The Consumed Guide, which is a compilation of negative excerpts from Robert Christgau’s music reviews over the last few decades, reads as if a speedy Philip K. Dick and a manic David Foster Wallace both simultaneously impregnated P. J. Harvey and fertilized triplets, who grew up with the sole purpose of tearing each other new assholes. It’s funny. Howlingly so. It’s hard to grab just a single representative paragraph, but –
Sixties Schmixties, slacker version of the pretentious asshole, slightly salacious humanism, slogging toward stardom for so long he never noticed what happened to Shaun Cassidy. Slowly receding into alienated resignation, small but engrossing orgasms stretching into an infinite future, smarmy piece of sexist pseudosoul. Too-idealistic-for-this-world straight-edge avatar, smarter than Cat Stevens, sexier than Norman Vincent Peale. So R & B that for incomprehensibility’s sake he outsources some patois.
Go read it. Best laugh I’ve had in a long long time.
Cheers to Brian Joseph Davis, who has a serial killer’s name but an angel’s editorial instinct.