Chuck Klosterman Interview With Exclusive Excerpt From Upcoming Book "Eating The Dinosaur"

Story by Carson Vaughan 

| Published Oct 6, 2009

ER: Do you ever fear that arts criticism is completely arbitrary and capricious? You’ve stated multiple times that most criticism reveals more about the author than the subject.

CK: Do I worry that arts criticism is arbitrary and capricious? Well, it *is* arbitrary and capricious. The great media myth of the 1970s and ‘80s was that it somehow wasn’t -- that there were certain people with better ears and better aesthetics and better politics, and (somehow) those certain people were supposed to create a consensus about which Cheap Trick albums we needed to buy. To me, it seems ludicrous to even propose the possibility that specific value judgments in criticism have any relationship to objective reality. Criticism is a kind of intellectual entertainment. That’s all it is. But some critics are smarter or funnier or less conventional than others. Some are better writers, and some can introduce deeper ways of experiencing art. Nobody is always right, but some people are exceptionally talented at illustrating their personal view of rightness. So I see no problem with the arbitrary, capricious nature of criticism.

ER: Why should our daily media intake include entertainment reviews if criticism is so subjective?

CK: I don’t know. Maybe it shouldn’t. But here’ s why I like to read criticism: Sometimes, a writer will make me experience art in a new way. It will make me think about something I hadn’t previous considered, or it will crystallize something I felt but couldn’t exactly explain. I like thinking about music and film and TV and sports and politics. I love thinking about those things. And criticism is thinking about art in public.

ER: What is your ultimate goal in writing cultural analysis/criticism? What do you hope your audience takes from your work?

CK: I could make up an answer to this question, but I’m just going to honest with you: I try not to think about this, ever. I generally want people enjoy the work, but that’s about as far as it goes.

ER: What piece are you most proud of?

CK: Right now, I would say something from EATING THE DINOSAUR, but I’m sure that’s partially because that’s the project I most recently finished. Whatever you’re working on in the present always seems better than anything else you’ve ever done. My new essays do seem like the best work I’ve ever done, though. In terms of old stuff, I like the profile I wrote about the Guns N’ Roses tribute band, and there is one section in FARGO ROCK CITY where I compare side two of GNR LIES to the various gospels. That still seems okay. I thought my review of CHINESE DEMOCRACY was decent. Maybe I should exclusively write about Guns N’ Roses.

ER: The Internet is riddled with Chuck Klosterman interviews. Newspapers. Magazines. Blogs, etc. What is consistently the most annoying question you encounter?

CK: “What is something you really hate about popular culture right now?” I understand why people always ask me this, because whatever I’d say could be framed in a way to make the interview seem controversial. But I never answer that question. Sometimes people will ask me if I still hate Coldplay. That always confuses people, but that’s probably my fault.

ER: Inversely, what is one question you have never been asked that you’ve secretly been dying to answer?

CK: I’m not sure there is one. However, this would be the closest possible answer: One time I interviewed Jeff Tweedy of Wilco. The interview was over, and we were just kind of casually talking about how weird the world is. And he said an interesting thing to me. He said, “You know what question no reporter has ever asked me? No one has ever asked, `What are your albums actually about?’ They ask all these specific things about every single song and they ask all these weird questions about my personal life, but they never directly ask me what my albums are about, even though that’s why they’re supposedly interviewing me in the first place.” Now, he wasn’t complaining about this -- he just sort of mentioned how strange it is. And that’s really true. I have no idea how many interviews I’ve done over the past five years, but it’s curious that no one has ever overtly asked me what any of my books are actually about. Maybe that’s good, though. I’d probably just lie about my answer, anyway.

ER: What’s your prediction for the future of journalism? In 10 years, will the New York Times still land on my doorstep?

CK: I would be pretty shocked if that were still the case. I assume journalism will still exist, but newspapers won’t. It’s totally possible that the NY Times and the Washington Post will still be around in some capacity, but they will operate very, very differently. I’m sure “journalism” will still be around, but the larger issue is whether or not being a journalist will still be a job. I am starting to believe that people would rather consume terrible, biased information that’s totally free than interesting, credible information that costs even 1 penny. That’s the thing newspapers can’t compete with -- unlimited free content.

ER: How long did it take you to find your style and rhythm as a writer?

CK: My style is basically “no style.” I just write in whatever manner feels like the clearest, most efficient, most interesting means of getting my ideas across. And my rhythm is however fast I can type. This is a good question for someone else, but I don’t think it really applies to me.

ER: So arts criticism is subjective, and it’s clear that most blogging is, too. How has the lack of objectivity online affected arts media differently than political/business news (hard news)?

CK: I think it has effected perspective and autonomy. If you write about music (or TV or film) now, part of what you inevitably need to write about is how the ocean of “early responders” have already pre-judged the work. In the past, the first responders to any media entity were straight news people who weren’t expressing opinions: If Britney Spears was releasing a new album, a mainstream rock critic would mostly just have to worry about neutral facts -- who produced the record, certain quotes Britney had said about the album prior to its release, etc. The experience the critic had with the actual music, however, was autonomous. He or she could listen to the album and try to figure out what it was supposed to mean and how good it was (or wasn’t). But that never happens anymore. Now, albums leak early and there is all this slanted information about the music (“This is her comeback record,” “This is terrible,” “This sounds like her first album “ ... whatever opinion people decide to push). All those early responders build off each other and repeat the same thoughts, and -- pretty soon -- there is a consensus of thought. And very often, that consensus is shallow and vaguely disconnected from the record itself. So as a critic, you find yourself asking this question: “Everyone believes _____ about the new Britney Spears album, but is that belief accurate?” Whereas in the past, you only had to ask yourself, “What do *I* think of this record?”

ER: When is a band too old to keep playing shows? From a critic’s perspective, how does continuing to play the late-70s/early 80s rock festival circuit fare for the participants’ legacies?

CK: No band is too old to play, unless they physically cannot carry their instruments. Of course, that doesn’t mean I have to watch them. But if a band wants to play and certain people still want to see him, I can’t see how this is a problem. If they humiliate themselves, I suppose that would hurt their legacy, but -- if they’re still playing -- they’re obviously more interested in the present than in the future. Moreover, a lot of those bands need the money. A group like the Pixies really didn’t make any money until after they reunited.

ER: You once said, “The biggest problem in rock journalism is that often the writer’s main motivation is to become friends with the band.” (Sept. 12, 2003, Mediabistro.com). Are you currently or have you before befriended anyone you’ve ever interviewed?

CK: Not to my knowledge. June Panic, maybe, but I don’t even have his email address.

ER: You’re from North Dakota. We are from Nebraska. In your capacity as a writer and critic, what do you believe is the Midwest’s greatest contribution to popular culture in the last 20 years?

CK: David Letterman or Prince.

ER: Half Shell Entertainment has acquired screen rights to “Killing Yourself to Live.” Why adapt this memoir to the screen? What are your biggest fears in doing so?

CK: My fear is that the movie might be awful and that it will cinematically manipulate a reality I already manipulated on paper. But why are we still doing this? Because maybe it will be really good. Maybe the film will be better than the book. And I think this movie could have an incredible soundtrack.

ER: What one factor do you think most affected your writing in “Downtown Owl?” (i.e. At the time I was reading Sherwood Anderson—OR—I just finished re-examining my high school year books, etc.)

CK: The desire to write a novel that (a.) I had always wanted to read, but (b.) did not previously exist. That was the same reason I wrote FARGO ROCK CITY -- that was a book I had always wanted to find in a store, but I never found it. So I wrote it.

ER: Is it fair to say that “Downtown Owl,” while fiction, is an extension of the cultural analysis you’ve already been practicing for years?

CK: Yes.

ER: It seems the critical consensus for your novel is that it’s pretty good, but you sometimes slip and begin narrating like yourself. How do you respond to those critiques?

CK: You know, if I was cool, my response would be, “I don’t.” But to be perfectly honest, that critique drives me crazy. It’s actually kind of hilarious: I suppose the narrator *does* sound like me, since I WROTE THE FUCKING BOOK. MY NAME IS ON THE COVER. I AM THE NARRATOR. Who did these people think the narrator was supposed to be? Mitch Albom? Lady Ga Ga? I think that’s such an absurd, counter-intuitive criticism. Do David Mamet plays sound too much like David Mamet? I suppose they do, although that’s precisely what people like about them. That’s why they’re distinctive. What Beatles album doesn’t sound like a Beatles album? If someone doesn’t like my writing style, they probably shouldn’t read my books. My books tend to include a lot of my writing.

Excerpt from "Eating The Dinosaur" in stores on October 20th

The best response to being caught in an illicit homosexual relationship after spending much of your political career pushing antigay legislation and campaigning on a family values platform.

“I will concede that I am more confused than the average person. I’ve spent my entire life denying who I truly was. But my motive for that denial was political, even before I was a politician. I always believed that I could serve the greater good by advancing myself into a position of power, and—in order to make that a reality—the compromise I made was to attack the social mores that were extensions of everything I feared about myself. I felt extremely guilty for doing this, and I felt as though

"I deserved to be punished. My religious upbringing dictated retribution. So by publicly criticizing the gay community, I felt like I was silently punishing myself. Now, I was totally aware that this was hypocritical, and that hypocrisy consumed me. It was all I ever thought about. It became so pervasive within my consciousness that I found myself acting upon my own suppressed desires. I became romantically involved with someone of my own gender, completely aware that this could destroy me politically.

"That was part of the attraction. Sadly, I enjoyed feeling self-destructive. When that relationship became more intense, I began to accept that I was gay. And that’s why I kept pushing for
laws that hurt the gay community. Political duplicity was the only way I could confront my own personal demons. I deeply apologize for hurting other people, but the only person I was trying to hurt was myself.

“Also, I am an alcoholic.”

The best response to having the film you directed go $200 million over budget while single-handedly bankrupting the movie studio.

“Critics will say I lost control of this project, but that’s not accurate. The reason my film became so sprawling and costly is because—for the first time in my life—I was completely in control
of the creative process. The film inside my brain was literally being transferred onto the celluloid, image by image by image.

"It was almost akin to a scientific breakthrough. This has never happened before, to anyone. In the past, movies were merely an interpretation of what someone intellectually conceived, inevitably
falling short of the ultimate intention. But this was different. This was the perfect transfer of theory to reality, and that did not come without a cost. I realize the constraints of capitalism have
inflicted a degree of collateral damage at the studio, and that disappoints me.

"There were a lot of fine people working there, and I hate that this endeavor has caused them to lose their jobs. It’s awful. But on balance, $200 million seems like a small price to pay for this kind of aesthetic advance. Even if all the reviews are negative and it does no business whatsoever at the box office, this will have to be remembered as the first truly successful film.”