Blank generation

How, then, can these gutted creations have meaning?
"Pavlovian-conditioned response, I suppose, because the cliches of popular music are about what most people care about and like. If I write a song that goes, 'I love you, I'm sorry I hurt you, please stay,' there you go. It's a great, meaningful song. In fact, what a good title! It's got a little personality, and it's got that blankness that makes you wonder what it means...not so much irony, but the suggestion of irony."

Wait. What most people care about? There's a suggestion of brittle detachment there, an attitude toward cliche that's half desire to embrace it, half desire to disembowel it--a perfect way, it turns out, to summarize the way Merritt treats cliches in his own songs. It's that balance that ultimately distinguishes his songs the most, so the real question becomes whether he believes that his own personal concerns, and the concerns he expresses in his songs, are the same as the concerns "most people" have. There is a very long pause, as Merritt, who speaks almost exclusively in complete sentences, sips his tea and chooses his words.

"They do a lot less kissing in Asia..." Another pause. "I'm probably more interested in difficult loves because I'm gay, and I'm probably more interested for the same reason in operatic plots. I'm not an energetic dancer, so I don't write a lot of songs about how we ought to move our feet around. I don't tend to write songs of short-term social-political relevance...I have a lot of songs about other songs, basically. [Village Voice critic] Robert Christgau dismissed Holiday with what I thought was a perfectly fair review: 'More songs about songs and songs.' That's the most concise and true review that I think I've ever gotten. I don't see it as a dismissal. What I care about most in the world is popular music, actually. More than love, I think I care about popular music. I would rather be disfigured than go deaf."

When the interview is over, we are alone in the back garden of the pub in Manhattan's East Village where Merritt goes every afternoon, as a routine that orders his life, to drink his tea. Inside, somebody's playing a CD on the stereo system. There's still a lavish spread in front of us: scones and a salad, jars of marmalade and jam. It's a pity that we are no longer hungry.