I’m elitist and wear tight enough pants to groove on Pitchforkmedia, sure. But site veterans and site lackeys (who site veterans explain the semantics of album reviews to like it was fucking literary bullfighting, and then piss on) have allowed the Comic Book Guy-style boys’ club to engage in a grandly pretentious self-deceiving tightassitry never before seen in the history of online publications.
Who are they really? A dozen Midwest near-thirtysomethings with damn good musical fascination who in between part-time retail and jerking to Empire Records (while blowing Stephen Malkmus or/and Stuart Murdoch) make mixed tapes limited to songs from 1989 Norwegian drum-and-bass EP b-sides and derive sustenance from name-dropping like middle age women photosynthesize theirs through fishing for compliments.
And despite their austerity, they’re no good at being snobs. Out of their last thirty album reviews, only four have earned less than a 6.7. It’s like Rolling Stone’s three-out-of-five stars-for-trying standard.
But the big secret is the guys can’t write worth two shits—their self-narratives unnecessary, their phrasing awkward, their metaphors desperately exclusive, and their rule verbosity (over clarity).
Still, the site is excellent for what it does but don’t get into it unless you want R. Kelly-ed.
