Every time I read a Pitchfork review of an album I like, it makes me want to kick the reviewer's teeth in. This goes for both positive and negative reviews; even when they give an album a thumbs up it's always for the wrongest reasons. But sometimes, some pompous indie philistine who's never actually created a damn piece of art in their life rises to trash a great artist for petty and pretentious reasons. For instance, some lovely fellow* by the name of William Bowers wrote a scathing review of The Mountain Goats album We Shall All Be Healed. Everyone else who's listened to that album have better let out a horrified gasp just now.
The reasons for his disdain are primarily something about how great it was when only the hipsters like him had ever ordered Mountain Goats tapes through the mail. But he periodically reels that in to give basketball-coach like advice as to what the artist should have been doing.
Take this gem-
Linda Blair Was Born Innocent" proves to be a tease of a title, and fails to analyze how her most famous film was about the church's demonization of female sexuality; it's a ho-hum ching-a-linger about being "hungry for love" and "going downtown."
He's mad because he had an idea for a non-ho-hum ching-a-linger about Catholics that cleverly references the actress from the Exorcist. This song is not that song, nor does it have anything to do with that concept at all. What does that have to do with anything? Here's an idea, you clever, interesting and mega-referential hipster: Make that song. Consuming art does not make one an artist. No matter how much you know about obscure 70s television shows or whatever is hip these days, you ain't shit unless you actually, y'know, produce something. This guy may have made some shitty art of some kind along the way. I hope not.
I'll move elsewhere with this roast/troll shortly, but I'll leave you with this passage. Picture that kid from the front row of your Philosophy class who'd smugly raise his hand and have some “very interesting conversation” with the teacher reading this:
The rest of the album wallows in similar okayness (I am forgetting the name of the critic who wrote, inFull of Secrets: Critical Approaches to Twin Peaks, that television's success rests in its ability to provide 24-hour partial satisfaction)
Whooooah, I couldn't remember what obscure boring-ass tome on critical theory it was that I drew this exact quote from! And it totally has everything to do with the rest of his review! I promise I'm not trying to be cool and referential.
When I started writing this I planned on scouring Pitchfork for more reviews to support my thesis, but that would require burning my eyes more on their puffed up nerd of a website. But I really can't expect to post this with only one piece of evidence. I got a better case than that, Privates.
Well, I just scoured their searchbar thing for a good ten minutes, and I have to do things like take care of my daughter, and you know, go to work at five in the morning and whatnot. I couldn't find anything that landed a KO punch quite like I wanted. That's okay, it doesn't mean it's not there, I know it is. I can smell a group that needs to wash it's mouth out with buckshot from a mile away. I just ain't got enough ammo to come in for the verbal kill right now. I'm regrouping my forces in the woods like Mao after the Long March. (OH MY GOD, HE CAN READ OBSCURE STUFF ALSO!)
So I'm not coming for the full on kill yet. The original title of this piece was going to be “Why Pitchfork Can Blow Me”. But I know better than to bite off more than I chew. Because, trust me, I know from very, very firsthand experience what kind of reptilian turd writes for a blog about obscure music that 2 people in the world care about. I'm going to have to bring my lyrical Kung-Fu for the sake of the world. The Gauntlet is down, bitches. I will crawl up your asses and shit on your brain, Privates.
PS. In regards to his smarmy opener:
Those of us who have long pursued John Darnielle's bronze crumbs will head down to our record stores today in our scarves and messenger bags, expecting an opus, but we will leave nonplussed.
I have no idea what the fuck bronze crumbs are. Maybe some sort of clever thing about leading us along with his early releases or something? But you hipster individualists may be down at the record store in your hipster uniform scarves and messenger bags, like the 12 year old goth chicks you are, but I will be there with my Drill Sergeant hat waiting for your asses so I can smoke you until I'M tired! Is this bullshit leftover from Gen X or Gen Y? I'm guessing Gen Y, as in Y the fuck weren't you all killed at birth? But, it's okay, I don't blame you. I blame your parents. You fuckin' Privates.
PPS.
I slept with William Bowers' now ex-wife. I gave her a 6.9 rating as well. Hehe.
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