Reactions to Moz's book have been mixed. (Personally, I think it's one of the best things he's ever done.) One line of criticism has hinged on the inherent inferiority of popular song, and the general deadening of culture that the respect afforded to Moz portends. This tripe again? There appear some chasms that will never be bridged. I've spent life perennially comforted and validated by (among others) Moz's words, melodies, sensibilities. I see no reason for this to change. Perhaps people like me really are crashing boors. What does it mean about life, and notions of art, that we spend it convinced otherwise, reaching what we see as the heights of exaltation through whatever little we manage to grasp at from an unkind world?