Has any institution become less relevant that the Rolling Stone album review section? If you have some time, go to Rollingstone.com and take a gander. See what I mean?
The star-rating system, which makes no distinction between the works of Sigur Ros and Britney Spears, is beyond useless, leaving the reviewers to explain how an album made them feel. Or not. Here is the introduction to a review of Seal's most recent album, which received three and 1/2 stars (the same rating every album receives from RS).
'Like electromas-sager chairs, Designing Women reruns and detachable shower nozzles, Seal CDs are engineered to get his fans through the long, lonely winter months."
Ummmm... What? First of all, I spent several minutes wondering if their was some sort of obscure chair that only hipster music journalists know about. Turns out, it's a damn typo (should read "electromassager"), not that this correction lends clarity to the situation. I appreciate the occassionaly reach into the goody-bag of pop miscellany, but this reaches new heights of abitrariness. He could just as well have compared the album to a Dradel or an escaped orangutan. See how easy it is?
Gregory Peck! Isn't it so, so ironic that I would just reference his name out of the blue?
When it comes to musical opinions, the reviewers are often curiously off the mark. The magazine famously missed the boat on Led Zeppelin, which is forgivable. But their contemporary analyses seem unlikely to hold up to history. Take this dismissal, again by Sheffield of Sufjan Stevens' haunting "John Wayne Gacy Jr." from the "Illinois" album.
"For another, there's the inevitable song about the serial killer who dresses up as a clown, which symbolizes nothing about American life except the existence of creative-writing workshops."
Setting aside the question of whether a song about a serial killing clown is "inevitable" (is it really inevitable, or is inevitability necessary for Sheffield's glib repose?) or whether Stevens intends his song to symbolize American life, is Sheffield aware that John Wayne Gacy Jr. was, in fact, a real serial killer who dressed up like a clown. If anything, Stevens downplays the perversity of the Gacy's clown act. His matter of fact delivery makes the song all the more haunting, especially in light of the song's final insight. I'm not a big Sufjan fan, but I have difficulty finding ways in which this song isn't good.
All this pretention from a critic whose novel is entitled "Love is a Mix Tape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time".
RS critics have a habit of pondering lyrics, or rather eloquating ponderously about lyrics, often with hilarious results. Of Tori Amos' icicle, a song that is famously (and obviously) about female self... Um, inurement, writer Marie Elsie St. Leger delcares that it is about rape and molestation. One wonders if they listen to the albums.
But beyond the inaccuracy, conceit, and flawed musical opinion (yes, there is such a thing... See: Fans of Nickelback) there is an utter detachment between the review and the reviewed. The reviewers offer (ostensibly) wry observations about this or that element of an album, obsess over details such as voice alteration during productionand who played backup guitar on which track, etc... Then, they offer no real verdict on the album's merit, much less a recommendation as to whether it should be purchased.
The reviewers would likely argue that they are journalists covering the music industry, and albums are a component of that industry. But how does a Designing Women reference inform us of what Seal is accomplishing (or not) with his latest release? Why accompany the reviews with a star rating?
Why, then, do puppet-artists like Justin Timberlake get off the hook for an utter lack of compelling anything, while a band like Snow Patrol is berated for occassional derivativeness (a valid criticism, by the way). Perhaps the reviews are emblematic of the bifurcation between editorial content, which is mostly devoted to informing fans whenever Kanye West so much as passes gas, and the form and purpose of standard critique.
Reviewers for other venues (notably The Onion AV Club) manage to balance pithy prose with insight, which speaks to the central question. Can a remarkably unobservant magazine plausibly engage in a practice that consists of astute observation? What is the point? Perhaps, like MTV before it, Rolling Stone will eventually abandon any connection to actual music, choosing instead to focus on the personalities who comprise the music industry. That is up to their editors.
But as the leading music publication in the United States, one would hope they would use their influence to introduce their substantial readership to good music. Why wouldn't they?