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Last Post 10/2/2006 10:58 PM by  dera
Favourite Music Journalism Putdown
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dera
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10/2/2006 10:58 PM
    There are many. What is yours? This is my new favourite - Pitchfork's review of Jet's new record. http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/article/record_review/38853/Jet_Shine_On
    dera
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    10/2/2006 11:00 PM
    pants - I don't seem to be able to edit that - it's probably not very work friendly, I should have said!
    vandala
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    10/2/2006 11:12 PM
    Well, I know they weren't a real band and nor was the "review", but the two-word summation of Spinal Tap's "Shark Sandwich" album is pretty good...
    stroller
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    10/3/2006 3:50 AM
    Def leppard's most recent album was called Yeah!. The NME's review read as follows "nah!"
    roxy
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    10/3/2006 8:06 AM
    He's not a music journo but Jeremy Clarkson presenting Never Mind the Buzzcocks a while back. Was referring to some band he thought were s**te - "They're not even on nodding terms with music" I loved it...
    Vent My Spleen
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    10/3/2006 8:28 AM
    My favourite? From Hot Press of all places many moons ago. I line (and particularly harsh) review of The Prayerboat. 'Haven't got a boat, haven't got a prayer'
    Antistar
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    10/3/2006 12:56 PM
    quote:
    Originally posted by Vent My Spleen
    My favourite? From Hot Press of all places many moons ago. I line (and particularly harsh) review of The Prayerboat. 'Haven't got a boat, haven't got a prayer'
    Gotta love Hot Press: slagging off one of the greatest, underrated, under-appreciated Irish bands of recent times. F######g idiots, don't have a clue.
    stroller
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    10/3/2006 1:47 PM
    quote:
    Originally posted by Antistar
    quote:
    Originally posted by Vent My Spleen
    My favourite? From Hot Press of all places many moons ago. I line (and particularly harsh) review of The Prayerboat. 'Haven't got a boat, haven't got a prayer'
    Gotta love Hot Press: slagging off one of the greatest, underrated, under-appreciated Irish bands of recent times. F######g idiots, don't have a clue.
    I know. The only publication that matches them in terms of sheer ineptitude is Q. They recently gave the Rapture's new album 2 stars yet they gave Razorlight's latest five. Could you imagine how atrocious your record collection would be if you actually followed their recommendations?
    Peejay
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    10/3/2006 2:34 PM
    quote:
    Originally posted by vandala
    Well, I know they weren't a real band and nor was the "review", but the two-word summation of Spinal Tap's "Shark Sandwich" album is pretty good...
    "On what day did the Lord create Spinal Tap, and couldn't he have rested on that day too?"
    stephen
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    10/4/2006 1:14 AM
    Apologies for the narcissism... but I did enjoy my own putdown of St David Gray in a review that appeared in these hallowed pages... "As a songwriter, he is an amalgam of Bob Dylan (without the lyrics), Van Morrison (without the mysticism) and Elliot Smith (without the melodies)…."
    Vent My Spleen
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    10/4/2006 8:41 AM
    ...and a nodding dog (without the ability to keep children in the backs of cars occupied)..
    roadhousemag
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    10/4/2006 9:34 AM
    a q review of 2004's "whats wrong with this picture" by Van Morrisson.... q: "whats wrong with this album?"
    kevin gallen
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    10/5/2006 10:03 AM
    This B&S review has some funny putdowns Nicely jumpered skinny students suck feverishly on white-pack Silk Cut surrogate tits and titter tweely at every feeble onstage witticism. Oh! It's all so oh-so coy and warm and happy-clappy cosy! This ever-so-slappable crowd of sh*t-eating indie-schmindie sheep are apparently not even slightly pissed off that they've had to queue outside in the freezing rain for over an hour (while a B&S employee tossed them compensatory ice-creams). "Integrity seems to be the key word," mumbles singer Stuart Murdoch (apropos absolutely f-ing nothing) to general laughter and a smattering of clapping. "w*nky, half-arsed, cackhanded and utterly insulting amateurism," would be closer to the f-ing mark (don't piss on me and tell me it's raining, tw*t). This is the matinee show. Belle & Sebastian have sold out Manchester's amazing Victorian town hall twice in one day. The perform in the round, the stage a speaker-stacked black modernist slab slapped in the exact centre of a stunning gothic-arched and gold-leafed beige-stone Christmas cake. The acoustics are thus totally f-ed and the insultingly desultory attempts at audience communication (during the frequent equipment breakdowns) reduced to mere whispered mumblings. And yet, despite the fact that Belle & Sebastian's sole trick is to combine piss-poor sub-Don McLean lyrics with nicked Kirsty MacColl riffs, there is the merest whiff of real magic here. Even the most cynical folkophobic would find it hard not to twitch and shudder with near sexual pleasure at the throbbing muscle layered upon tracks like "The Stars Of Track And Field" and "The Fox In The Snow" (the recorded versions of which remain puke-inducingly whimsical and twee). But it's never enough to overcome the overwhelming stench of smug, cutesy-wutesy, mumsy-wumsy, Jack Straw-approved suburban sh*te. Manchester Town Hall is an over-the-top, totally in-your-face and utterly awesome shrine to late-Victorian bourgeois triumphalism. Today it showcases a band who, more than any other, epitomise the tediously understated, wilfully inadequate and teeth-grindingly irritating school of aesthetically neutered and ideologically castrated middle-class, too-thick-for-art-school Blair Rock. A punter, seeing a hack scribble furiously, approaches and demands that NME doesn't compare Belle & Sebastian to "Felt, Nick Cave, The Smiths..." and a whole load of sh*t anti--rock bands because "that would be lazy". OK, how about The Carpenters without the camp? Burt Bacharach without the balls? Jonathan Richman without the jokes? Crowded House without the incisive lyrical insights? Or maybe The Velvet Underground without the tunes, looks, attitude, politics, style, asthetics, vision, talent, charisma, sunglasses, black turtle-neck sweaters or f-ing drugs? That do you? I mean, you seem so easily pleased.
    kevin gallen
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    10/5/2006 10:04 AM
    also mongrels 2 word review of josh ritters album Josh s**tter
    roadhousemag
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    10/5/2006 10:34 AM
    Mongrel is fantastic....
    dera
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    10/5/2006 10:43 AM
    quote:
    Originally posted by kevin gallen
    This B&S review has some funny putdowns
    oh, but I wish B&S were still as C86 shambolic as that review describes!
    Antistar
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    10/5/2006 11:54 AM
    quote:
    Originally posted by kevin gallen
    This B&S review has some funny putdowns Nicely jumpered skinny students suck feverishly on white-pack Silk Cut surrogate tits and titter tweely at every feeble onstage witticism. Oh! It's all so oh-so coy and warm and happy-clappy cosy! This ever-so-slappable crowd of sh*t-eating indie-schmindie sheep are apparently not even slightly pissed off that they've had to queue outside in the freezing rain for over an hour (while a B&S employee tossed them compensatory ice-creams). "Integrity seems to be the key word," mumbles singer Stuart Murdoch (apropos absolutely f-ing nothing) to general laughter and a smattering of clapping. "w*nky, half-arsed, cackhanded and utterly insulting amateurism," would be closer to the f-ing mark (don't piss on me and tell me it's raining, tw*t). This is the matinee show. Belle & Sebastian have sold out Manchester's amazing Victorian town hall twice in one day. The perform in the round, the stage a speaker-stacked black modernist slab slapped in the exact centre of a stunning gothic-arched and gold-leafed beige-stone Christmas cake. The acoustics are thus totally f-ed and the insultingly desultory attempts at audience communication (during the frequent equipment breakdowns) reduced to mere whispered mumblings. And yet, despite the fact that Belle & Sebastian's sole trick is to combine piss-poor sub-Don McLean lyrics with nicked Kirsty MacColl riffs, there is the merest whiff of real magic here. Even the most cynical folkophobic would find it hard not to twitch and shudder with near sexual pleasure at the throbbing muscle layered upon tracks like "The Stars Of Track And Field" and "The Fox In The Snow" (the recorded versions of which remain puke-inducingly whimsical and twee). But it's never enough to overcome the overwhelming stench of smug, cutesy-wutesy, mumsy-wumsy, Jack Straw-approved suburban sh*te. Manchester Town Hall is an over-the-top, totally in-your-face and utterly awesome shrine to late-Victorian bourgeois triumphalism. Today it showcases a band who, more than any other, epitomise the tediously understated, wilfully inadequate and teeth-grindingly irritating school of aesthetically neutered and ideologically castrated middle-class, too-thick-for-art-school Blair Rock. A punter, seeing a hack scribble furiously, approaches and demands that NME doesn't compare Belle & Sebastian to "Felt, Nick Cave, The Smiths..." and a whole load of sh*t anti--rock bands because "that would be lazy". OK, how about The Carpenters without the camp? Burt Bacharach without the balls? Jonathan Richman without the jokes? Crowded House without the incisive lyrical insights? Or maybe The Velvet Underground without the tunes, looks, attitude, politics, style, asthetics, vision, talent, charisma, sunglasses, black turtle-neck sweaters or f-ing drugs? That do you? I mean, you seem so easily pleased.
    Might be a good idea to let us know who wrote this and for what publication is it for? Is it NME?
    stroller
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    10/6/2006 1:30 PM
    quote:
    Originally posted by kevin gallen
    This B&S review has some funny putdowns Nicely jumpered skinny students suck feverishly on white-pack Silk Cut surrogate tits and titter tweely at every feeble onstage witticism. Oh! It's all so oh-so coy and warm and happy-clappy cosy! This ever-so-slappable crowd of sh*t-eating indie-schmindie sheep are apparently not even slightly pissed off that they've had to queue outside in the freezing rain for over an hour (while a B&S employee tossed them compensatory ice-creams). "Integrity seems to be the key word," mumbles singer Stuart Murdoch (apropos absolutely f-ing nothing) to general laughter and a smattering of clapping. "w*nky, half-arsed, cackhanded and utterly insulting amateurism," would be closer to the f-ing mark (don't piss on me and tell me it's raining, tw*t). This is the matinee show. Belle & Sebastian have sold out Manchester's amazing Victorian town hall twice in one day. The perform in the round, the stage a speaker-stacked black modernist slab slapped in the exact centre of a stunning gothic-arched and gold-leafed beige-stone Christmas cake. The acoustics are thus totally f-ed and the insultingly desultory attempts at audience communication (during the frequent equipment breakdowns) reduced to mere whispered mumblings. And yet, despite the fact that Belle & Sebastian's sole trick is to combine piss-poor sub-Don McLean lyrics with nicked Kirsty MacColl riffs, there is the merest whiff of real magic here. Even the most cynical folkophobic would find it hard not to twitch and shudder with near sexual pleasure at the throbbing muscle layered upon tracks like "The Stars Of Track And Field" and "The Fox In The Snow" (the recorded versions of which remain puke-inducingly whimsical and twee). But it's never enough to overcome the overwhelming stench of smug, cutesy-wutesy, mumsy-wumsy, Jack Straw-approved suburban sh*te. Manchester Town Hall is an over-the-top, totally in-your-face and utterly awesome shrine to late-Victorian bourgeois triumphalism. Today it showcases a band who, more than any other, epitomise the tediously understated, wilfully inadequate and teeth-grindingly irritating school of aesthetically neutered and ideologically castrated middle-class, too-thick-for-art-school Blair Rock. A punter, seeing a hack scribble furiously, approaches and demands that NME doesn't compare Belle & Sebastian to "Felt, Nick Cave, The Smiths..." and a whole load of sh*t anti--rock bands because "that would be lazy". OK, how about The Carpenters without the camp? Burt Bacharach without the balls? Jonathan Richman without the jokes? Crowded House without the incisive lyrical insights? Or maybe The Velvet Underground without the tunes, looks, attitude, politics, style, asthetics, vision, talent, charisma, sunglasses, black turtle-neck sweaters or f-ing drugs? That do you? I mean, you seem so easily pleased.
    Whoever wrote this piece of sh*t is one hopelessly clueless c*nt.
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