Lessons from the world of arts criticism, from the critics of The Daily Californian.

When I was first exposed to Pitchfork some years ago, I was overjoyed at the breadth of albums the site had covered. So what could I do but dig through the site’s archive and seek out Pitchfork’s opinions on my favorite albums? Unfortunately, I had not yet realized how deadly some of Pitchfork’s writing could be. So when I typed the words “Kid A” into the search box, clicked on the review and started reading, it felt like someone was shoving their fist down my throat.

What caused this impulse to vomit? Well, this:

I had never even seen a shooting star before. 25 years of rotations, passes through comets’ paths, and travel, and to my memory I had never witnessed burning debris scratch across the night sky. Radiohead were hunched over their instruments … White pearls of arena light swam over their faces. A lazy disco light spilled artificial constellations inside the aluminum cove of the makeshift stage. The metal skeleton of the stage ate one end of Florence’s Piazza Santa Croce, on the steps of the Santa Croce Cathedral. Michelangelo’s bones and cobblestone laid beneath. I stared entranced, soaking in Radiohead’s new material, chiseling each sound into the best functioning parts of my brain which would be the only sound system for the material for months.

Tell me that you didn’t unconsciously grope for a brown bag while you were reading that. (Click here to read more…)