A Review of David Bevan’s Pitchfork review

We almost feel bad reviewing this review, since it comes to us pretty much on a tee.  The album name, for Christ’s sake, couldn’t be a more perfect criticism of Pitchfork reviews.  It almost makes our job unnecessary.  But, let’s delve into this train wreck.

Right off the bat, Bevan makes it clear just how prescient the album title is going to be:

Maus has steeped his music in new wave signifiers, an association furthered by his deep, commanding voice. Whether he’s evoking Joy Division’s Ian Curtis or Bauhaus’ Peter Murphy, Maus opts to abstract the genre, inserting noise into unexpected places and walking the line between sincerity and surreality.

Yikes.  If the phrase “steeped in new wave signifiers” doesn’t make you cringe, he isn’t done yet.  In fact, he and all of his editors at Pitchfork prove to be such poor censors of themselves that a phrase like “swampy retro-futurist synth-pop” passes by without any recognition that something cannot be retro and futurist at the same time.  Nor can it be “retro-futurist.”  The two words have diametrically opposite meanings.  It’s like saying the music is coldly hot or awesomely mundane.

The review is already hard to stomach by the time he gets to this:

He keeps his vocals awash in gothic reverb and echo-driven effects, blurring the lines between what he’s saying and emoting.

How long, oh Lord, how long will drenching vocals in reverb be confused with competent songwriting?  At least until the next Fleet Foxes comes out, we guess.