Every time I get a letter from this guy, it comes on Cathy stationary with "From the Desk of Mr. Sheena Easton" at the top. It's adorable. Cathy's throwing up her hands, papers are flying all around, she's saying "ACK!" Ack, indeed.

WAKKA WAKKA Revolutions: "How'd You Like It, Kimmie?"
My Review of Pitchfork's Review of the new Pixies Cover
by Mr. Sheena Easton

"Does this make you moist... down there?" began the email I received early this morning in my office, just then sitting down to my rigorous morning dose of shitwork. In the sender column, I recognized the nom de plume of Gordon Sumner's Ghost. The email took me by surprise, as his words often carry the odour of a threat. They are meant to demoralize, to destabilize, to weaken my morals and subvert my already shaky grasp of reality. Here, he asked a simple question—I imagined the voice of Telly Savalas-as-Blofeld, asking Bond something deceptive and loaded, with millions of lifes in the balance. How would I respond, knowing Sumner could easily have me, at that second, in his crosshairs?

Beneath the first vaginal sentence, he had posted a link to Pitchfork's review of the new Pixie cover. Knowing Sumner had himself been rejected numerous times for a position at this online mecca of the indie-world, I realized he had baked his arrow in the bread, as it were. Nude of its puerility, his message was saying: "take a look at this, tell me what you think, couldn't I do a better job, aren't I good as well?"

I thought it was a disgusting display, but opened the link anyhow. As evidenced by my earlier reviews posted on this 'blog', I am a Pixies fan. Sumner, knowing this and thinking it girlish, was obviously poking fun. But the review immediately caught my attention, particularly when 'Jason Crock' wrote "(the new cover) trumps 'BAM THWOK'"... since my love/hate affair with the song has been well-documented here, I immediately felt compelled to review this 'new cover'. But as it is not available itunes, and since I don't have the song immediately in front me, instead I endeavoured to review the review... and risk the death knell of British comedy.

Here it is:

Immediately, the reader should be made aware, the new cover is 'Ain't That Pretty At All' by Warren Zevon. A review laced with typical Pitchfork contempt, the uninformed reader would have to wait until the SECOND line of the review to understand that. Instead 'Crock' opens the article immediately comparing this cover to older Pixies covers- classics like 'Head on' and 'Wintermute' (but I must ask this as an aside, what about 'In Heaven, Everything Is Fine'?... 'Crock' omits that, obviously embarassed by his collegiate love for Eraserhead and other David Lynch films, a love which has since been deemed bourgeois and not 'indie rock'). So, right off the bat, the review is gay and lame.

'Crock' goes to reinforce the gay-itude here, in the third convoluted line of his first paragraph- calling David Lovering's drumming 'crisp'. My adjective for Crock's adjective is 'flaccid'. When has David Lovering's drumming ever been like an autumn day or a Saltine cracker: crisp? No. There's an implicit nuanced bounciness to Lovering, like quantum reverb on his bass pedal, barely perceptible but there. Not crisp. More like summer. The Pixies have always been more like summer, more like Latin-America, hot and brushed with sweat. Not sweaty, but a little damp around the temples. Certainly not crisp. I don't know what the adjective for Lovering's drumming is personally, but crisp? You've commited the first mortal sin of writing and have failed to express, Crock.

In the fourth line, and close of the first paragraph, 'Crock' attempts a joke. It's an outdated one, used over and over in reference to Black Francis's kaliedoscope of stage names, and is witty only by default. It has an assumed world-weariness to it that I find disgusting and cripples the charisma that Crock affects through the rest of the review. Nice one, Crock.

Crock wastes his second and final paragraph touching on the soap opera that's gathered so much moss between Black and Deal. It's an appeal to sensationalism and quite unnecessary here—it's enough that Black/Deal would call attention to it in the song itself. That's their victory, Crock, not yours. Let it retain its silent majesty, lest this be 'Access Hollywood' where we harp on the pseudo-gossip of graveyard celebrities. Crock lobs his closing over a sagging net, a limp sideways attack on the Pixies' motives for reuniting ('for their fans, for themselves, or (underlined) for the money?' How much does Pitchfork pay a word, Crock?).

Needless to say, the best part of the Pitchfork review is not even their words, it's Black's line "How'd you like it, Kimmie?", presumably at the end of 'Aint't That Pretty At All?' That alone convinces me that Black's old cockiness has returned and he, at least, has fallen in love with their sound again. Those five words express volumes on the new cover that a two paragraph review from Pitchfork could never. Instead they mire themselves in spinning gossip and murdering the logic of their own metaphors. Zero fidelity.

So there you have it, Sumner. My assessment, if that's what you wanted. Now what? Do cities fall? Do entire populations perish? Yes, you are a good critic, if you need the stroking. Yes, you should write for Pitchfork. Anything to stay your quivering carbunckled finger over the blinking red buttom marked 'forget me not'.