The pretentiousness of the pop critics

Pop music criticism, said Frank Zappa, was the work of people who can’t write, about people who can’t talk, for people who can’t read. Half a century later and he’s still right. Although pop is essentially a juvenile art form – its clearest strength and most obvious weakness – that doesn’t stop reviewers pumping up performers as though Johann Sebastian Bach had decided to form an all-star band with Beethoven and Brahms. The Three Bs! Sign ’em up!

The current pop reviewers for the Times and the Telegraph, Will Hodgkinson and Neil McCormick, clearly think they bear witness to giants. Like Pinky and Perky, these mature teenagers can trill ‘we belong together’, batting balls over the net in a contest of perfumed superlatives. Should Hodgkinson open with a ‘sublime’, his oppo will almost certainly return serve with an ‘achingly beautiful’. ‘Perfectly formed’. ‘Apocalyptic opus’. ‘Emotional depth’. ‘Kaleidoscopic riches’. It can be difficult for readers to swivel their heads swiftly enough to follow these rallies.