Today I have the pleasure of introducing a new columnist joining the esteemed ranks here at Tinnitist. His name is Brett Abrahamsen, and he calls himself “a lifelong connoisseur of the experimental and obscure” — so he should fit in just fine around these parts. Here’s his first contribution. Or maybe I should say opening salvo; dude is definitely coming in hot. Consider yourself warned:
It is difficult not to be astounded by the utter vapidity of the various “Best Albums of 2024” lists that have recently been making the rounds. The upper echelons of these lists are crowded with absolute garbage — overrated industry darlings, “legendary” near-septuagenarians, etc. It seems the various publications are merely paying lip service to these highly influential but musically irrelevant acts.
Charli XCX is, of course, the worst offender. Brat was somehow greeted with an avalanche of hype, despite the fact that she’s nothing more than a mediocre pop star (and not even a particularly successful one). The album is generic pop — nothing that hasn’t been heard thousands of times before in the annals of music. The fact that critics laud it gives them a bad name.
These same critics also hail mediocre works from established “heroes”of the underground scene. Nick Cave — almost 70 years old — received “universal acclaim” for Wild God, an atrocious and unbearably kitschy record. Tracks such as Joy and Cinnamon Horses are the aural equivalent of Thomas Kinkade paintings.
Back to the celebrity front. Cowboy Carter was not necessarily worse than previous Beyoncé albums, but the fact that critics ever paid her any attention is mind blowing. The album included a cover of The Beatles’ Blackbird, which is a lame song to begin with.
Cave wasn’t the only aging crooner to receive rapturous acclaim. Beth Gibbons returned to the scene with Lives Outgrown, but it was a bland and occasionally saccharine work, a far cry from her masterpiece with Portishead, Dummy (hardly surprising, considering 30 years had elapsed between the two records).
There is an overarching theme. Publications hail works from celebrities (Charli XCX, Beyoncé) and/or established indie “legends” (Cave, Gibbons), and tend to ignore works from unestablished underground musicians. The ageism is particularly astonishing (the celebrity bias being somewhat expected): Live long enough and your record will automatically be greeted with overwhelming acclaim, simply because no critics have the courage to call out senility and irrelevance (see Leonard Cohen for another example, specifically his “return to form” Old Ideas).
Rock critics who worship celebrities and (intentionally?) display favoritism towards the old are doing a disservice: They are wasting the time of their readers (and, in some cases, their money) by promoting terrible albums, and they are preventing worthy unknowns from getting the recognition they deserve. Until the bias relents, year-end lists — and rock criticism in general — will not be worth reading.
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Brett Abrahamsen is a lifelong connoisseur of the experimental and obscure. He is also a science fiction writer (and an amateur philosopher of sorts). He resides in Saratoga Springs, N.Y.
