Is there a more loathed creature out there than the music critic? Despite ranking somewhere between politician and lawyer in the public consciousness, the conflation of the Internet’s girth has seen the sheer volume of critics expand seismically. This, in and of itself, does not implicitly suggest a growth in demand, but the correlating rise in the layman’s musical knowledge (thanks to the bottomless resource of the Internet) suggests that music criticism is a desirable vice, like celebrity tabloids, gambling, or drugs. We dislike the idea of it, but we simply cannot tear ourselves away from the bottomless pit of consumption (in this instance, information and media consumption).
The critics themselves share a portion of the fault in their poor public opinion, of course. The traditional music press in its heyday so seamlessly transformed itself into a placard for record labels and big box stores—churning out consumer reviews rather than focusing on relevant conversations about art in the age of access—that it hardly seems surprising that a new journal folds every couple of weeks. Nose-elevating cultural analysts have been quick to point out, with more than a hint of schadenfreude, that consumer reviews make little sense in an era when you can just stream or download the album yourself before purchasing (if the actual buying of music is even considered at all). The conversation, they say, needs to go further than a friendly recommendation.