Reviewing albums is a pointless exercise based on completely subjective criteria. We might as well tell you which flavors of ice cream taste best. But, reviewing the reviewers? Now, that’s something Thriller can get behind. Every week, we’ll pick a Pitchfork review and review it.
Why are Pitchfork reviews singled out?
One: They have become a cultural phenomenon, kind of like what Rolling Stone was to the 1960s. Two: Despite the fact that they are wrong over and over and over again, they are still jaw-droppingly arrogant. You could say this makes them the George W. Bush of music reviewing.
(NOTE: scores refer to Thriller’s rating of the review, not Pitchfork’s rating of the album).
Baaba Maal/Television – 6.1
A review of Joshua Klein’s Pitchfork review
Any time you pair a Pitchfork reviewer with a relatively obscure African artist, there is always the very real possibility of a complete train wreck. Something about pretentious, self-aggrandizing bullshit, mixed with the often brutal social and political realities of many countries in Africa, mixed with the hipster’s natural instinct to pretend to “get” rhythmic African music doesn’t bode well for the review or the reviewer.
Amazingly, Klein steers his review clear of a train wreck and instead ends up at more of a car crash with minor injuries. There are, of course, the usual Pitchfork reflexes, with words like “pan-global fusionist,” and passages like:
On the latter front, tracks such as “Cantaloupe” and “International” come close to kitsch, the first with its cloyingly whistled melodies, the second with its awkward literal-mindedness. “Dakar Moon”, with its flamenco guitar and English lyrics, too, comes close to crossing over into ill-conceived milquetoast territory.
However, if the reader can wade through that muddle, there are flashes of actual insight. For instance, Klein writes of the music reviewer’s tendency to deal with Africa as a single entity, rather than a “collection of diverse countries, each with its own diverse musical scene.”
And, his summation of the album is clear and to the point:
For a self-professed musical ambassador, the usually magnetic Maal simply seems too restrained, too eager to meet new listeners halfway rather than give them a compelling reason to come to him.
Overall, the best thing one can say about Klein’s review is that it is not nearly as bad as it could have been.
Omar Rodriguez-Lopez/Xenophanes – 5.7
Review of Jess Harvell’s Pitchfork Review
Words by: Chris Hillman
Yes, you’ve likely heard the terms “Pitchfork” and “dumb-assed grandiosity” together in the same sentence before, but probably not anywhere on the Pitchfork servers themselves. This particular Pitchfork review is a terrific example of the pot calling the kettle black. And round. And used for cooking. Caught in the crossfire of the world’s most shameless and portentous music publication calling a musician “shameless” and “portentous,” is the meager messenger, self-proclaimed Mars Volta fan and reviewer Jess Harvell. While I’m not certain of Harvell’s sex (the name “Jess” does not bode well for either), for my purposes I’ll call him “him.” Because, let’s get real, there aren’t any female Mars Volta fans. To his credit, Harvell gets the GRE vocabulary and blatant name dropping nearly out of the way in the first paragraph, as if satisfying some rubric given out by the professor of Writing for Pitchfork 101. On second thought, maybe the name dropping is not heavy-handed; maybe it just seems that way because names like Omar Rodriguez-Lopez and Cedric Bixler-Zavala are just heavy (unlike the tiny Hispanic musicians who bear them). Still, if this review were a Wheel of Fortune puzzle, Harvell would be glad hyphens are free.
Maybe because it’s short (and with this being Rodriguez-Lopez’s fifth solo record this year, who can blame Pitchfork for wasting as little bandwith as necessary on him), but I did find this review more readable than most of Pitchfork’s material. There are, of course, exceptions. If a Pitchfork Review Quote Random Generator existed (patent pending!), this gem would spark a few titters:
Not to equate the dudes from Sparta with Teo Macero, but at least in the At the Drive-In days you never worried you were footing the bill for someone’s wah-wah pedal obsession.
If that quote simply seems out of context here, go ahead and let me know if you can figure out the context from reading the original text. Another “Perfectly Pitchfork” moment comes with the requisite use of any word with the prefix aesth-
Throw a slo-mo disco beat under the quiet storm of atmospherics in ’Ojo al Cristo de Plata’, and it could be one of those soft-prog/neo-Balearic dance tunes currently so beloved by young house aesthetes.
I do, however, mightily applaud Harvell’s ability to work in the phrase “quiet storm.”
In the end, I gave Harvell’s review the same score he gave Xenophanes, because, like his assessment of the album, there’s a lot of extraneous fluff to sift through in his review, but it doesn’t exactly waste your time, either. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’d rather spend 45 minutes reading self-absorbed Pitchfork reviews than listening to 45 minutes of self-congratulating Mars Volta solo project.
The Flaming Lips/Embryonic – 9.7
Review of Stuart Berman’s Pitchfork review
Occasionally, a Pitchfork review will shine through the mire and remind us of why Pitchfork became such a behemoth to begin with.
Berman’s review of the latest Flaming Lips does just that. While his rating of Embryonic might be a tad high, he nails the review on the head, showing a deep understanding of the Lips and their history and placing the new album in its proper context.
Take a listen:
There’s a raw directness to Embryonic that’s been largely absent from Lips records since the mid-90s. For the first time in years, they’ve made an album that actually sounds like a band playing live together in a small room. In light of Mystics’ overly processed, grab-bag quality, the holistic, audio-vérité approach on display here is remarkable– the record is extremely dense, initially overwhelming, but unusually rewarding upon repeat listens. Like the double-disc, high-concept rock epics of yore (think Physical Graffiti or Bitches Brew), it captures them at their most sprawling and ambitious, boldly pushing themselves towards more adventurous horizons.
Absolutely right. Well written, no pretentiousness, accurate references – in short, this is what a review should read like.
Much to Berman’s credit, he shows his skills without overshadowing the work at hand. There are two particular instances where this is especially notable. First, his description of the song “Your Bats” as a “drunken Bonham stumble,” is pitch perfect.
But, the most insightful and (hopefully) prescient part of his review is this:
Embryonic’s sea change arrives right on time to herald a new Flaming Lips for a new decade. Back in 1990, In a Priest Driven Ambulance signaled the Lips’ transformation from garage-punk misfits into a splendorous, kaleidoscopic rock outfit; 1999’s The Soft Bulletin reconfigured them once again into a sophisticated, sincere symphonic-pop troupe bestowed with increasing commercial acclaim and street-naming ceremonies in their honor. We can only hope that, as we enter the 2010s, Embryonic portends yet another new phase for the Flaming Lips– one that’s equally as improbable and rewarding as the ones that have preceded it.
We hope so. Kudos, Mr. Berman. You showed that Pitchfork can occasionally get it right.
Omar Rodrizuez-Lopez/Zenophanes – 5.7
Review of Jess Harvell’s Pitchfork Review
Words by: Chris Hillman
Yes, you’ve likely heard the terms “Pitchfork” and “dumb-assed grandiosity” together in the same sentence before, but probably not anywhere on the Pitchfork servers themselves. This particular Pitchfork review is a terrific example of the pot calling the kettle black. And round. And used for cooking. Caught in the crossfire of the world’s most shameless and portentous music publication calling a musician “shameless” and “portentous,” is the meager messenger, self-proclaimed Mars Volta fan and reviewer Jess Harvell. While I’m not certain of Harvell’s sex (the name “Jess” does not bode well for either), for my purposes I’ll call him “him.” Because, let’s get real, there aren’t any female Mars Volta fans. To his credit, Harvell gets the GRE vocabulary and blatant name dropping nearly out of the way in the first paragraph, as if satisfying some rubric given out by the professor of Writing for Pitchfork 101. On second thought, maybe the name dropping is not heavy-handed; maybe it just seems that way because names like Omar Rodriguez-Lopez and Cedric Bixler-Zavala are just heavy (unlike the tiny Hispanic musicians who bear them). Still, if this review were a Wheel of Fortune puzzle, Harvell would be glad hyphens are free.
Maybe because it’s short (and with this being Rodriguez-Lopez’s fifth solo record this year, who can blame Pitchfork for wasting as little bandwith as necessary on him), but I did find this review more readable than most of Pitchfork’s material. There are, of course, exceptions. If a Pitchfork Review Quote Random Generator existed (patent pending!), this gem would spark a few titters:
Not to equate the dudes from Sparta with Teo Macero, but at least in the At the Drive-In days you never worried you were footing the bill for someone’s wah-wah pedal obsession.
If that quote simply seems out of context here, go ahead and let me know if you can figure out the context from reading the original text. Another “Perfectly Pitchfork” moment comes with the requisite use of any word with the prefix aesth-
Throw a slo-mo disco beat under the quiet storm of atmospherics in ’Ojo al Cristo de Plata’, and it could be one of those soft-prog/neo-Balearic dance tunes currently so beloved by young house aesthetes.
I do, however, mightily applaud Harvell’s ability to work in the phrase “quiet storm.”
In the end, I gave Harvell’s review the same score he gave Xenophanes, because, like his assessment of the album, there’s a lot of extraneous fluff to sift through in his review, but it doesn’t exactly waste your time, either. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’d rather spend 45 minutes reading self-absorbed Pitchfork reviews than listening to 45 minutes of self-congratulating Mars Volta solo project.
YACHT/See Mystery Lights – 4.5
A review of Rebecca Raber’s Pitchfork review
We will grant to all Pitchfork reviewers the fact that writing about music is hard. How do you use words to describe sounds? Still, the problem with Pitchfork reviews is two-fold. First, there are the adjectives. So many adjectives it would make Hemingway kill himself all over again (too soon?). Second, there is the crushing desire to show how cool you are by how wild and crazy your adjectives are.
And let’s add one more problem to the list – the perpetual, desperate name-dropping. There seems to be a competition to see who can get the most obscure. A large percentage of Pitchfork reviews could be written in two sentences: LOOK AT HOW OBSCURE MY REFERENCES ARE!!!!! SOMEONE PLEASE LOOK FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!!!!
And so, we have Raber’s review of YACHT’s See Mystery Lights. It’s not that the review is bad. It’s just that it has a fatal case of all three of these problems.
Take a listen:
It’s a collection of stone jams that finds the band finally as hellbent on experimenting and expanding the boundaries of its sonic scope as it is on having fun. Built on electronic foundations– laser effects, skittering computerized beats, and spacey synth lines (or guitar riffs that have been tuned or distorted to sound like synths)– these new songs are giddy with creative freedom while remaining tethered in service of their melodies. The vocal melodies are bright and buoyant, but delivered (by either band member, or in unison) in a chanted, oftentimes detached monotone that plays up the repetitive lyrics’ mantra-like feel and adds a welcome undercurrent of slacker cool to their otherwise sugary optimism.
WHAT? Of course, it’s not bad enough that a music review has to read like a treatise by Michel Foucault (LOOK AT MY REFERENCES!!!!!). You also have to deal with grade-A bullshitting like this:
Still, while YACHT clearly share influences with Murphy’s gang (Eno, Ferry, Neu!, ESG, etc.), their positive, futuristic jams actually sound most closely related to Tom Tom Club. Perhaps that’s because, like Tom Tom Club’s first self-titled album, which was recorded in Barbados, See Mystery Lights was recorded in a sunny, faraway locale– in this case, far from the band’s native rainy Portland, Oregon, in Marfa, Texas. The vibe of the album is relaxed and sun-soaked– especially “Psychic City (Voodoo City)”, which features an elastic groove built on a dubby, reggae-ish keyboard melody inspired by the bassline of Althea and Donna’s “Uptown Top Ranking”.
If you want to stab yourself in the eyes, you’re not alone.
Chromeo/Fancy Footwork – 3.1
Review of Zach Baron’s Pitchfork review
Words by: Tyler Hastain
There are a few things Pitchfork Media is known for: $25 words, unfathomably obscure name drops, and an all-around abhorrent level of pretentiousness and self-importance. An uninspired article, however, is usually nowhere to be found on this list.
Enter Zach Baron’s review of Chromeo’s sophomore release - Fancy Footwork.
Now, whether or not I agree or disagree with a Pitchfork review, the article usually holds my attention until the last word. Either infuriated by a scathing examination of a favorite album, or surprised that they finally got something right, one of Pitchfork’s only real selling points (and simultaneously, one of its biggest faults), is that the articles are usually very well written. So well written, in fact, that it seems as though the reviewer may have a chip on his shoulder; giving each offering the tone of failed author, still trying to prove his belletristic (see, I can use thesaurus.com too) worth. This translates into reviews focused more on literary dick-waggling than a true album review, and, whether in disgust or joy, keeps my eyes glued to the screen.
Unfortunately for both Pitchfork and Chromeo themselves, and despite the better-than-average score, Zach has delivered an article as captivating and memorable as what you were doing last Thursday, at 3 P.M. – you may have a vague awareness of the setting, but the details are long gone by now.
Each paragraph follows the template of: 1. Insert lyrics, 2. Explain lyrics, 3. Sprinkle with occasional comparison, for flavor. This review has been stripped down to the bare essentials and is extremely out of character for a Pitchfork Media review. Baron spends little more than a sentence describing a single, technical, aspect of each song (mostly expending this sentence on a single lyric, or couplet), and completely disregards the more esoteric, and far more valuable asset to any musical experience: the vibe. In fact, without this little jewel of literary competency:
An electrofunk-by-numbers mélange of talk boxes, 808s, canned percussion, and Prince-style atmospherics
the reader would be completely lost as to what the music actually sounds like, without having first heard something from the band.
All in all, even with the lack of obfuscatious words, and obscure-to-the-point-of-non-existence artist name dropping, this is just a poor review. Other than the deciphering of very straightforward lyrics and an extremely off-the-mark comparison to Prince, the reader gains absolutely nothing by reading it and, as is the case with most Pitchfork reviews, would have been better off spending their time listening to the songs available on the duo’s Myspace page and judging for themselves, instead of reading 500 or so words of such utter inconsequentiality.
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart/Higher Than the Stars EP – 3.0
Review of Joe Colly’s Pitchfork review
Pitchfork reviewers rarely (if ever) have the balls to not like something that comes from New York.
So, we have The Pains of Being Pure at Heart. The music isn’t bad, per se. It’s just boring. There is nothing original, new or particularly interesting about this band, and that is as good a description as any of a surefire way to be awarded 8 points or higher by Pitchfork: Be in a band from New York that offers nothing original, new or particularly interesting. 8 points, automatic. Just put a dance beat behind it, claim My Bloody Valentine as a reference and you’re golden.
But, to be fair, “Higher Than the Stars” is right in Pitchfork’s wheelhouse. Take a listen:
In addition to helping clear up misconceptions about the group’s M.O., Higher Than the Stars also marks a small but important aesthetic shift for Pains. On their self-titled debut from earlier this year, the band worked within a pretty specific strain of indie-pop from the mid-80s and drew heavily from the hazy guitar pop of early My Bloody Valentine and C86 acts like Shop Assistants. But this EP demonstrates a tweaking of that sound that falls more in line with the cleaner approach of late-80s Sarah Records bands, most notably the Field Mice. That may seem like a minor distinction, but it helps to show Pains not as period fetishists, but instead a group of indie-pop aesthetes who seem to be able to operate comfortably within several different subdivisions of the genre.
To review: Reference to My Bloody Valentine? Check. Reference to several infinitesimally small/obscure labels/bands? Check. Use of the word “aesthetic/aesthete” more than once in the same paragraph? Check.
One side note: When, oh Lord, when will it no longer be hip to ironically reference mid-80s synth music?
Wilco (The Album) – 6.4
Review of Matthew Perpetua’s Pitchfork review.
It’s somehow reassuring that roughly six words into the first sentence, every Pitchfork review starts reading like a parody of a Pitchfork review.
And so, we have the words “nebulous,” “quasi-experimental,” “neo-folk,” and that ubiquitous snarky qualifier “sort of” that peppers the speech of unbearable Philosophy and English Lit. majors – all of this before the first period.
That’s a lot to put in the first sentence, but much to Perpetua’s credit, the rest of the review generally avoids the usual Pitchfork reflexes.
Wilco (The Album) gets a 7.3 from Pitchfork, although no one knows where that number came from, possibly not even Perpetua.
And, no one knows why, on an album where Wilco sounds more satisfied and, frankly, bored than ever, they get a generally glowing review. This is especially interesting because their last effort, Sky Blue Sky, was soundly shat upon by Pitchfork.
It earned a 5.2 and a scathing review, although in just about every measurable way, it was a better album.
One sentence sums up the quality of this review. Perpetua writes, “Every song on Wilco (The Album) is written and performed with immaculate precision, though the subtleties in the work gradually reveal their charms upon repeated listening.”
It is logical in a tortured way, fairly insightful and still contains that unmistakable whiff of Pitchfork pretension.
