The world’s greatest sibling sent me an early Yuletide gift in the shape of a bottle of homemade cranberry absinthe wine.  For reasons completely unrelated to the magical synergy of wormwood and ethanol, I chose to eschew all new music for the last two weeks and instead listened endlessly to the Legendary Pink Dots’ From Here You’ll Watch the World Go By [1995].  And I did.  While wearing a black satin sleeping mask. 

Now that my mind no longer resembles a scrambled Fabergé egg, I am able to reflect more succinctly on the disposition of my life as a music writer.  And the truth is, I lie.    

It is the task of all writers to fill up space.  And there will always be more to fill next week.  We are not paid by the truth, or for our wisdom or sincerity.  These are unquantifiable attributes and are thusly referred to as “style”.  The word count alone tells us if our obligation has been met, if we have filled enough space, and how much we will be paid for said filling.  

But, you ask:  “Why would a writer lie?  Why can’t they just listen to a record and say what they think?”  You have much to learn, grasshopper.

If you are assigned to write 3,000 words about a mediocre band whose new album stinks like day-old sushi in a homeless man’s shoe, you cannot be honest.  To fill that much space, you will be including a substantial biography, a review of their recent releases and live shows, a list of side projects and contemporaries, and enough gossipy tidbits to turn this gruel into paté.  If you take the position that they suck, you will be left with a laundry list of dead-ends; you will not have the opportunity to interview the band in the future; the readers will rightfully wonder why you wasted their time with a full-length feature on someone that’s no good; and repeatedly writing negative pieces will mean less assignments from your editor.   

You can choose not to write the piece, but who’s going to pay your rent? 

Reviews are about relationships.  If you show adamant disdain for artists from a particular record label, their promotions department will stop sending you CD’s and erase your name from the guest list at their shows and parties.  They will stop purchasing advertising space in the periodical that publishes your column.  In local circles, at some point you will be sipping Guinness next to a close friend or stalker of the band that you trashed in print.  And nothing says vengeance like a bar brawl.   

Many critics forget that the CD’s that magically appear in their inbox are not free for their readers.  They are all too willing to compliment mediocrity and upgrade “average” to “awesome” for the sake of relationships.  Most have lost touch with the fact that the rest of world will be spending $15 to $20 based on these compromised recommendations. 

I try to limit my reviews to good albums or albums by artists who have released excellent work in the past.  What’s the point of reviewing a bad/okay record by a bad/okay band?  

I have to hear music before I’ll buy it.  I pay attention to what’s playing in stores, in coffeehouses, and on the radio.  Or I’ll go to a live show first.  Even if the band is disappointing, maybe the opening band will be good.  On occasion, I’ll buy something based on intuition alone, and I’m rarely dissatisfied.  But if you’re purchasing music by an unfamiliar artist based solely on positive reviews, it can only end in tears.  Don’t trust liars.       

Critical judgment is the biased interpretation of distorted observations.  Consider that something as basic and variable as the quality of one’s speakers can radically effect your perception of an album.  By listening to Portishead or LFO (the British house group, not the American pop grope) on headphones or a cheap boombox, you have missed the musical point entirely.  Now factor in the hundreds of other major and minor influences and filters that come into play during a listening experience.  How could you ever trust the opinion of a stranger? 

If I tell you that Lisa Suckdog (a.k.a. Lisa Crystal Carver) is the most significant artist of our times, I am not meriting her musical or literary talents.  I am telling you that she arrived at a crucial juncture in my development.  From a miniscule mention in a fanzine and a letter mailed from Butte, Montana to Dover, New Hampshire in 1989, myriad exotic paths were borne.  Options that did not previously exist, synthesized and spawned the radiant meadows of tiny, twisted flowers in which I now play.  So if I say that Drugs Are Nice [1989] is the best album released in the Eighties, it may have little or no value to you.  But to the writer, it is a singular and profound truth.  And that’s the best kind of lie. 

Several readers have forwarded photos to Sugar Blow in search of lewd encounters.  I will be e-mailing a single number to each whorish correspondent.  This number will indicate if your askance will ever be fulfilled with my diction.   

Countless employer-paid hours have been spent refining my “Hot or Not” judging criteria, which go like this:  If I would not fuck you under visible conditions, you are a Six.  If I would sleaze with you secretly, you are a Seven.  Eights are those who I would openly pursue and screw. Inspiring totems of glorious, o glorious manhood are crowned Nines and Tens.  Pleasing partial nudity and/or prominent groinage will get you an extra point if I’m frisky...which is a given.

Animals on wheels - faster, faster.  Artificial florists sell you flowers that will never die.  My lucky number is below one; you never know when you might need a zero.  Black Niagara of control spilling down to culture mock.  Pain is pleasure when it’s televised.  Hicks on fire.  When you’re a slave and when you’re freed, God is watching you.

             -- excerpts from various songs by Sam Phillips