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this dude is incredible

http://www.robertchristgau.com/

An A+ is a record of sustained beauty, power, insight, groove, and/or googlefritz that has invited and repaid repeated listenings in the daily life of someone with 500 other CDs to get to.

An A is a record that rarely flags for more than two or three tracks. Not every listener will feel what it's trying to do, but anyone with ears will agree that it's doing it.

An A- is the kind of garden-variety good record that is the great luxury of musical micromarketing and overproduction. Anyone open to its aesthetic will enjoy more than half its tracks.

A B+ is remarkable one way or another, yet also flirts with the humdrum or the half-assed.

A *** Honorable Mention is an enjoyable effort consumers attuned to its overriding aesthetic or individual vision may well treasure.

A ** Honorable Mention is an likable effort consumers attuned to its overriding aesthetic or individual vision may well enjoy.

A * Honorable Mention is a worthy effort consumers attuned to its overriding aesthetic or individual vision may well like.

A Neither (

) may impress once or twice with consistent craft or an arresting track or two. Then it won't.

A Choice Cut (

) is a good song on an album that isn't worth your time or money--sometimes a

, more often a

. Some (

)s are arbitrarily personal, others inescapably social. Sometimes one is so wondrous you'll be tempted to spring for the high-priced package anyway. More often it would fit sweetly onto a compilation you can only pray will include it.

A Dud (

) is a bad record whose details rarely merit further thought. At the upper level it may merely be overrated, disappointing, or dull. Down below it may be contemptible.

A Turkey ({Tu}) is a bad record of some general import, although no artist should be saddled with more than two in a decade. What distinguishes a {Tu} from a

is that it's reviewed and graded. I'm aware of no {Tu} lower than D, and a few even get a B, a grade reserved for Voice Dud of the Month, whereas the annual Turkey Shoot works down from B-. But such distinctions are, as the saying goes, academic. In this age of grade inflation, all of 'em flunk.

 

[AAequal]

At least he won't shun album just because it has gone mainstream (seems to be trend these days) but on the other hand he seems to hate music I like so I don't really bother with his reviews.

 

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Lateralus [Volcano, 2001]
What am I supposed to say about the latest in meaning-mongering for the fantasy fiction set? That they are not as good as King Crimson? That I do not like my Billy Cobham comp even less? That this is not progress? That I am not a virgin? All of the above. Plus I never liked Crimson much to begin with. C

 

[diffusionx]

I love Christgau, even when I don't agree with him. When I do agree, he can say in 3 sentences what I couldn't articulate in 3 pages.

 

[ReturnOfTheRAT]

He got Katy B. right, but is so wrong about Sbtrkt.

 

[Grakl]

Great reviews, and I'm always reading them; I generally agree with him, too, except on Janelle Monae. He has a terrible opinion on that.

 

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Indestructible [Hellcat, 2003]
The Clash invented punk politics, and got pretty complex about them. Rancid ran with punk politics, which in Berkeley were burned into the subculture as deep as the three-chord forcebeat. Their big ideas and deep convictions are about their scene, not their society, and they devote their warmest album ever to celebrating and justifying that scene, which they rightly see as global. Sure it would be nice if they put their all into offing Bush, but it would also be nice if the Democrats did. Instead, Rancid offer an inside look at a ready-made dissident voting bloc, toggling back and forth from defeated to defiant as they pursue their little happinesses. Wesley Clark is so smart I'm sure he can get this constituency to the polls. A-

yesssssss

 

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i don't think he hates music, i just think he's realistic about his profession.

 

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• The College Dropout [Roc-A-Fella, 2004] A
• Late Registration [Roc-A-Fella, 2005] A+
• Graduation [Roc-A-Fella, 2007] A-
• 808s & Heartbreak [Roc-A-Fella, 2008] A-
• My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy [Roc-A-Fella, 2010] A

his kanye list is perfect.

 

[Jitters]

Its weird, despite the fact that he gave a black eyed peas record higher than almost all of Radiohead's stuff, I still consider his opinions reliable , but I don't know why.

If it wasn't for him, I never would have heard of Wussy ,and they ended up being a favorite of mine.

 

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The Bends [Capitol, 1995]
Admired by Britcrits, who can't tell whether they're "pop" or "rock," and their record company, which pushed (and shoved) this follow-up until it went gold Stateside, they try to prove "Creep" wasn't a one-shot by pretending that it wasn't a joke. Not that there's anything deeply phony about Thom Yorke's angst--it's just a social given, a mindset that comes as naturally to a '90s guy as the skilled guitar noises that frame it. Thus the words achieve precisely the same pitch of aesthetic necessity as the music, which is none at all. C

what is a '90s guy?

 

[Jotamide]

Xgau is an ok critic but he's heavily biased,. E.g.: good scores for punk acts, awful for metal bands, etc.

 

[SamVimes]

He hates progressive rock so fuck him.

 

[Conciliator]

Man he does have Kanye's stuff down. I don't really like Graduation I would probably give it a B, but still.

EDIT: I like Lateralus a lot, and I basically don't listen to any 'serious' metal or prog rock anymore.

 

[Jitters]

I'm pretty sure in an article on his site he just came out and said he doesn't like metal along with a form of jazz and other stuff.

 

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yeah he hates metal.

 

[SecretMoblin]

I appreciate that his reviews are generally short, even though it can often mean dismissive, snarky pith.

His review of Björk's Vespertine was pretty memorable, even if the score was too low:

Vespertine [Elektra, 2001]
I liked this a lot better once I heard how it was entirely about sex, which since it often buries its pulse took a while. Sex, not fucking. I'm nervous so you'd better pet me awhile sex. Lick the backs of my knees sex. OK, where my buttcheeks join my thighs sex. I'm still a little jumpy so you'd better pet me some more sex. How many different ways can we open our mouths together sex. We came 20 minutes ago and have Sunday morning ahead of us sex. Or, if fucking, tantric--the one where you don't move and let vaginal peristalsis do the work (yeah sure). The atmospherics, glitch techno, harps, glockenspiels, and shades of Hilmar Om Hilmarsson float free sometimes, and when she gets all soprano on your ass you could accuse her of spirituality. But with somebody this freaky you could get used to that. English lyrics provided, most of them dirty if you want. A-

 

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that bjork review is incredible. "How many different ways can we open our mouths together sex."

Bridge Over Troubled Water [Columbia, 1970]
Melodic. B

 

[Stumpokapow]

I like Christgau because I think he's done a lot of work experimenting in terms of format. There's an art to really succinctly summarizing an album.

Some of my favourite albums:

Graceland [Warner Bros., 1986]
Opposed though I am to universalist humanism, this is a pretty damn universal record. Within the democratic bounds of pop accessibility, its biculturalism is striking, engaging, unprecedented--sprightly yet spunky, fresh yet friendly, so strange, so sweet, so willful, so radically incongruous and plainly beautiful. For Simon, the r&b-derived mbaqanga he and his South African sidemen--guitarist Ray Phiri, fretless bassist Baghiti Kumalo, and drummer Isaac Mtshali, all players of conspicuous responsiveness and imagination--put through their Tin Pan Alley paces seems to represent a renewed sense of faith and connectedness after the finely wrought dead end of Hearts and Bones. The singing has lost none of its studied wimpiness, and he still writes like an English major, but this is the first album he's ever recorded rhythm tracks first, and it gives up a groove so buoyant you could float a loan to Zimbabwe on it. Despite the personalized cameo for Sun City scab Linda Ronstadt (a slap in the face to the ANC whether he admits it or not) and the avoidance of political lyrics elsewhere, he's found his "shot of redemption," escaping alienation without denying its continuing truth. It's the rare English major who can make such a claim. A

A Night at the Opera [Elektra, 1975]
This is near enough to the reported mishmash to make me doubt that it sells for what's good about it. Which is that it doesn't actually botch any of a half-dozen arty-to-heavy "eclectic" modes--even something called "Prophet's Song" sounds OK--and achieves a parodic tone often enough to suggest more than meets the ear. Maybe if they come up with a coherent masterwork I'll figure out what that more is. Maybe if they come up with a coherent masterwork they'll figure out what that more is. B-

Funeral [Merge, 2004]
First you notice that the opener really is kinda gorgeous, with its twin-xylophone-echoed piano flourish and all. Then you isolate Win Butler's sob and fantasize about throttling the twit, an immature impulse unmitigated by the lyrics, which are histrionic even for a guy who's just lost a grandparent (or whoever). But if you keep at it till the next song, which tells the story of his runaway older brother getting bitten by a vampire, you begin to admire his resilience--he's retained a sense of the ridiculous, which is more than you can say of most young twits who sing about losing a grandparent (or whoever). And that's how the album goes--too fond of drama, but aware of its small place in the big world, and usually beautiful. N.B.: if you're considering Montreal, which is certainly my favorite Canadian place, the ex-Texans and -Haitian here want to make clear that it's horribly cold. A-

OK Computer [Capitol, 1997]
My favorite Pink Floyd album has always been Wish You Were Here, and you know why? It has soul, that's why--it's Roger Waters's lament for Syd, not my idea of a tragic hero but as long as he's Roger's that doesn't matter. Radiohead wouldn't know a tragic hero if they were cramming for their A levels, and their idea of soul is Bono, who they imitate further at the risk of looking even more ridiculous than they already do. So instead they pickle Thom Yorke's vocals in enough electronic marginal distinction to feed a coal town for a month. Their art-rock has much better sound effects than the Floyd snoozefest Dark Side of the Moon. But it's less sweeping and just as arid. B-

Led Zeppelin IV [Atlantic, 1971]
More even than "Rock and Roll," which led me into the rest of the record (whose real title, as all adepts know, is signified by runes no Underwood can reproduce) months after I'd stupidly dismissed it, or "Stairway to Heaven," the platinum-plated album cut, I think the triumph here is "When the Levee Breaks." As if by sorcery, the quasi-parodic overstatement and oddly cerebral mood of Led Zep's blues recastings is at once transcended (that is, this really sounds like a blues), and apotheosized (that is, it has the grandeur of a symphonic crescendo) while John Bonham, as ham-handed as ever, pounds out a contrapuntal tattoo of heavy rhythm. As always, the band's medievalisms have their limits, but this is the definitive Led Zeppelin and hence heavy metal album. It proves that both are--or can be--very much a part of "Rock and Roll." A

Thriller [Epic, 1982]
The best-selling album of the millennium was clearly a hits-plus-filler job from the beginning--what we couldn't know is how brilliantly every hit but "P.Y.T." would thrive on mass exposure and public pleasure. The inexhaustible "Beat It" broadcasts Eddie Van Halen wielding his might in the service of the antimacho that is his secret vice. "The Girl Is Mine" got interracial love on the radio and proved cuter than "Michelle." "Wanna Be Startin' Something" starts something every time an air or floor jock starts it up. "Billie Jean" is Michael's clearest statement to date on sexuality and stardom. And "Thriller" is the rare song that's improved by its video, which fleshes out the not-quite-a-joke scariness of "the funk of 40,000 years" for (Michael and) his (white) fans. A

 

[SecretMoblin]

Also, his respect for Prince for Sign “☮” the Times got my respect when I started digging through Prince's back catalogue years ago:

Sign o' the Times [Paisley Park, 1987]
No formal breakthrough, and despite the title/lead/debut single, no social relevance move either, which given the message of "The Cross" (guess, just guess) suits me fine. Merely the most gifted pop musician of his generation proving what a motherfucker he is for two discs start to finish. With helpmate turns from Camille, Susannah, Sheila E., Sheena Easton, he's back to his one-man-band tricks, so collective creation fans should be grateful that at least the second-hottest groove here, after the galvanic "U Got the Look," is Revolution live. Elsewhere Prince-the-rhythm section works on his r&b so Prince-the-harmony-group can show off vocal chops that make Stevie Wonder sound like a struggling ventriloquist. Yet the voices put over real emotions--studio solitude hasn't reactivated his solipsism. The objects of his desire are also objects of interest, affection, and respect. Some of them he may not even fuck. A+

 

[genjiZERO]

I can never tell if he likes or dislikes something, but they are fun to read. Saying Nirvana has more range than Radiohead is absurd though.

 

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The Downward Spiral [Nothing/TVT/Interscope, 1994]
musically, Hieronymus Bosch as postindustrial atheist; lyrically, Transformers as kiddie porn ("Heresy," "Reptile") **

 

[ZeroRay]

Souljaboytellem.com [ColliPark Music/Interscope, 2007]
Boy do the haters get busy on this 16-year-old. But scrutinize the "superman" matter (look it up) and you'll see that even if he thought he was sneaking something outlandishly filthy onto a pop record, his fans thought he was inventing a dance that involved flying, thus furthering the presumption of innocence so crucial to his cute. Unlike his crunk forebears, he's not into pimping or dealing or even strip clubs--"Booty Meat" is as explicit as his carnality gets, and not only is he looking not touching, he's hoping an amateur will "turn around just like a pro." He's still boy enough to worry about those F's, and the most winning of his many winning songs was written to, and on, his Sidekick 3. There are enough sonic strokes here to keep the wrong bizzer in ringtone rappers for a year. But Soulja Boy's spiritual secret is that with less subcultural support than, say, Be Your Own Pet, he's reached the top of his world on a few tips from ex-partner Young Kwon and the loyalty of human sidekick Arab. You can hear how tickled he is about it. A-

.

 

[Grakl]

He gave Kid Koala good reviews. Even more +rep for this guy.

 

[relaxor]

Yeah he rules, I am heavily inspired by his wordsmithing. He's pretty much the sympathetic, able to see both sides baby boomer that I always wanted to talk to. For instance, this write up about Bruce Springsteen:

But its truth is now historic. Whatever factual value there once was in Springsteen's epic vision of small-town street kids buying a cool old car and pursuing their destiny on the road--and it was always a romance--is reduced to poetry in a world where college graduates wait tables to get through the indentured servitude of internship and gas costs whatever the oil companies say it does. But if any rock star knows that, it's Springsteen. He's pleased that many of his former dead-enders can afford $40 commemorative reissues. If he's also angry that today's young have it worse, which he is, he can at least help them appreciate their parents' lives.

 

[Traumnovelle]

Dirty Mind [Warner Bros., 1980]
After going gold in 1979 as an utterly uncrossedover falsetto love man, he takes care of the songwriting, transmutes the persona, revs up the guitar, muscles into the vocals, leans down hard on a rock-steady, funk-tinged four-four, and conceptualizes--about sex, mostly. Thus he becomes the first commercially viable artist in a decade to claim the visionary high ground of Lennon and Dylan and Hendrix (and Jim Morrison), whose rebel turf has been ceded to such marginal heroes-by-fiat as Patti Smith and John Rotten-Lydon. Brashly lubricious where the typical love man plays the lead in "He's So Shy," he specializes here in full-fledged fuckbook fantasies--the kid sleeps with his sister and digs it, sleeps with his girlfriend's boyfriend and doesn't, stops a wedding by gamahuching the bride on her way to church. Mick Jagger should fold up his penis and go home. A

 

[blame space]

Yeah he rules, I am heavily inspired by his wordsmithing. He's pretty much the sympathetic, able to see both sides baby boomer that I always wanted to talk to. For instance, this write up about Bruce Springsteen:

But its truth is now historic. Whatever factual value there once was in Springsteen's epic vision of small-town street kids buying a cool old car and pursuing their destiny on the road--and it was always a romance--is reduced to poetry in a world where college graduates wait tables to get through the indentured servitude of internship and gas costs whatever the oil companies say it does. But if any rock star knows that, it's Springsteen. He's pleased that many of his former dead-enders can afford $40 commemorative reissues. If he's also angry that today's young have it worse, which he is, he can at least help them appreciate their parents' lives.

holy shit yes.

 

[FO-totality]

In my opinion, he's long-winded and rather poor in articulating himself, much like Jerry Holkins. Also, I've always felt a air of pretentiousness about him, as a snobby art critic might have.

I don't every really care to consider his input, but that's just me.

(Also, his website looks like the internet from 1999. Not saying it needs to go all Web 2.0 or whatever, but it certainly hasn't aged well.)