In Pitchfork‘s world, a 7.0 is a pretty good rating for an album (out of 10, of course), and so by that standard the new Blonde Redhead album 23 got a pretty good review today. But at what cost? Oh, the pretension! The entire review is sick with self-important blathering and referential bullshit, and if you didn’t know it you’d think the album was a 2.0 instead of the 7.0 it somehow got. Whoever this guy is, he takes the long way of saying “this is the album that will probably break BR big-time, but I knew them back when they spoke to just one person: Me!”
The final paragraph of this pretentious pile of shit is the cherry-top, a real disaster, concluding with this string of hipper-than-thou toilet prose:
Innovative? Sure, but when all the day-glo splatters, candy-coated swooshes, and chocolate waterfalls obscure the individualized songs underneath, what’s the point? 23 coulda/shoulda been the album where Blonde Redhead added on that much needed new wing to their mansion of moody cool craftsmanship. But instead, constructed right in front, blocking the entire view of the ornate and majestic building they took over 13 years to build, is a garish warbly and weird Frank Gehry-esque monstrosity.
Who the fuck writes like this?