“Hate” is such a strong word, but I can’t get my head around Rubin’s dumb book any other way. I’ve soured on Rubin over the years as he has shifted from less business and more “creativity,” wandering the world in his unruly, unwashed opulence. Sure, he looks the part of a creative guru, but my lord this dude is full of shit.

Case in point, his pretty little book The Creative Act, A Way of Being. Frankly, I didn’t have enough lube on hand to get through the masturbatory slog that is The Creative Act. This book is what happens if you asked ChatGPT to write a meditation about creativity from the perspective of someone who is totally out of touch with reality.

I could not be more serious when I say: I don’t think Rick Rubin had anything to do with writing this book. Or, he wrote every word and the world holds the wrong idea about him.

I’ve stashed this book right down there with Atomic Habits and The Subtle Art of Not Giving A Fuck — books written for people who don’t read books. The kind of books where the cover is more useful than anything within them — books that are conversation pieces at parties where two people say “oh, I have that book, too!” The implication is that both of them read it, the reality is they both bought it because it was front and center at whatever novelty bookstore is next to their favorite Starbucks.

Don’t get me wrong, Rick Rubin has a helluva pedigree behind him. Through Def Jam he brought an entirely new awareness to hip hop. He has produced some of the most well-known and bestselling music of all time. He brought Johnny Cash back into the spotlight for an epic swan song. Lately, though, word around the block is that no one is entirely sure what Rubin does in the studio anymore other than charge ridiculous amounts of money to put the “produced by Rick Rubin” label on the cover of the album.

For example, take Geezer Butler’s account of Rubin’s addition to the Black Sabbath album, 13:

“I still don’t know what he did. It’s, like, ‘Yeah, that’s good.’ ‘No, don’t do that.’ And you go, ‘Why?’ [And he’d say], ‘Just don’t do it.’ I think Ozzy one day went nuts ’cause he’d done, like, 10 different vocals, and Rick kept saying, ‘Yeah, that’s great, but do another one.’ And Ozzy was, like, ‘If it’s great, why am I doing another one?’

The result was a record deemed unlistenable by the top record critics. The recordings were highly compressed and loudly mastered. “The new Black Sabbath album was produced by Rick Rubin, who some believe to be a prime offender in the recent history of highly compressed and loudly mastered music — a major cause of ear fatigue,” writes NYT critic Ben Ratliff in a 2013 review. “‘13’ is mastered loudly, too; Mr. Iommi’s guitar tone planes outward, leaving very little space, and the drums stay high and present in the mix. Your ears aren’t given room to breathe.”

There is a big difference between a metal album sounding loud and heavy, and having a recording where all the dials are turned way up. This was a whole big thing in the Loudness Wars of the 90s and ’00s.

But for Rubin, let’s not forget the pivotal and highly memeable 60 Minutes interview with Anderson Cooper. Of the many truly dumb things he says, and has continued to say: “The audience comes last, they don’t’ know what they want.”

His point being: the artist shouldn’t let the audience’s opinion enter the studio. The right people will discover the result of your efforts. I would agree with this if discovery wasn’t strangled by algorithm. The audience you have is there because you’ve done something they like. The audience is why any of us bother publishing anything.

The interview continues:

“Do you know how to work a soundboard?” asked Cooper.

“No. I have no technical ability,” Rubin responded. “And I know nothing about music.”

“With Public Enemy, I signed them, but what they were doing was so self-contained and interesting, most of what my job was was just saying, ‘Yes, this is great. Do more of this.’”

Is this really what we need more of? Someone who is not your audience saying “yes, more of this?”

My Biggest Gripe

What does it say when someone who spent forty years in an industry only to write a book that shares zero stories about that industry. This is a book about the mushy idea of creativity, not evidence of the creation itself. It is a collection of greeting card motivations that ultimately go nowhere and lend a whole lotta not much to the reader. He could reinforce his methods, drive home the magic of the studio, and show how incredibly difficult creativity can be if he told a few stories from the decades of work he has done.

But no, he couldn’t. Otherwise, The Creative Act would have been something other than silly performance piece.

If you want a story of someone who was a true creative force for the music industry right up until the day he died, look to Steve Albini.

For one, he was a musician, IN A BAND. He had technical ability because that is what people hired him to do, to be. No act, just work.

He served as the recording engineer with some of the most definitive indie bands of the 80s and 90s — like The Pixies, PJ Harvey, and Nirvana — who he famously proposed to the band: “I think the very best thing you could do at this point is exactly what you are talking about doing: bang a record out in a couple of days, with high quality but minimal “production” and no interference from the front office bulletheads. If that is indeed what you want to do, I would love to be involved.”

The full letter wherein he proposes how he would help Nirvana make their next record — In Utero — is well worth the read: The mind-blowing proposal letter Steve Albini sent to Nirvana (faroutmagazine.co.uk)

Most notably, he worked with just about anyone who wanted to be recorded and took a flat rate for his time. Albini was accessible and real to those who were developing their art, unlike Rubin who worked with the biggest stars because that’s exactly who could afford him.

In 1993 Albini wrote an 18-page breakdown titled The Problem with Music where he outlined the massively exploitative nature of the business. For “What I hate about recording,” he writes: “[I hate] producers who aren’t also engineers, and as such, don’t have the slightest fucking idea what they’re doing in a studio, besides talking all the time.”

He lists the bare minimum for what any engineer/ producer should know how to do while they are in the studio — including the technical aptitude to “tune and maintain all the required instruments and electronics, so as to insure everything is in proper working order.” Sure, this is something that could be hired out to someone else, but if you’re the producer the buck stops with you.

And, yes, Albini writes about taste. Minimally and specifically “[have] an aesthetic that is well-rooted and compatible with the music, and the good taste to know when to exercise it.”

Can you build a career of taste? Maybe. Few have, and I hope fewer will. Taste is such an intimate thing — you trust the taste of your friends and a handful of a few published critics. Maybe you tend to like the artists and works that your favorite artists refer to. All of this is fine, all of this is how great stuff is discovered.

But is there taste in creativity? Can you have the right kind of creativity? Can you put down the right Zen meditation instruction for people to follow so they can one day put out some kind of incredible creation?

Probably not, but the cover design is perfect for the dull, bland minimalist in your life.