My Whole Review of Some Album from Gossip

See below.












Ew.

Blonde on Blonde – Bob Dylan

Such a title should have been preserved for a middle-of-the-road, penis-free porno, not another convoluted Bob Dylan offering.

Although his fervid fans would have you believe that Dylan's music was so deep you could dive into it, I would like to frantically caution you that in fact it is as shallow as the latest Seth Rogen effort. This dinosaur is vaunted as a cultural icon for supposedly having something interesting to say, where in reality you'd learn more from watching an episode of Cash Cab.

Perhaps you should double entendre us to death while appealing to all of your obtuse hippy fans that will chant any lyric that has to do with getting baked ("Rainy Day Woman #12 & 35"). Some writhe in sycophantic celebration about the supposed cleverness of this play on words but I'm willing to call it what it really is, pure sloth for fans ready to consume anything offered as gospel, provided the gospel was grown in your friend's neighbors' backyard. Some refer to him as a great storyteller. Really? If you call disjointed, whiskey tango adventures great stories, then he is your guy! The sad truth is that if Bob Dylan did a cover of the schoolyard anthem "Diarrhea", people would dissect it and arrive on the idea that it's about drugs or the war or the war on drugs. You are suckers for periphrasis people, wake up, he's no genius, just another boring coffeehouse toadie that got lucky. I think his interview answers were convoluted because he was just as surprised by his success as I am.

Take the people that are so quick to call him genius. Ask them what albums they own. Ask them what their favorite Dylan songs are. Ask them to recite some lyrics. Ask them their PIN number because they will probably be shit stupid enough to give it to you. Exactly. With the exception of a few super fans, they won't have jack shit and won't be anywhere near being able to justify the genius label. And even if they can recite the popular standards, ask them what the fuck they mean. It is all "poetic" nonsense and Bob has laughed all the way to the bank for years . . . too bad he hasn't laughed all the way to a barber. Just because critics are ready to suckle his teet at any offering, doesn't make his music good, relevant or even interesting. All of his best works had to be reinterpreted by someone else. "All Along the watchtower" was only made great because Hendrix salvaged it and "It's All Over Now" received a real chance once Van Morrison performed it.

The fact of the matter is, people have some sort of fear of announcing that they don't like or get Bob Dylan. They tow the party line and continue with the phony reverence. What is there that is redeeming about Bob Dylan's work? At least he has the smarts to avoid the press these days and doing anything that make him tabloid fodder, but who has given him the idea that it's a good idea to continue to produce albums? The legions of aformentioned adoring fans and critics? Fuck that noise. (Literally)

From Obviously Five Believers:

I got my black dog barkin'

Black dog barkin'

Yes, it is now

Yes, it is now

Outside my yard

Yes, I could tell you what he means

If I just didn't have to try so hard.

Ok, if I sent this to you without any context, you would say, aww, that's sweet that your six year old is writing but would secretly think, that kid needs therapy.

How about this from "Most Likely You Go Your Way and I'll Go Mine"

The judge, he holds a grudge

He's gonna call on you

But he's badly built

And he walks on stilts

Watch out he don't fall on you.

Ok, anyone else thinking this cou

ld be ripped from the pages of Dr. Seuss?

Jack Johnson's Shit Goes Platinum All the Time Thanks to You Fucking Morons

I'd seen the cover of this album everywhere back when idiots were buying it and only now looked up what it was called. It's called In Between Dreams, which about sums up how exciting it is. You know, like when you're sleeping, and you're not even dreaming. You're far more likely to enjoy a totally bonerless drunken blackout than any song on this album.


I think this review from Amazon says it all:
"it it was possible, i would have given this cd 6 stars... it's been on constant repeat in the background ever since i got this cd the day it came out (i pre-ordered it as soon as i heard word of a new jack johnson cd...gasp!) i have liked jack for several years, ever since his debut album 'brushfire fairytales.' since then, he's also come out with 'on and on,' (making this his 3rd) and i honestly would never be able to choose my favorite. he's got a soothing, raspy voice and perfectly harmonizing guitar, and he has such a way with words: he doesn't just write about love (although his love songs will make your heart flutter!) but he also writes about worldly issues that get you thinking."

Clearly, only morons like Jack Johnson. Yeah, this album really gets you thinking about how maybe you have some jello in the fridge or POSSIBLY about how you might want to learn how to play the guitar and/or surf. Or play the guitar while surfing.

Your dumbass friends are sure to play this during parties cos they think it's the PERFECT "chill" party music or sweet "beach" music, because we're always having beach parties and I'm ALWAYS wondering what the ONE PERFECT ALBUM for those parties would be. If there were some bizarre stipulation in which I could only ever go to the beach if I were also listening to Jack Johnson, I would forego the beach forever. And I like the beach. The fact that every album he has ever made has gone platinum makes me want to go on a killing rampage, but while drinking wine, petting my cat, and surfing. Congratulations, though, to this dude on guaranteeing himself an endless supply of totally chill, definitely a little fat, retarded, salty pussy.

Thriller - The album your Mom played at your Halloween Party, 10 years ago.

On the Occassion of the Week and a Half Anniversary of the King of Pop's death, Pitchfuck would like to uncover this hidden gem - Michael Jackson's "Thriller." Thriller is, according to the most cracked out waitress I used to work with, "ok pretty good and fun to get fucked up and dance to".

Based on what I've learned from YouTube, Dave Chapelle, and other outlets that prevent me from actually talking to black folks about this album, it is about a teenage werewolf who dances his way into the hearts and minds of a town where dancing is illegal.

The most striking thing about the tracks on this album are their titles, as they all allude to his pedophilic nature. Let me highlight a few for you now:

Baby Be Mine

The Girl is Mine

Beat It

Human Nature

P.Y.T (Pretty Young Thing)

Notice any similarities? That's right. These were all songs written and performed by none other than known kid-diddler MICHAEL JACKSON.

The music itself is most tolerable and filled with Jackson's falsetto, man-baby, pseudo-castrati, immortally pubescent, gender-challenging vocals, which really did the job for me.

In retrospect, I wish Paul McCartney had performed on fewer tracks than the one he sang on. The album is danceable, provided you're mega fucked-up and it's the weekend after Michael Jackson's death. Anytime after that, this music is most suitable for K-Marts wishing to get their shoppers to leave before they start inventory.

Grithly Bear Girlfrenn!

I guess to celebrate Gay Pride Month, the whole world decided to be nice and try to like Grizzly Bear, even landing them on Billboard's Top Ten.

Fronted by the love child of Adrien Brody and a gay Muppet (probably Bert), Grizzly Bear's lastest album - "Vasectomy" or some shit like that - is 6 minutes (elapsed time before I stopped listening) of pure laziness. From the lacklusterlyrics to the cry-voice singing, Vasectomy will make you wish the rest of the band broke off and started another band with a different singer who still has his testicles in tact. Maybe called Grizzly Bälls. Look at that umlaut. You know they're gonna rock the shit. Back to Grizzly bear...

In conclusion, if I wanted to listen to gay people whine I'd watch "So You Think You can Dance?". This album is as aggrivating as it is boring.

Yours Truly, the Straightedge Loser

“I may be limping, but I’m coming home,” Jason Lytle says in the opening track of the most boring album I’ve illegally downloaded this year, and it’s like he’s admitting “I know this is lame cos I stopped doing drugs and binge drinking, but hey, at least it’s something, you hipster shit for brains.” Grandaddy was so boss, but Jason Lytle just can’t pull it off alone. Also, no one knows him by his real name, so a better marketing strategy would have been to call himself Grandmammy, Baby Grandaddy, or even Grandaddy the Second.

There’s a video on Amazon wherein he describes his recent move to Montana and how I guess that was a big fucking deal and I’ve realized that if I were listening to Yours Truly, The Commuter while driving my car into a buffalo, running away from bears, or (what else do they do in Montana besides those two things and making boring music?) it would be a little more exciting. But that’s the only way to do it. He even entitles a song “This Song is the Mute Button” and he tricks you because you will keep clicking on it, hoping it’s the mute button, but you just end up having to listen to it again. I'm left wondering, as I often do, why isn't this as boss as the Born Ruffians (they are boss).

So Jason cleaned up his act and has produced elevator music not even fit for the dressing rooms at Urban Outfitters. So, my solution, naturally, as a big Grandaddy fan, is to petition that Jason resume doing drugs and drinking. I mean, he had to be pretty fucked up to write all that AMAZING shit about Jed the Humanoid on Sophtware Slump, and really, as someone who doesn’t know him personally, his health is not that important to me. So he’s going to live in Montana and be healthy and live a long time and give us more boring music? No thanks! Burn fast and burn bright!

Yon-who?

If your holier-than-thou internet music journalist friends haven't already assaulted your eardrums with this tripe, "Yonlu" is the whiny recordings of a wealthy Brazilian teenager who happens to be deceased.

Following his almost textbook suicide, his parents found a collection of songs he'd recorded in their mansion. Apparently they were so caught up in diving in their giant coin bank that they were surprised to find MUSIC on the computer in the room ADJACENT to a recording studio.

The tracks in question remind people with taste that anyone can make music. Most of the lyrics are about doing his hair or how much he hates white people. He was fluent in many languages but was incapable of singing in any. Which is why I gave this album a negative four.

In conclusion though, I hope that when I die someone finds the cumshot compilation I made on my external drive and manages to show it at Cannes. Which is an apt analogy for what you're doing if you buy this album.