readers are fully aware of the signifigance of early Elvis Costello or why Fall Out Boy is cheesy.
As the book progresses, it becomes less clear whom it is for. If it is for teenage girls, it’s for ones who already know the musical landscape well, but really only as far as it involves contemporary, Beatles-influenced guitar pop — in which case, this isn’t the book to stoke their interests. Music may be Smith’s life, but her tastes, as she represents them, are myopic: Discussion or even mention of jazz, funk, blues, disco, hip-hop, classical, avant-garde, dance music or music made by people living outside of America — barring British musicians from the last 30 years — is almost entirely absent.
Aside from her personal reminiscences, the book is strange and weightless. In various cultural essays (several tackle gender: the lack of all-girl bands, angry women of the ’90s), she loses the reins quickly, making points by disregarding cultural factors, a changing music industry and being selective in her music history. In her chapter on Madonna’s sexuality and influence, her thoughts are conflicting: Madonna tries too hard to be sexy, her influence on contemporary pop is unappreciated, her attempts to stay relevant are pathetic but also brilliant, she should stop now, though no one will ever replace her. If there is a point, it eludes both the author and the reader.
While the essays aim to engage and educate a novice fan, what Smith often winds up prescribing is skepticism for the male species — particularly musicians. She comes on like a learn-from-my-mistakes big sister, but winds up sounding like a thrice-divorced 50-year-old trapped in a 16-year-old girl’s courtship rituals. Smith writes of men as if they are scoundrels all, and devotes a chapter to a woe-begotten tale in which she falls for the advances of a musician, who she doesn’t suspect might be interested in her because she is in a position to help his band get on MTV. After a drunken kiss and “texting pop culture references back and forth for days,” she is heartbroken to find out he has a girlfriend. She seems to believe that there are only two roles for women in the lives of male musicians: groupie or wife. That Smith is resigned to this is depressing, especially in a book aimed at young women.
Smith’s book is one of the first of its kind: Chronicling one’s life as a music nerd, up until now, has been almost entirely a boy’s tale. Unfortunately, “Record Collecting for Girls” is a weak step, though certainly in the right direction. Hopefully, soon more girl geeks will get their say, as well.
On the surface, Smith succeeds. She explains how she’s come to love and depend on music, recalling nights spent arguing bands and geeky trivia with boys, how it all parlayed her fandom into a job at MTV. Smith’s tone is casual and personal; her story of obsession-turned-profession could certainly convince young women reading her book that the same is possible for them. Past this, the book’s merits are few.
Smith is more an enthusiast than a natural writer, and often sounds like one who is used to linking to a video or MP3 to do the explaining for her. Given more to rhapsodizing than contextualizing, Smith certainly conveys her passion for music, but she almost never qualifies the music, artist or why they matter: Smith assumes her readers are fully aware of the signifigance of early Elvis Costello or why Fall Out Boy is cheesy.
As the book progresses, it becomes less clear whom it is for. If it is for teenage girls, it’s for ones who already know the musical landscape well, but really only as far as it involves contemporary, Beatles-influenced guitar pop — in which case, this isn’t the book to stoke their interests. Music may be Smith’s life, but her tastes, as she represents them, are myopic: Discussion or even mention of jazz, funk, blues, disco, hip-hop, classical, avant-garde, dance music or music made by people living outside of America — barring British musicians from the last 30 years — is almost entirely absent.
Aside from her personal reminiscences, the book is strange and weightless. In various cultural essays (several tackle gender: the lack of all-girl bands, angry women of the ’90s), she loses the reins quickly, making points by disregarding cultural factors, a changing music industry and being selective in her music history. In her chapter on Madonna’s sexuality and influence, her thoughts are conflicting: Madonna tries too hard to be sexy, her influence on contemporary pop is unappreciated, her attempts to stay relevant are pathetic but also brilliant, she should stop now, though no one will ever replace her. If there is a point, it eludes both the author and the reader.
While the essays aim to engage and educate a novice fan, what Smith often winds up prescribing is skepticism for the male species — particularly musicians. She comes on like a learn-from-my-mistakes big sister, but winds up sounding like a thrice-divorced 50-year-old trapped in a 16-year-old girl’s courtship rituals. Smith writes of men as if they are scoundrels all, and devotes a chapter to a woe-begotten tale in which she falls for the advances of a musician, who she doesn’t suspect might be interested in her because she is in a position to help his band get on MTV. After a drunken kiss and “texting pop culture references back and forth for days,” she is heartbroken to find out he has a girlfriend. She seems to believe that there are only two roles for women in the lives of male musicians: groupie or wife. That Smith is resigned to this is depressing, especially in a book aimed at young women.
Smith’s book is one of the first of its kind: Chronicling one’s life as a music nerd, up until now, has been almost entirely a boy’s tale. Unfortunately, “Record Collecting for Girls” is a weak step, though certainly in the right direction. Hopefully, soon more girl geeks will get their say, as well.
