Most pretentious Pitchfork reviews

[Twed]

Over the years Pitchfork has floored me at times with their artless, reaching, 15-year-old-scraping-a-B-at-GCSE-English level prose.

https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/8322-royal-astronomy/ - impossible to read this without anticipating the "well, this is what I IMAGINED it was like, anyway!" reveal.

There is one review that I can't find, however. I think it must have been quietly deleted to save embarrassment. It reviewed the release in terms of a DMT trip or something. A band called "Snow Patrol". At the time I assumed Snow Patrol must be some experimental band making some seriously whacked-out tunes. I couldn't believe it years later when I found out they were the bland who came out with that "if I just lay here" song.

[Twed]

(feel free to contribute non-Pitchfork reviews that are portentous beyond their means).

[PaulTMA]

http://web.archive.org/web/20001005050833/www.pitchforkmedia.com/record-reviews/m/morcheeba/who-can-you-trust.shtml

Morcheeba
Who Can You Trust?
[Sire]
Rating: 8.3
She was so beautiful-- how was I to know that she was a squatter? I was transfixed by her dark curls, full lips and catlike, onyx eyes. I fell loosely into her eyes, the blackness enveloping any meek resistance offered, deeply...

Eventually, we found our way back to her "place" as she called it, the door hanging loosely on hinges long beyond repair, but she swallowed up my surroundings with her presence. Once off the street, at the foot of a narrow dark staircase, my hand found hers and a moment later we were locked together, the taste of her cigarettes in my mouth, my eyes exploding. Her back arched in my arms as I covered her with my mouth... then her hand was again in mine, pulling me up the staircase toward the mystery.

Beyond the door was a long, narrow room, two windows on one side, a bookcase from floor to ceiling in the back, and what I assumed were her belongings; a mattress, a boombox with a pool of CDs around it, and a few well- worn paperbacks shoved between the bed and the wall. She pulled me through the door by both hands, her eyes burning into me, then she flicked on the only light-- a single blue bulb in the ceiling.

She motioned me to sit on the edge of the bed, and produced a small glass pipe from the folds of her clothing. Squatting and staring into my eyes, she packed up a bowl, handed it to me, and swivelled to look at the boombox. Between the bottom of her blouse and the top of her pants was a swath of smooth skin covered with fine hairs, I was still thinking about them when the music started.

I glanced at the jewel case she'd thrown down with the rest and saw that it was Morcheeba's Who Can You Trust?. Just as Skye Edwards began to croon, "Sometimes I get up feelin' good/ But greed gets me down," she stood up, turned to face me and began unbuttoning her blouse. I first saw her nipples, black in the blueness of that barren room, as Skye sung with molasses- richness: "Good vibrations that we make will come bouncing back." I felt her nakedness in my arms as Skye told me, "Soak up Wisdom all year long/ And then take action." My mouth was wandering along the mountains and valleys of her purple skin as Skye spoke to me: "Things have changed this time around/ I'm on the rocks and lookin' down/ And I can't see/ For all the darkness 'round here." I began to spin deep into the vortex of her flesh, her soul, heart and darkest eyes, as Skye soundtracked the event to its ultimate climax.

Upon the morn, she was gone and the sun shone brightly into her room. I gathered my clothes around me and found my way out, the blisteringly bright sun torturing the dark memories of night. I held my collar as I took the city bus back, and thought about both Skye and my princess bride. Deep down, I knew the music was expressing something deep-- the intersection between the modern urban paranoia of her flat and the pure undiluted pleasure of her voice, skin and arms. Sex energized with dark fears. Slow beats mirroring her heartbeat. Jazzy guitars and sax recalling. Electro touches forecasting. Morcheeba, simply happening.

-James P. Wisdom

[BlodwynPig]

That mu-ziq review is written by the creator of Pitchfork and is so off-the-mark its a wonder anyone visits the site.

[Nice Relaxing Poo]

I think I stopped reading Pitchfork in 2006 so my memories of how awful their reviews could be have faded.

[Z]

It's amazing Ryan Schreiber hasn't had all his old reviews culled. You can spot them from a mile off when you land on one. 10/10 for 12rods Gay EP.

Pitchfork overall has been pretty good for the last decade (Ryan Schreiber stopped doing reviews in 2007, interestingly enough), although they clearly hold off deliberately on reviews and ratings to ensure they don't put a foot wrong imo. Was kinda fun to see how Trump being elected disoriented their end of year lists* with an onslaught of "we're woke af" writeups

Anyways: https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/184-i-get-wet/




* _{the top 100 songs ones have been absolutely fantastic set of playlists for me over the years}

[PaulTMA]

I hope you don't mind if I post one from the other end of the spectrum, I love this review from the still-in-its-teens Pitchfork (and obviously long since deleted from the official website archive):

http://web.archive.org/web/20030403210802/pitchforkmedia.com/record-reviews/s/sebadoh/harmacy.shtml

Sebadoh
Harmacy
[Sub Pop]
Rating: 8.9
"My opinion could change today / I'm responsible anyway..."

So opens the new Sebadoh record, and I swear they get better with every release. Lyrically and musically, these guys are rocking my damn house down. Harmacy is 19 tracks of pure musical genius from the beautiful melancholy of the opening track, "On Fire," to the upbeat-ness of the hit single, "Ocean," to the clever throbbing headache that is "Crystal Gypsy" and... well, everything.

Lo-fi indie rock is probably the greatest thing since ejaculation, and I'm not taking any chances. I'm loving it full-on. Show no mercy. No holds barred. Full-on, baby. I mean, come on! Home recordings of people mixing the pop sounds of '60s with the firey glam-rock of the '70s! What's not to love? And Sebadoh clearly stand out as indie rock champs along with other home tapers like Guided By Voices and Jack Logan. These are the guys that are going down in history as The Real Shit. Harmacy just further proves Sebadoh are among the rulers of the rock-n-roll wetdream they call "independence."

-Ryan Schreiber

[Avril Lavigne]

(feel free to contribute non-Pitchfork reviews that are portentous beyond their means).

Pretty much anything Robert Christgau has ever written. Here are his reviews for two of my favourite XTC albums:

Black Sea [Virgin/RSO, 1980]
Virtuosos shouldn't show off--it's bad manners and bad art. I'm suitably dazzled by the breathless pace of their shit--from folk croak to Beach Boys croon in the twinkling of a track, with dissonant whatnot embellishing herkyjerk whozis throughout--but I find their refusal to flow graceless two ways. On what do they predicate their smartypants rights? On words that rarely reclaim clichés about working-class futility, middle-class hypocrisy, militarist atrocity--not to mention love like rockets and girls who glow. They do, however, show real feeling for teen males on the make and, hmm, the recalcitrance of language. B+

English Settlement [Virgin/Epic, 1982]
With voices (filters, chants, wimp cool) and melodies (chants, modes, arts cool) ever more abstract, I figured Colin Moulding had finally conquered Andy Partridge and turned this putative pop band into Yes for the '80s. But it's more like good Argent, really, with the idealism less philosophical than political--melt the guns, urban renewal as bondage, o! that generation gap. And fortunately, the melodies aren't so much abstract as reserved, with the most outgoing stolen from Vivaldi or somebody by none other than Andy Partridge. B+

[PaulTMA]

Jim O'Rourke
Halfway to a Threeway EP
[Drag City]
Rating: 8.0
Last March, I had the opportunity to interview Chicago uber-producer Jim O'Rourke at his place of residence. I snatched it up. While I wasn't nuts about his latest release, Eureka, I was a fan of his other albums, his production techniques, and his collaborations with David Grubbs as Gastr Del Sol. That I finally had the chance to meet and talk with O'Rourke seemed a great honor.

The interview went smoothly enough. We talked about his fascination with Japanese artist Mimiyo Tomozawa (whose actually- pretty- gross artwork adorned the cover of Eureka), Portuguese artist Nuno Canavarro, O'Rourke's work on the then- forthcoming Stereolab, Superchunk and Aluminum Group LPs, among other things. Later, O'Rourke asked what I thought of Eureka. I told him I thought it was pretty good, which I did, for the most part. (The album had its share of great tracks along with its share of mediocrity.) We moved on.

Later that day, Jim logged onto Pitchfork to read what I'd said about Eureka. If you'll recall (and if you don't, the review is in the archive), the review was about how I was disappointed in the album because I knew that O'Rourke was capable of better things. In fact, I went out of my way to say that the album had some genuinely awesome moments. Sadly, Jim took the review very personally, and is apparently unwilling to discuss the issue any further, as he no longer responds to my e-mails.

What a sad shock it is to meet someone you have a tremendous respect for and realize that they're not exactly the person you hoped they might be. Of course, now I come at Jim O'Rourke's albums from a different perspective-- I still respect him as one of the great musicians of late '90s, but I have very little respect for him as a person.

That said, Halfway to a Threeway succeeds where Eureka failed. (Maybe Jim actually took my advice.) Threeway trims away the saccharine Bacharach stylings and aimless experimentalism flaunted by Eureka, opting instead for beautifully arranged orchestral pop and lighter- than- air percussion. The opening track, "Fuzzy Sun," does bear more than just a passing resemblence to Eureka's standout track "Ghost Ship in a Storm," grabbing a bar or two from that track's melody, but O'Rourke works enough magic in to make the song its own hummable entity.

It's followed by the summery instrumental "Not Sport, Martial Art," whose intertwining guitars and muted horns recall a less artsy Tortoise, and reflects O'Rourke's work on Sam Prekop's solo debut. But the EP concludes with what is arguably some of Jim's best material to date-- "The Workplace" is a musically autumnal ode to an office enviroment with playful lyrics ("Women look good here/ With their suits on/ It suits them"), and the gorgeous meloncholy title track, a gently- strummed acoustic ballad that beats even Archer Prewitt's stellar "I'll Be Waiting" at its own game.

Listening to Halfway to a Threeway reminds me what a complete shame it is that Jim O'Rourke's kneejerk reaction to my review of Eureka should spoil what comraderie we might have had when crossing paths at local venues. It won't ruin my appreciation for the bulk of his catalog.

-Ryan Schreiber

[Head Gardener]

Sebadoh
Harmacy
[Sub Pop]
Rating: 8.9

god, I love that album, it does drop away about halfway through but there are some truly great songs on side one

[Phil_A]

Brent DiCrescenzo was just as silly as Schreiber. His Kid A review is a go-to example of ludicrously overblown music writing.

I had never even seen a shooting star before. 25 years of rotations, passes through comets' paths, and travel, and to my memory I had never witnessed burning debris scratch across the night sky. Radiohead were hunched over their instruments. Thom Yorke slowly beat on a grand piano, singing, eyes closed, into his microphone like he was trying to kiss around a big nose. Colin Greenwood tapped patiently on a double bass, waiting for his cue. White pearls of arena light swam over their faces. A lazy disco light spilled artificial constellations inside the aluminum cove of the makeshift stage. The metal skeleton of the stage ate one end of Florence's Piazza Santa Croce, on the steps of the Santa Croce Cathedral. Michelangelo's bones and cobblestone laid beneath. I stared entranced, soaking in Radiohead's new material, chiseling each sound into the best functioning parts of my brain which would be the only sound system for the material for months.

The butterscotch lamps along the walls of the tight city square bled upward into the cobalt sky, which seemed as strikingly artificial and perfect as a wizard's cap. The staccato piano chords ascended repeatedly. "Black eyed angels swam at me," Yorke sang like his dying words. "There was nothing to fear, nothing to hide." The trained critical part of me marked the similarity to Coltrane's "Ole." The human part of me wept in awe.

The Italians surrounding me held their breath in communion (save for the drunken few shouting "Criep!"). Suddenly, a rise of whistles and orgasmic cries swept unfittingly through the crowd. The song, "Egyptian Song," was certainly momentous, but wasn't the response more apt for, well, "Creep?" I looked up. I thought it was fireworks. A teardrop of fire shot from space and disappeared behind the church where the syrupy River Arno crawled. Radiohead had the heavens on their side.

For further testament, Chip Chanko and I both suffered auto-debilitating accidents in the same week, in different parts of the country, while blasting "Airbag" in our respective Japanese imports. For months, I feared playing the song about car crashes in my car, just as I'd feared passing 18- wheelers after nearly being crushed by one in 1990. With good reason, I suspect Radiohead to possess incomprehensible powers. The evidence is only compounded with Kid A-- the rubber match in the band's legacy-- an album which completely obliterates how albums, and Radiohead themselves, will be considered.

Even the heralded OK Computer has been nudged down one spot in Valhalla. Kid A makes rock and roll childish. Considerations on its merits as "rock" (i.e. its radio fodder potential, its guitar riffs, and its hooks) are pointless. Comparing this to other albums is like comparing an aquarium to blue construction paper. And not because it's jazz or fusion or ambient or electronic. Classifications don't come to mind once deep inside this expansive, hypnotic world. Ransom, the philologist hero of C.S. Lewis' Out of the Silent Planet who is kidnapped and taken to another planet, initially finds his scholarship useless in his new surroundings, and just tries to survive the beautiful new world.

This is an emotional, psychological experience. Kid A sounds like a clouded brain trying to recall an alien abduction. It's the sound of a band, and its leader, losing faith in themselves, destroying themselves, and subsequently rebuilding a perfect entity. In other words, Radiohead hated being Radiohead, but ended up with the most ideal, natural Radiohead record yet.

"Everything in Its Right Place" opens like Close Encounters spaceships communicating with pipe organs. As your ears decide whether the tones are coming or going, Thom Yorke's Cuisinarted voice struggles for its tongue. "Everything," Yorke belts in uplifting sighs. The first-person mantra of "There are two colors in my head" is repeated until the line between Yorke's mind and the listener's mind is erased.

Skittering toy boxes open the album's title song, which, like the track "Idioteque," shows a heavy Warp Records influence. The vocoder lullaby lulls you deceivingly before the riotous "National Anthem." Mean, fuzzy bass shapes the spine as unnerving theremin choirs limn. Brash brass bursts from above like Terry Gilliam's animated foot. The horns swarm as Yorke screams, begs, "Turn it off!" It's the album's shrill peak, but just one of the incessant goosebumps raisers.

After the rockets exhaust, Radiohead float in their lone orbit. "How to Disappear Completely" boils down "Let Down" and "Karma Police" to their spectral essence. The string-laden ballad comes closest to bridging Yorke's lyrical sentiment to the instrumental effect. "I float down the Liffey/ I'm not here/ This isn't happening," he sings in his trademark falsetto. The strings melt and weep as the album shifts into its underwater mode. "Treefingers," an ambient soundscape similar in sound and intent to Side B of Bowie and Eno's Low, calms after the record's emotionally strenuous first half.

The primal, brooding guitar attack of "Optimistic" stomps like mating Tyrannosaurs. The lyrics seemingly taunt, "Try the best you can/ Try the best you can," before revealing the more resigned sentiment, "The best you can is good enough." For an album reportedly "lacking" in traditional Radiohead moments, this is the best summation of their former strengths. The track erodes into a light jam before morphing into "In Limbo." "I'm lost at sea," Yorke cries over clean, uneasy arpeggios. The ending flares with tractor beams as Yorke is vacuumed into nothingness. The aforementioned "Idioteque" clicks and thuds like Aphex Twin and Bjork's Homogenic, revealing brilliant new frontiers for the "band." For all the noise to this point, it's uncertain entirely who or what has created the music. There are rarely traditional arrangements in the ambiguous origin. This is part of the unique thrill of experiencing Kid A.

Pulsing organs and a stuttering snare delicately propel "Morning Bell." Yorke's breath can be heard frosting over the rainy, gray jam. Words accumulate and stick in his mouth like eye crust. "Walking walking walking walking," he mumbles while Jonny Greenwood squirts whale-chant feedback from his guitar. The closing "Motion Picture Soundtrack" brings to mind The White Album, as it somehow combines the sentiment of Lennon's LP1 closer-- the ode to his dead mother, "Julia"-- with Ringo and Paul's maudlin, yet sincere LP2 finale, "Goodnight." Pump organ and harp flutter as Yorke condones with affection, "I think you're crazy." To further emphasize your feeling at that moment and the album's overall theme, Yorke bows out with "I will see you in the next life." If you're not already there with him.

The experience and emotions tied to listening to Kid A are like witnessing the stillborn birth of a child while simultaneously having the opportunity to see her play in the afterlife on Imax. It's an album of sparking paradox. It's cacophonous yet tranquil, experimental yet familiar, foreign yet womb-like, spacious yet visceral, textured yet vaporous, awakening yet dreamlike, infinite yet 48 minutes. It will cleanse your brain of those little crustaceans of worries and inferior albums clinging inside the fold of your gray matter. The harrowing sounds hit from unseen angles and emanate with inhuman genesis. When the headphones peel off, and it occurs that six men (Nigel Godrich included) created this, it's clear that Radiohead must be the greatest band alive, if not the best since you know who. Breathing people made this record! And you can't wait to dive back in and try to prove that wrong over and over.

[Twed]

Pitchfork overall has been pretty good for the last decade

I agree. I realised this when I started thinking back about terrible reviews. They're all pre-2006.

Loving the submissions so far. There's something joyful about enjoying the awfulness of this dead reviewing style. It's celebrating a bad thing that society managed to outgrow, removing its teeth and making it seem more like fiction.

[Twed]

https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/368-untilted/

A review for Autechre's Untilted, in the form of a play about college boys with Very Important Opinions. Reviewer finishes by comparing himself to Douglas Hofstadter.

[Pearly-Dewdrops Drops]

I'm not defending some of the idiocy posted in here so far, but Pitchfork got "better" at a certain point because it became completely corporatized and shut the door on more freewheeling or controversial viewpoints from individual writers.

[Twed]

I'm coming around to this corporate, neoliberal way of thinking.

[Bazooka]

Animal Collective fans will remember the famous Pitchfork offering "sounds like someone throwing a burrito at your windshield" line to describe Centipede Hz back in 2012.

[itsfredtitmus]

Pretty much anything Robert Christgau has ever written. Here are his reviews for two of my favourite XTC albums:

He's probably right to be honest

[samadriel]

https://web.archive.org/web/20150221020538/http://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/8969-slanted-enchanted-luxe-reduxe/
*sigh* I'm not even trying to read that.

[Z]

I'm not defending some of the idiocy posted in here so far, but Pitchfork got "better" at a certain point because it became completely corporatized and shut the door on more freewheeling or controversial viewpoints from individual writers.

I mentioned that though, Pitchfork deliberately holds off on reviews until there's some sign of consensus developing (which they usually, but not always will stick roughly alongside). Outside of very rare cases, it'll avoid >9.5 ratings on new releases altogether.

It's altogether made it a much more useful website imo.

Animal Collective fans will remember the famous Pitchfork offering "sounds like someone throwing a burrito at your windshield" line to describe Centipede Hz back in 2012.

I like that one! From what I can remember of that album, that's fairly accurate too.



Pithfork's reviews for In Rainbows ("Choose your own rating") and Do You Like Rock Music (U.2/10) have been lost to time but were both extremely obnoxious at a point when they were clearly trying to be more grown up. It the latter's currently displayed rating (8.2) was the actual intended underlying rating, then they probably fucked BSP out of some good US exposure in the name of a joke.

[New Jack]

Brent DiCrescenzo was just as silly as Schreiber. His Kid A review is a go-to example of ludicrously overblown music writing.

The only Kid A review I like more is the one in Melody Maker decrying it as clown music

Best quote from Pitchy's for me is Pseud's Whole Room level shit:

the experience and emotions tied to listening to Kid A are like witnessing the stillborn birth of a child while simultaneously having the opportunity to see her play in the afterlife on Imax.

Yeah I've obviously done that too, so I can make the comparison work for me.. Listening to Treefingers is a bit like that, honest, cunts

[DangledTeeth]

I usually read reviews about albums I've heard yet I have no idea what most of the write-ups are about.

Ripfork has quite a few criticisms of Pitchfork reviews. My favourite is Chalkdust guitars. 9.07688, BEST NEW CRITICISM

[Sebastian Cobb]

I'm not defending some of the idiocy posted in here so far, but Pitchfork got "better" at a certain point because it became completely corporatized and shut the door on more freewheeling or controversial viewpoints from individual writers.

Insipid is good!

[Dog Botherer]

[Z]

https://pitchfork.com/features/lists-and-guides/the-15-lyrics-that-defined-2017/

This one was dumb as fuck. The idea of trying to mix "these lyrics summarised 2017 really well" and "that hook was really fucking cool" was always gonna result in a total mess though.

[Avril Lavigne]

He's probably right to be honest

Right or wrong he's an insufferably pretentious cunt.

[Porter Dimi]

EDIT: Oh, someone else already mentioned Brent's review of Kid A. Why not enjoy his dismal review of Stereolab's Cobra and Phases Group Play Voltage in the Milky Night instead?

"Okay, Brent, this is getting really old."

"What? It's my 'thing.' It's what the fans want."

"All I'm saying is that if you do another conversational review it'll suck."

"I think they're really funny and creative."

"Well, I think it's just covering up the fact that you can't write quality analytical essays on music."

"Oh yeah? Oh yeah?! Well... uh... Bah Duh Ba, Bah Duh Ba, Bah Duh Beh."

Original Message

From: Jesus.H.Christ, Da Crossroads [onlyson@dacrossroads.com]
To: Robert "Brent" DiCrescenzo [robert.dicrescenzo@gte.net]
Date: Thursday, September 30, 1999 4:38 PM
Subject: Re: milli and vanilli group plays "voltron" in the creamy thighs

thanks for dying for our sins and all. I really appreciate it.

Hey, no problem.

my senior year, when your statue fell off the pedestal and did a faceplant in the soft mud of perfect landscaping?

How embarrasing!

that new stereolab album yet?

No, I haven't heard it. I never got the promo. I can't get anything from Elektra since I dissed that Flipmode Squad CD. Sorry, I'm just not feelin' Rah Digga. Anyway, I don't think I need to hear the new Stereolab. I'm pretty sure I can guess how it sounds. Granted, I am somewhat omnipotent, but I don't even need that sense to tell me the new stereolab is loaded with gurgling farfisa, monotonous xylophone loops, chiming guitar stabs, ba ba ba duh ba ba, ba duh duh ba ba, ba ba ba duh ba ba, ba duh duh ba be...

Massage Parlor, New Jersey...

"It's been a long time."

"I've been working."

"Your satin Pitchfork jacket looks pretty roughed-up."

"Wear and tear. All things get old."

"Yeah. I never listen to that Lotion album you gave me, and I rarely read your reviews anymore. You're getting pretty predictable."

"It's hard to get inspired when you have to sit through five CDs a week. It all blends into a miasma of mediocrity."

"I think you're just losing your touch."

"So, I'm sort of like your Stereolab."

"Hold on, the phone is ringing."

"I'll get on the table."

"Yes, he's here... Brent, it's for you."

"Really? Who is it?"

"Some girl."

"Hello? Oh. Hey... Yeah. Yes. I know. I know... I know it's lame. I just can't think of anything... Yeah, the massage parlor again... I know it's nothing like me..."

"Who is it?"

"My ex-girlfriend. She thinks it's lame for me to do another review about this massage parlor."

"She has a point."

"No. Yes. I know I've worked others girls into my reviews and not you.

"OK. I'll try. Promise."

"What does she want?"

"She wants to be in one of my reviews."

"It's not that big of an honor."

"She hung up."

"So how are you going to work her into the review?"

"Well, she's be the most impatient person I know when it comes to entertainment. If she doesn't like something, she makes it known right off. She would check her watch about twenty times during a movie with dramatic sighs. She would hate the new Stereolab. I'd set the line at about 24.5 watch checks. The funny thing is, when she would check her watch during movies, I would start to feel self- conscious and embarrassed for the movie. In a way, I pity Stereolab. They seem unsure of what to do next. When you have writer's block and a fanbase, you just gotta crank, crank, crank."

[insert real review here]

"Blue Milk," the stultifying fourteen- minute drone which slowly spins in the middle of Cobra and Phases Group Plays Voltage in the Milky Night like a interest- sucking blackhole, brings to mind Michael Snow's 1967 "short" film "Wavelength," in that it soars to new levels of vexation and artistic solipsism. Actually, Stereolab might take this as a compliment, since they named the first track on Dots and Loops after avant- garde filmmaker Stan Brakhage, and they evidently lounge around in plastic furniture wearing thick turtlenecks, smoking long- stemmed pipes, and debating the subtle differences between Josef Alberts' blue and yellow paintings.

A slow zoom across a minimally- decorated city loft comprises the entire 45 minutes of "Wavelength." Set to the sound of a constant tone, which gradually increases in pitch, the zoom closes on a framed photograph of ocean waves. This is such a cheeky joke for a supposedly groundbreaking art film. The director drags the viewers through grating boredom to deliver a pun which is obvious from the first frame. Like most avant- garde art, it might have a valid statement, but it's not a process an audience needs to or wants to go through. A brief verbal description would suffice. On Voltage, their eighth LP, Stereolab sink so deep into their socialist cocktail jazz schtick that they typify this flaw. Frigid noodling, insipid harmonies, and unmemorable repetition lazily waft from yawning French- poseurs. Fractions of this soulless wankery might stimulate the academic, but when the album clocks in at nearly twice the length of "Wavelength," it becomes a Herculean test of human attention.

Dear Diary,

Is this ever going to end? My lord. The album keeps changing styles, but it all sounds exactly the same. There's only so much twinkling vibraphone I can take. Stereolab are beyond hope. They spent more time coming up with the overwrought album title than their "lyrics." The saddest part is that they claim the title is called that strictly because of its length-- they needed it to run that long to "fit into the album design." Um... the album cover is orange atari text on brown. What a fitting analogy for everything that is wrong with Stereolab these days. The liner notes are illegible and gaudy. When a band makes a point of extensively discussing their cover art (which ends up looking last- minute and tacky, regardless) over writing quality songs, you know they've completely lost touch. Even in music, Marxism doesn't work.

Yours,
Karl Marx

Idea for a movie:
Louie Anderson is Jim O'Rourke in a lighthearted cyber- tragedy. Jim travels to Japan in 2010 to visit the frozen head of Burt Bacharach. The head is kept in a museum by the docks. When Jim arrives, he finds the museum in disrepair. Burt Bacharach's head watches television from inside a jar. Jim tries lift the spirit of Burt with tales of his work. Jim loves to emulate Burt Bacharach, under the veil of structureless noise. Jim plays Burt a tape he recorded with a band called Stereolab. There are string flourishes and sweeping horns mixed to a dull matte. Burt says, "That's great, baby, but where are the songs?" Jim tells Burt those are the songs. Burt tells Jim that songs need a story, not beatnik freeform. Jim says that he thought Burt was a beatnik. Burt laughs. Burt tells Jim that his having lived in the sixties does not make him a beatnik. Jim cries. Burt tells Jim that he wrote songs for the radio, to make money, and doesn't quite understand art. Aliens invade Japan and Jim is forced to eat the head of Burt Bacharach. Roll credits over blooper reel.

[Rocket Surgery]

Robert Christgau

Spotted this just yesterday:

Robert Christgau, writing in The Village Voice, gave the album [Don't Sweat The Technique] an "A–". He said that Rakim's metaphors exploit the "interface between horror movies and the postmodern imagination", and highlighted Eric B.'s "new groove" as the "star of the show", which, "when he hits it right," is "like the mouth you love doing the spot you forgot."

[Monsieur Verdoux]

Christgau is a toefucker

[Famous Mortimer]

The one I remember / trot out whenever this subject is brought up is how they reviewed "In The Aeroplane Over The Sea" when it first came out and gave it an OK-but-not-great review, then when it was reissued years later wiped that review from the face of the internet and replaced it with the 10 which is there now. There's an article about its 20th anniversary on Pitchfork which doesn't mention their initial review, I notice.

EDIT: Either I'm misremembering my own old memory or reality has altered around me, because a quick trip to archive.org reveals they gave it an 8.7 and rather liked it. No idea why they deleted that review, really.

Of course, they're also responsible for one of the greatest reviews in music reviewing history.

https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/9464-shine-on/

[PaulTMA]

Loads of their old reviews were deleted and only available on archive.org as they presumably were massively embarrassed by them.  Also they deleted everything written by Chris Ott as he demanded they did.

Here is all you need to know on the subject:
https://www.ilxor.com/ILX/ThreadSelectedControllerServlet?action=showall&boardid=41&threadid=82740