Bratty by nature

Punks came around and spat at their Woodstock-worshiping elders; they evolved into indie rockers, a new establishment. Hip-hop produced a separate critical stream complete with its own brand of purists. This 1980s generation has lately been taken down by younger "poptimists," who argue that lovers of underground rock are elitists for not embracing the more multicultural mainstream. If you want a summation of this kerfuffle, check out Jody Rosen's 2006 Slate magazine piece "The Perils of Poptimism," then read Carl Wilson's wonderful small book on Celine Dion, "Let’s Talk About Love: A Journey to the End of Taste."

New sub-groups emerge

AS ANYONE who's read my voluminous writings on "American Idol" knows, I'm happy the tide has turned toward poptimism. Not only does it widen the field for us music-obsessed chin-scratchers, it has allowed for important new discussions about race, class and gender, those old staple subjects of music writing.

But poptimism has also taken the habitual tussling among music writers to a whole new level. Old canons are ripped down and new ones slapped up on a daily basis. In this process, amassing guilty pleasures is the new standard of hipness. Fascinating new subgroups have emerged, such as disco snobs and hair-metal purists. At the 2006 Pop Conference, for example, subjects lovingly considered included the Monkees, Leonard Nimoy and cartoon band Jem & the Holograms -- and that was all on one panel!

This atmosphere of openness is mostly fantastic, but characteristically, pop critics have found a way to turn it confrontational. Prefer Ray LaMontagne to Toby Keith? You're an NPR-listening square! Irritated by T-Pain? You're a Luddite! Sick of Fergie? You're sexist! And just as many critics take the opposite stance, with equal righteous vigor.

In the past, our debates were sort of like sumo-style tummy bashes -- a young Turk would stand up to the old guard and good-naturedly push his opponent out of the ring. Now, it's more like the scrum in rugby. Everybody pushes against everybody else, and we move forward in a huge blob of vehement opinion and mutual judgment.

The sports metaphor is deliberate. For all of its anti-authoritarianism, pop criticism remains, for most, a carefully scored game, rooted in hierarchical structures like best-of lists and star ratings. Its devotees may have followed the route of shamelessness into wide-open vistas, but they still feel compelled to push their own particular pleasures, guilty or otherwise, as the best. Some would say that's the duty of a critic. Others might suggest it's kind of macho. I think it's amusing, the way the process has created a new form of reproach -- shame on those who aren't shameless enough.

Meanwhile, in the corners and getting stronger every day is a new generation whose tastes might be veering back toward esoteric side streams. The three highest-scored new releases on the reviews aggregator Metacritic.com are by Steinski, Harvey Milk and Fleet Foxes: an obscure hip-hop-based sound artist, a heavy experimental rock band, and a pastoral folk-rock group known for highly intricate harmonies. Not exactly Jessica Simpson, but the kids love 'em. Who knows what their generation's guilty pleasures will be?

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ann.powers@latimes.com