Despite my general disdain for the professional critic [“Those who criticize the most are the ones who create nothing.” – Helmut Schoeck] I must admit to a soft spot for acerbic reviewers with a creative flair for the English language. The following, taken from this review of a Guns ‘n’ Roses performance, tickled me especially:
[E]ven when they’re locked into a powerful, charged union – on, say, “Estranged” or “Reckless Life” – [Axl] Rose makes the whole thing sound like a Muppet Show pastiche of hard rock. It’s his voice: a creature that, were you to take it to a vet, would come home in a cardboard box. Mumbling vague approximations of English words as if chronically constipated (if you’ve hit the goat curry hard enough, you’ll feel his intestinal pain), he flips between a lower register that resembles a clogged lawnmower and a higher one that sounds like Barry Gibb suffering the mother of all wedgies.
The sarcastic review has long been the special province of British drama reviewers. It’s pleasant to see that the art, perhaps the only form of esthetic expression that genuinely belongs to critics, has moved into this highly appropriate venue. A nice way to start your Monday.