ITT: Christgau's greatest hits

Spiderland [Touch and Go, 1991]
Out of Squirrel Bait by Hunglikealbini, a Trojan horse. Extolled for their multipartite songforms and, da-da, dynamic shifts from soft to loud, as well as their intimate knowledge of mental illness, these guys look like unassuming alternative types and in real life may be same. Their sad-sack affect fits right in. But musically--structurally, as one might say--they're art-rockers without the courage of their pretensions. And if you promise not to mention their lyrics they promise to keep the volume down. C+

Crosby, Stills, and Nash [Atlantic, 1969]

Rated by request, I've written elsewhere that this album is perfect, but that is not necessarily a compliment. Only David Crosby's vocal on "Long Time Gone" saves it from a special castrati award. Pray for Neil Young. B+

if christgau got started around ten years ago no one would know or care about anything he writes.

Fabulous Muscles [5 Rue Christine, 2004]

The musical parsimony, cultural insularity, moral certitude, and histrionic affectations of these lo-fi artier-than-thous promise indie ideologues whole lifetimes of egoistic irrelevance. "Why should I care if you get killed?" Jamie Stewart asks a "stupid" "jock" Iraq G.I. he makes sure remains out of earshot. He gets closer to the title sex object: "Cremate me after you come on my lips honey boy." But somehow one doubts things will end so exquisitely. C

It does help being one of the first generation of rock journalists.

Bridge Over Troubled Water [Columbia, 1970]
Melodic. B

Selected Ambient Works Volume II [Sire, 1994]

"Veering between an eerie beauty and an almost nightmarish desolation," intoneth Frank Owen. "Imbuing machine music with spirituality," saith Simon Reynolds. And, most incredibly, "Always a groove going on," quoth J.D. Considine. I mean, what are these dudes talking about? Not that ambient-techno wunderkind Richard James is offensive--when I played all two-and-a-half hours of this at a quiet thermal spring in Puerto Rico, the worst any of the attendant pensioners could say about James's nightmarish desolation was "interesting." And smack dab against Eno's instrumental box--well, if James really gets "physically ill if [his] music sounds like anybody else's," that's one consumer object he'd best not sully his expanded consciousness with. Thing is, James is rarely as rich as good Eno, not to mention good Eno-Hassell or Eno-Budd. One piece here does the trick (no titles or track listings--too Western, y'know--but it is, how crass, the lead cut) by folding in a child's voice (or is that one of his electronic friends?). In general, however, these experiments are considerably thinner ("purer," Owen wishes) and more static ("pulse dreamily," Considine dreams) than the overpriced juvenilia on the import-only Volume I. Anyway, a lot of Eno's "ambient" music could also be described as bland wallpaper. When Kyle Gann or (please God) Tom Johnson pumps a minimalist, I wonder whether I'm missing something. Otherwise I believe my own ears--and pull out David Berhman's On the Other Ocean/Music From a Clearing when I need deep background. B-

...And Justice For All [Elektra, 1988]

Problem isn't that it's more self-aware than Puppets, which is inevitable when your stock in trade is compositions rather than songs. Problem is that it's also longer than Puppets, which is inevitable when your stock in trade is compositions rather than songs. Just ask Yes. C+

The Downward Spiral [Nothing/TVT/Interscope, 1994]

musically, Hieronymus Bosch as postindustrial atheist; lyrically, Transformers as kiddie porn ("Heresy," "Reptile") **

And Their Refinement of the Decline [Kranky, 2007]
One of those records--they abound in "post-rock"--that get nothing but raves because only believers bother to listen. This drone duo met at the University of Texas in 1990; one is now a muso expatriated to Belgium, the other a debate coach expatriated to the University of Southern California. This two-hour double-CD/triple-LP, their first product since 2001, is grand, somber, amelodic, arhythmic and slow, leaving plenty of time to admire the notes' altered states. Nothing is dreamy, misty or languorous--minimalists though they are, they're committed to accruing aural mass. An early advocate observed that their music made "consciousness seem like an annoying state." He considered that a compliment. C-

Who Are You [MCA, 1978]

Every time I listen closely, I can hear some new detail in Roger's singing or Pete's guitar or John's bass. Not Keith's drumming though, and I still don't relate to the synthesizer. But I never learn anything new, and this is not my idea of fun rock and roll. It should be one or the other, if not both. B

Ten [Epic, 1991]

in life, abuse justifies melodrama; in music, riffs work better ("Once," "Even Flow") **

Dr. Dre -- 2001 [Aftermath/Interscope, 2000]

It's a New Millennium, but he's Still S.L.I.M.E. How Eminem survived all the misogyny conditioning to grow into the sensitive spouse we know today I'll never understand. A "family man" when he's explaining why he fled the 'hood, on the very next track Dre drips contempt for the wife he's dogging and the other husbands' wives he's sodomizing--apparently because his real-life wife told him that would be commercial, rendering him a liar more ways than Eminem himself could comprehend. For an hour, with time out for some memorable Eminem tracks, Dre degrades women every way he can think of, all of which involve his dick ("the whole eight," as this master of poetic license puts it). Best friend S. Dogg, bad speller Kurupt, and Dat 'Ho Ms. Roq are among the hangers-on who'll take his (really Eminem's) money when (and if) he writes the check. And just when you thought it was safe to discard your vomit bag he goes out on a tearjerker about a dead homey. Wottan innovator. C

>tfw Christgau is too pleb to rate your fav band
Feels amazing lads

Face Dances [Warner Bros., 1981]

Keith Moon's death seems to have unloaded Pete Townshend of his obsession with mortality and the band he created. His new sex songs are stylish and passionate, the strongest he's written in a decade. Problem is they sound forced coming from the aging pretty boy who mouths them. All of which is just a reminder that mortality catches up to pretty boys faster than the rest of us. B

no meme pls

Teens of Denial [Matador, 2016]
The tell on Teens of Style, wherein wundertwentysomething Will Toledo rerecorded 11 of his hundredsomething Bandcamp songs for physical purchase, revises his 2012 "Times to Die" to include the line "Got to believe that Lombardi loves me"--Lombardi being not Vince but Matador prexy Chris, who financed and marketed Teens of Style, unleashing the rock dreams that freed Toledo up to buckle down and make a great album like the major artist he always wanted to be. True, existential depression is Toledo's sole subject, without much in the way of romantic travail to universalize it. But on Teens of Denial, Toledo renders that indie-rock ur-theme, um, relatable--grand, rousing, philosophical, ecological, funny, riffy, confused, out front, and of course tuneful. Where once his leads blurred into generalized multitracking, here you can make out his congested, drolly personable, Jonathan Richman-channeling voice. And while to shape his associative structures would betray unseemly firmness of purpose, he milks incantatory repetition like he minored in soukous, extending seven songs past five minutes and three past 7:48: "Drugs are better with friends are better with drugs are better . . . .," say, or the three 12-second "I give up"s that climax the 11:46 "Ballad of the Costa Concordia." As Lombardi surely knows, these are feints. It's too late to give up now. Kid doesn't even like drugs. A

Have You Never Been Mellow [MCA, 1975]

After checking out the competition--I've given up on Helen Reddy, Anne Murray repeats herself, and Loretta Lynn's latest is a bummer--I began to entertain heathenish thoughts about this MOR nemesis, whose mid-Atlantic accent inspired Tammy Wynette to found a country music association designed to exclude her. At least this woman sounds sexy, says I to meself, but Carola soon set me straight. "A geisha," she scoffed. "She makes her voice smaller than it really is just to please men." At which point I put away my heathenish thoughts and finished the dishes. D+

This Was [Island, 1969]

Ringmaster Ian Anderson has come up with a unique concept that combines the worst of Arthur Brown, Roland Kirk, and your local G.O. blues band. I find his success very depressing. C-

I'll give you a hint familia
>top 20 Scaruffi but not even a mention by plebgau

In the Court of the Crimson King [Atlantic, 1969]
The plus is because Peter Townshend likes it. This can also be said of The Crazy World of Arthur Brown. Beware the forthcoming hype--this is ersatz shit. D+

In the Wake of Poseidon [Atlantic, 1970]
For a long time I thought this was the worst rock band in history simply because it was the most pretentious, but sometimes pretensions are (at least partially) earned. Their second album is more muddled conceptually than In the Court of the Crimson King, quite a feat. But they're not afraid to be harsh, they command a range of styles, and their dynamics jolt rather than sledgehammer (properly electric, that). Also, they can play: kudos to drummer Michael Giles and guitarist Robert Fripp, who also illustrates the old adage, "Better a Mellotron than real strings." C+

Islands [Atlantic, 1972]
Just as I was learning to hear past the bullshit they upped the ante, so fuck 'em. When I feel the need for contemporary chamber music or sexist japes, jazz libre or vers ordinaire, I'll go to the source(s). C

He's never rated the fucking Microphones either. It's hardly that much of an achievement

Crime of the Century [A&M, 1974]

The claim that this is the rock and roll of the future depresses me in spite of the fact that the amalgamation is a moderately smart one. Admittedly, "Bloody Well Right" does demonstrate a gift for the killer hook. Now if only the song weren't an impassioned plea for complacency. Maybe if we close our eyes and ignore them, they'll go away. C+

R Plus Seven [Warp, 2013]

Not weird enough--indulges the Jean Michel Jarre tendencies built into his DNA ("Americans," "Inside World") ***

Animals [Columbia, 1977]

This has its share of obvious moments. But I can only assume that those who accuse this band of repetitious cynicism are stuck in such a cynical rut themselves that a piece of well-constructed political program music--how did we used to say it?--puts them uptight. Lyrical, ugly, and rousing, all in the right places. B+

Àgaetís Byrjun [Fat Cat, 2001]
Once there was a sensitive, conceited young fellow named Jonsi Birgisson who lived on a permafrost island surrounded by a cold, dark sea. Jonsi was a well-meaning person who loved music, and he yearned to put more warmth in the world even though he wasn't exactly sure what warmth was. Not just "throwing an electric blanket on the corpse of electronica," that he knew. Jonsi longed to blaze "inspired new avenues in sonic landscapes," to deliver "shamelessly tear-stained epics" in "the falsetto cadence of angels," to turn "4AD-styled, sepia-toned instrumental passages" into "awe-inspiring new-religious mantras." Stuff like that. He did all this and more on a thematically linked work where some of the sonic landscapes were entrancing (although not warm). Because he was conceited, sometimes he would announce that these soundscapes were destined to change musical history, and then sometimes mean people would make fun of him. But he always had the perfect retort. "You have to admit I'm smarter than Enya," he would say. And about that he was certainly right. B

Americana [Columbia, 1998]
Four or five years late, they make selling out seem both easy! (unlike the major-label labor Ixnay on the Hombre) and fun! (unlike the fluke smash Smash). A dozen or two bpm faster than when they caught Green Day's punk wave, they sound like a Bad Religion whose catchy drone is at long last unencumbered by any message deeper than "The truth about the world is that crime does pay"--which, to their credit, makes them indignant--or, more generally, that "The Kids Aren't Alright." This truth they explore as fully as--but, as is only fitting given their relatively privileged upbringing, less solemnly than--any gangsta. Only on the title track do they get grandiose. And while keeping it light keeps them on the right side of their frat-boy base, it also makes the fuckups they mock and mourn seem all the more hurtful. A-

Wisconsin Death Trip [Warner Bros., 1999]

Horrorshow in stereo. they mean it, man. ("Wisconsin Death Trip", "I'm With Stupid") **

Breakfast in America [A&M, 1979]

I enjoy a hooky album as much as the next guy, so when this one elicited vague grunts of pleasure, I looked forward to listening in depth. But the lyrics turned out to be glib variations on the usual "Star Romances" trash and in the absence of a vocal personality (as opposed to accurate singing) or rhythmic thrust (as opposed to a beat), I'll wait for this material to be covered by artists of emotional substance, say Tavaris or the Doobie Brothers. C+

A Day Without Rain [Reprise, 2001]

Pondering the fate of post-September 11 pop, everyone predicted what they already wished for--Slipknot undone, Britney in hiding. What happened instead was the unthinkable--sales of Enya's first album since 1995 spiked 10 months after release. (And she thought that movie where Charlize Theron fucked Keanu Reeves and died of cancer was a promotional coup!) Two years in the making with the artiste playing every synthesizer, the 11 songs here last a resounding 34 minutes and represent a significant downsizing of her New Age exoticism since 1988's breakthrough, Watermark--it's goopier, more simplistic. Yanni is Tchaikovsky by comparison, Sarah McLachlan Ella Fitzgerald, treacle Smithfield ham. Right, whatever gets folks through the night. But Enya's the kind of artist who makes you think, if this piffle got them through it, how dark could their night have been? Like Master P or Michael Bolton only worse, she tests one's faith in democracy itself. D-

Melon Collie and the Infinite Sadness [Virgin, 1995]
"1979" Choice Cuts

Pieces of You [Atlantic, 1995]

Worth ignoring while she was merely precious, she demands our brief attention now that she's becoming overvalued as well. With the possible exception of Saint Joan, who at least had some stature, this is the bad folkie joke to end all bad folkie jokes. With her self-righteousness, her self-dramatization, her abiding love for her own voice, her breathy little-girl innocence and breathless baby-doll sexuality, her useless ideas about prejudice and injustice and let us not forget abuse, she may well prove as insufferable as any hollow-bodied guitarist ever to get away with craving the world's adoration. End of story--I hope. C-

Greatest Hits [Priority, 2001]

He's always been intelligent, and talented. What he hasn't always been is honest. So though I miss "Dead Homiez" and the late anomaly where he plays an ex-G in a wheelchair, and note that this garbage scow lists alarmingly when it takes on his 1998 and 2000 albums (both named War and Peace, after how hard it is to get through them), I'm grateful to be able to access so many of his best beats and rhymes without once hearing him incite a race riot or force a Catholic schoolgirl to lick his testicles. A-

CSN [Atlantic, 1977]

Wait a second, wasn't this a quartet? D+

The Runaways [Mercury, 1976]

Don't let misguided notions of feminism, creative convolutions, or the idea that good punk rock transcends ordinary notions of musicality tempt you. This is Kim Fowley's project, which means it is tuneless and wooden, as well as exploitative. How anyone can hang around El Lay this long without stealing a hook or two bewilders me. The answer must be sheer perversity, which in of itself makes for the only perverse thing about the man. C-

Vulnicura [One Little Indian, 2015]

I always thought she was too lifelike for him anyway ("Stonemilker," "Atom Dance") *

Blood Sugar Sex Magik [Warner Bros., 1991]

they've grown up, they've learned to write, they've earned the right to be sex mystiks ("Give It Away", "Breaking the Girl") **

Queens of Noise [Mercury, 1977]

I'll tell you what kind of street rock these bimbos make--when the title track came on, I thought I was hearing Evita, only I couldn't figure out why the singer wasn't in tune. C-

Post [Elektra, 1995]

This well-regarded little item rekindles my primeval suspicion of Europeans who presume to "improve" on rock and roll (or for that matter Betty Hutton, originator of the best song here). I don't miss the Sugarcubes' guitars per se so much as their commitment to the groove, which--sporadic though it would remain, Iceland not being one of your blues hotbeds--might shore up the limited but real intrinsic interest of her eccentric instrumentation, electronic timbres, etc. Then there's her, how shall I say it, self-involved vocal devices. Which brings us to, right, her lyrics, which might hit home harder if she'd grown up speaking the English she'll die singing, but probably wouldn't. Anybody out there remember Dagmar Krause? German, Henry Cow, into artsong and proud of it? Well, take my word for it. She was no great shakes either. But at least she had politics. C+

The Scorpions [Meltdown, 1970s]

Paranoid [Warner Bros., 1970]

They do take heavy to undreamt of extremes, and I suppose I could learn to enjoy them as camp--the title cut is certainly screamworthy. Anyway, I always suspected that horror movies catharsized things I was too rational to care about in the first place. C-

Waitin' For The Night [Mercury, 1977]

This band surprised me live--nowhere near as willing to pander sexually as their publicity suggests, and Kim Fowley contributes his first decent tune since "Alley Oop". But Joan Jett's inability to sing through the wall of noise (she shrieks flatly instead) suggests that there are more generous musical role models for human beings of all sexes than Aerosmith. C+

Against the Wind [Capitol, 1980]

Slow songs about sex and medium-rocking songs about sex contend with slow songs about love and medium-rocking songs about love. Title, concept, and follow-up single: slow song about the futility of life. Just in case you think he's "sold out" or some such. C+

So he's pretty much the opposite of Scaruffi?

Get Your Wings [Columbia, 1974]

These prognatheous Bostonians prove the old adage that if a band is going to be dumb, it may as well be American dumb. Here, they provide a real treat for the hearing impaired on side one. Pretty good sense of humor too, assuming "Lord of the Thighs" is intended as a joke. With dumb bands, it's always hard to tell. B-

I don't even know what he's criticizing exactly. That they use the loud-soft dynamic? That they're not flamboyant rockstar types?

This hack I swear

He's saying they're progfags pretending to be punks. Also their lyrics suck.

To make this argument I'll first lay out what I think we collectively expect from a critic. The definition of a critic is simple: “a person who judges the merits of literary, artistic, or musical works, especially one who does so professionally.” Now, Christgau certainly does this. I'm not arguing whether he qualifies as a critic or not, I'm arguing that he is bad at being a critic. This is because in truth what a good critic does goes beyond that basic definition. Here are a few of what I see as commonly-agreed-upon methods of good criticism:

They make their opinions on the work clear. This is the easy part.

They provide a justification for those opinions, based on the work, so that they are credible.

Those are the most vital two. As long as you fulfill those requirements you are essentially doing the job of a critic. Your actual writing may be poor but your criticism is still good. However, there are a few further elements which, though arguable, also help:

Criticising not the artist, but his art. That is, you call the music idiotic, but you don't call the muscians idiots. Basically, avoid ad-hominem attacks, both because you're an art critic and not a people critic, and because it's highly unprofessional.

Forming your opinions based on what the art is trying to achieve rather than what you desire. I.e. don't criticize Hamlet for being sad. It's a tragedy, and is meant to be sad, so that means it succeeds in what it's doing.

Consistency isn't required, especially if a critic has a long career like Christgau's and thus their outlook changes over the years. However, a critic's tastes shouldn't be constantly jumping around or they become unreliable and arbitrary.

There are probably more, but those are the basics, and no matter how many requirements you set up, it ultimately doesn't matter, because Christgau violates every last one. To be clear, I'm not saying that all of his reviews violate all of these criteria, but that he fails at least one of them in seemingly every review I've seen of his, and that those few reviews in which he doesn't (I give him the benefit of the doubt and assume they're out there, because of the enormous breadth of his work and the likelihood that I've forgotten the particulars of some that I have read) are so rare as to constitute only a tiny fraction of his critical output. In short, he fails to be a good critic more often than he succeeds, and is therefore bad.

Now, to get onto his actual mistakes (for lack of a better word; many are so flagrant that it's obvious he deliberately does them). In no particular order of extremity or “badness”, here are all of his transgressions that I can think of at the moment:

Pure Guava [Elektra, 1992]
It's to the half-credit of these Bucks County wise guys that the studio amenities of their major-label debut impel them toward fucked-up sounds, which come hard, rather than fucked-up songs, which they write without thinking (and how). But I don't buy the claim that they'll do anything for a laugh. Ever since they went on about pussy for nine minutes (good idea) in a Princey blues-minstrel drawl (bad one), I've assumed they were the kind of rec-room gigglefritzes who enjoy a good nigger joke when they're sure their audience is sophisticated enough to enjoy it. And to be perfectly honest, I don't hear one of those here.

Feels [Fat Cat, 2005]
Back when I was a young feller, we called these things hootenannies, only we thought they needed songs ("Did You See the Words," "Turn Into Something"). **

Close to the Edge [Atlantic, 1972]
What a waste. They come up with a refrain that sums up everything they do--"I get up I get down"--and apply it only to their ostensible theme, which is the "seasons of man" or something like that. They segue effortlessly from Bach to harpsichord to bluesy rock and roll and don't mean to be funny. Conclusion: At the level of attention they deserve they're a one-idea group. Especially with Jon and Rick up front. C+

He frequently insults his subjects and cruelly makes attacks on their personal lives. Perhaps most famous but also most innocuous is his inexplicable hatred for Jim Morrison, describing him in his review of “Very Best Of the Doors” as an “ass man”, “slimeball” and “asshole.” More harsh is in his review of the album “The Libertines” by the Libertines, where he makes fun of Pete Doherty's drug addictions. As if that weren't too far, he does it again in his review of “Shotter's Nation” by Babyshambles, as well as what may be an attack on Doherty's romantic life, though it is written so ambiguously that I can't exactly tell (this is another issue which we'll reach later). In a case that doesn't delve into personal problems, he seems to have a fairly creepy view of Karen O from Yeah Yeah Yeahs, mentioning her “fuck-me persona”, calling her a “dolly” and describing one album as “sex...and icy hot”. But worst of all is his suspicious denial that he wants her for a girlfriend in his review of “Show Your Bones,” evidently meant to be humourous but coming across as gratuitous. I'm not pretending Karen O isn't attractive – in fact, I agree with him on most of it. But is it necessary for half your writing about a band to be about how sexy the one female member is?

And at that, he wrote those reviews at the ages of 59 to 71, during which time she was 22 to 34 (forgive me if my math is wrong; the point is it's damn creepy). He also can't resist commenting on Nicki Minaj's breasts and butt, which is arguably justified since she actually writes songs on at least one of those subjects, but still leaves a bad taste in one's mouth. In the absolute worst, most disgustingly tasteless example of this, he praises Ian Curtis for committing suicide in his review of “Turn On the Bright Lights” by Interpol (for those out of the loop, when Ian Curtis killed himself, his former bandmates reformed into the band New Order), made all the more unnecessary by the fact that he's not even reviewing Ian Curtis' music – he just felt the review needed some kind of offensive flair to generate interest, apparently.

His reviews often consist of so much jargon that they are nearly or completely incomprehensible, and even those not containing jargon can be hard or impossible to parse. Half of these examples appear to be, quite literally, jokes, which is either evidence that he doesn't respect the people he's reviewing or he doesn't respect his job as a critic. Some examples: his review of “Queen II” by Queen, which means absolutely nothing and seems to be a lazy attempt to dismiss their style entirely. This is a case of not making his opinion clear, nor providing a reason for why that opinion is. Another is his review of “First Impressions of Earth” by the Strokes, which appears to be an idiom meaning, well, something or other, but is again so unclear that it ultimately communicates nothing. There's also the case of his reviews of “Extricate” and “Kimble” by the Fall, the former of which means nothing and the second of which contains no reasoning for its judgment. There are many more examples of this but I feel these are egregious enough to demonstrate his tendencies.

His opinions are often inconsistent. In his review of the Rolling Stones' “Exile on Main Street” he praises the “layers of studio murk” over the singer's voice and gives it an A+. It's pretty clear he thinks that this is the band's best album. But in his review of “Undercover” by the same band, one of his first criticisms is that the album is “murky,” and he concludes it is their worst studio album. So, is murkiness good or bad? Not only that, but his review of the Stones' album “Steel Wheels” is a B-, which seems to me like a very middling grade. Then in his review of “The Eternal” by Sonic Youth, he calls Steel Wheels “immortal.” Isn't that high praise for a B- when you've given them A's and A+'s before?

>And at that, he wrote those reviews at the ages of 59 to 71, during which time she was 22 to 34 (forgive me if my math is wrong; the point is it's damn creepy). He also can't resist commenting on Nicki Minaj's breasts and butt, which is arguably justified since she actually writes songs on at least one of those subjects, but still leaves a bad taste in one's mouth

I'm not really bothered by this so much as he does it after his many decades of whining about musical misogyny.

Christgau sometimes goes so far as to outright not review an artist's music. He does this in a negative way with his review of “Korn” by Korn, which consists of a review of the album's cover art, an implication that the band members are pedophiles and a pun on their name. Sure, his point is clear: he hates the band. But what is it about their music that he hates? We'll never know. I specified that example was negative because he also manages to do this as a form of praise, exemplified with his review of “The Modern Age” by the Strokes, in which he dedicates the start of the review to figuring out which 60s/70s punk band he thinks it sounds like, and when he settles on the Vibrators he spends the rest of the review describing them. Does Christgau really think somebody reading a review for the Strokes wants to instead read a review of a band two decades older and part of a different genre?

He insults fans of artists he doesn't like, which is needless to say a very immature move for somebody who is allegedly an esteemed critic. Was it necessary, in his review of “Henry's Dream” by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, to call his fans cultists and insult their taste in lyrics? Whether or not he's right, he's supposed to be reviewing the music and not the people who listen to it.

His ratings often have very poor, arbitrary justifications. The best example is probably his review of “Trust Mask Replica” by Captain Beefheart, which he says he wants to give an A, but won't, because it's “just too weird.” What kind of reasoning is that? Is Christgau really so beholden to others that he can't even state his true opinions on an album?

Finally, he outright states in his review of “Flowers of Romance” by Public Image Ltd that he doesn't even like rock music or rock criticism (at the risk of this sounding cheap, maybe that's why he's so bad at it). Perhaps this is ultimately unnecessary, but surely to be a music critic you should have an actual interest, if not a passion, in the music you critique? I mean, imagine the outrage there would be if Roger Ebert confessed, after winning his Pulitzer Prize, that he thinks the entire medium of film is “boring.”

As far as I can tell that concludes my issues with Robert Christgau. In summary: his reviews often state their judgments in an unclear manner. In those cases when they don't, the judgments often have little-to-no reasoning to back them up, and are further marred by a variety of problems such as engaging in ad-hominem attacks on both the musicians and their fans. In this way he fails to fulfill his duties as a critic and is thus bad at his job.

Shout at the Devil [Elektra, 1984]

It should come as no surprise that this platinum product is utter dogshit even by heavy metal standards. Under orders from editors unable to distinguish Iron Maiden from Wynton Marsalis, my beleaugered colleagues at the dailies have been saying so all year and every insult goes into the press kit. Still, I must mention Mick Mars's dork-fingered guitar before getting to the one truly remarkable thing about this record--a track called "Ten Seconds to Love" where singer Vince Neil actually boasts (!) about how fast he can ejaculate. Therein I believe lies the secret to their appeal--if you don't got it, flaunt it. Followup--"Pinkie Prick". D-

Decade of Decadence [Elektra, 1992] :(

>Finally, he outright states in his review of “Flowers of Romance” by Public Image Ltd that he doesn't even like rock music or rock criticism (at the risk of this sounding cheap, maybe that's why he's so bad at it). Perhaps this is ultimately unnecessary, but surely to be a music critic you should have an actual interest, if not a passion, in the music you critique? I mean, imagine the outrage there would be if Roger Ebert confessed, after winning his Pulitzer Prize, that he thinks the entire medium of film is “boring.”
That's not really what he said in that review though.

Da Game Is to Be Sold, Not to Be Told [No Limit, 1998]

It would be a pleasure to dismiss Calvin Broadus's evocatively entitled No Limit debut as another piece of lowballing funk off the N.O. Bounce assembly line. But the lead "Snoop World" is the kind of track that can make an album, playing a synth-bass hook over a real bass line and under triangles and other high elements that never hint at G-funk keyb tweedle, and over the next few songs, cameos from No Limit's two best rappers, Mystikal and Mia X, clear the way for the unoriginal gangsta bull-roar of Master P and his brothers. But despite considerable input from Mystikal--whose deep-Delta bellow tenses powerfully against Snoop's honey-tongued indifference, adding moral weight to the usual professions of "ex-drug dealer" rectitude--the music soon runs down. And though Snoop is surely just a rapper now, he'd no more risk alienating his market than help a Blood's grandma across the street. Da game he's selling is sociopathic violence, and so he commits metaphorical murder, invites thugs to wave their gats in the air, cuts a biyutch improvident enough to suck his dick, and so forth. In short, he proves himself a born liar, showing all the imagination of an ATM in the process. Anyone who counts him a major artist because he can drawl and pronounce consonants at the same time should give equal time to Mariah Carey's high notes and George Winston's magic fingers. C+

Tonight The Stars Revolt [DreamWorks, 1999] *bomb*

Street-Legal [Columbia, 1978]

Inveterate rock and rollers learn to find charm in boastful, secretly girl-shy adolescents, but boozy-voiced misogynists in their late thirties are a straight drag. This divorcé sounds overripe, too in love with his own self-generated misery to break through the leaden tempos that oppress his melodies, devoid not just of humor but of lightness--unless, that is, he intends his Neil Diamond masquerade as a joke. Because he's too shrewd to put his heart into genuine corn, and because his idea of a tricky arrangement is to add horns or chicks to simplistic verse-and-chorus abcb structures, a joke is what it is. But since he still commands remnants of authority, the joke is sour indeed. C+

Frontiers [Columbia, 1983]

For those of you who truly thought the jig was up this time, I'll remind you of how much worse it can be--this top ten album could be outselling Thriller or Flashdance or Pyromania. My suggestion is for Steve Perry to run as a moderate Republican from, say, Nebraska where his oratory would garner excellent press and then, having shed his video-game interests, ram the tape tax through. D+

Possible. He's still one of the more compelling around to actually read, though.

is cuckgau even taken seriously as a critic? he seems to have horrible taste

gut jerb

Gorillaz: Demon Days [Virgin, 2005]
Pop trip-hop as alternative reality, from fantasyland to apocalypse ("All Alone," "Dare"). ***

he's right desu

huh

did he not review it or something

maybe
>maybe not

Thousand Roads [Atlantic, 1993]

Crosby adds new meaning to the word "survivor"--something on the order of "If you can't kill the motherfucker, at least make sure he doesn't breed"--and until VH-1 got on the revolting "Heroes" video, I'd hoped never to sample this make-work project for his rich, underemployed friends. Oh well. The only thing that could render it more self-congratulatory would be a CD bonus cover of Jefferson Black Hole's "We Built This City." C-

I ironically like Christgau's reviews.
Sue me.

I saw the video he's talking about. Basically, it's David Crosby whining about how unfair it was to put him in prison for drug and weapons charges and boo hoo hoo.

Christgau doesn't play an instrument or listen to anything but pop music, so how can he seriously know anything about music?

10/10

JESUS CHRIST THIS AGAIN.

Don't Call Me Mama Anymore [RCA Victor, 1973]
How about Fatso? D

does anybody care now?

Jesus, you sound like a toddler.

Christgau is a better critic than Scaruffi. Liking ALL MUH EXPERIMENTAL ALBUMS XD doesn't make someone's criteria better.

i don't wanna dismiss him so easily but his short reviews don't help. has he written books/essays that are worthy of reading?

...

actually it does

>tfw your favorite band is also Christgau's favorite band but he's pleb on everything else
Hold me, bros.

this is accurate. AnCo is Sup Forums-core dogshit

>yfw Christgay thought that Brian Johnson AC/DC was better than Bon Scott AC/DC

The Magician's Birthday [Bronze, 1972]

Thirdhand heavy metal fantasies borrowed from Led Zeppelin combined with some strong melodies and powerful arrangements. Okay stuff. B

Funkadelic [Westbound, 1970]

(side one, track one) Q: Mommy, what's a Funkadelic? A: Someone from North Carolina who discovered eternity on acid and vowed to contain it in a groove. (side two, track four) Q: Mommy, what is soul? A: The ham hock in your corn flakes, sweetie. Now eat your cereal before it gets soggy. C+

Seven Year Ache [Columbia, 1981]

It's a tribute to persistence of something-or-other that somebody should still be getting decent music out of the sterile studio-rock formula. What that something-or-other might be is perhaps indicated by the identity of the somebody, who is second-generation pro rather than a punk revoloo. B+

music criticism is a fucking joke and christgau is a douchebag

yawn

My Aim Is True [Columbia, 1977]

I like the nerdy way this guy comes on, I'm fascinated by his lyrics, and I approve of his rock and roll orientation; in fact, I got quite obsessive about his two cuts on the Bunch of Stiff Records import. Yet odd as it may seem, I find that he suffers from Jackson Browne's syndrome--that is, he's a little boring. Often this malady results from overconcentration on lyrics and can be cured by a healthy relationship with a band. Since whenever I manage to attend to a Costello song all the way through I prefer it to "The Pretender." I hope he recovers soon. B+

Singin' With the Big Bands [Arista, 1994]

Tempting though it would be to tweak reformed Halo of Flies fans for going gaga over Tony Bennett, the wily codger's as prudent as ever about deploying his lovingly preserved pipes. Trevor Horn's Tom Jones joke travesties an artist who's always clocked dollars making fun of himself. But this guy's got a nerve. It's less ghoulish than some "Unforgettable"-style computer nightmare in which Barry magically replaces Martha Tilton or Tex Beneke on classic swing records, but it's also worse--swing as '50s television music, stupefying chestnuts (three each from Sinatra and the Andrews Sisters, what taste), backed by recreated or reconceived live big band arrangements (sometimes from the original bands, whatever that can mean after 50 years, more often from "the Big Band Orchestra"). Fronted, of course, by Manilow's uncompromisingly inoffensive voice--a voice that never hints at sex or history or even chops. Incomprehensible Press Quote: "'I've found a funkiness and intelligence in the music that will last forever. Hopefully, everyone can feel the honesty and grit on the album that will remind us of what a hip era this was.'" C

Backless [RSO, 1979]

Whatever Eric isn't anymore--guitar genius, secret auteur, humanitarian, God--he's certainly king of the Tulsa sound, and here he contributes three new sleepy-time classics. All are listed on the cover sticker and none were written by Bob Dylan. One more and this would be creditable. B-

Hahahahhhahhahah How The Fuck Are Music Critics Real Hahahaha Nigga Just Listen To The Music Like Nigga Form Your Own Opinion Haha

Sheik Yerbouti [Zappa, 1979]

If this be social "satire," how come its sole targets are ordinary citizens whose weirdnesses happen to diverge from those of the retentive gent at the control board? Or are we to read his new fixation on buggery as an indication of approval? Makes you wonder whether his primo guitar solo on "Yo' Mama" and those as-unique-as-they-used-to-be rhythms and textures are as arid spiritually as he is. As if there were any question after all these years. C

consider that you're on this board because you apparently care about other people's opinions

Aqualung [Reprise, 1971]

Ian Anderson is like the town free thinker. As long as you're stuck in the same town yourself, his inchoate cultural interests and skeptical views on religion and human behavior are refreshing, but meet up with him in the city and he can turn out to be a real bore. Of course, he can also turn out to be Bob Dylan--it all depends on whether he rejected provincial values out of a thirst for more or out of a reflexive (maybe even somatic) negativism. And on whether he was pretentious only because he didn't know any better. C+