you have got to be fucking kidding me

Sasha Frere-Jones, pop-music critic for The New Yorker, I have long wished you ill.

I have wished you ill as you have referred to yourself as a "musician," as though appearing on your own mixed tape in the early 1990s counts.

I have looked down on you because you are an inflammatory "intellectual" that throws around words like "miscegenation" in your article about the Arcade Fire. As though race had anything to do with that band.

I have looked down on you as you insulted Stephin Merritt, who is my king. And, with interest, I watched you take it all back when you were interviewed for the Strange Powers documentary. No defense, eh? I was only surprised that you admitted you were wrong.

I have looked down on you as you compared Pavement and Nirvana. As though those two bands made sense together in a single sentence.

Sasha Frere-Jones, I have long thought you were a cunt and a fraud. You have never once made sense to me, a casual fan of music. For a long while, I gave you the benefit of the doubt because I know far less about your "expertise" than many of the other departments in the magazine you write for. Such is the power of a respectable title.

Is that what you're counting on, S F/J? So much so that you feel like it's okay to write these blatantly misogynistic (and also RETARDED) things about PJ Harvey?

First, he writes off Harvey's album White Chalk, which actual humans know is really rather good:
"[It] was strictly an eyes-closed affair. At some point, she stopped singing from her viscera and brazenly swinging her guitar, and turned into a a wispy poet with little more than a piano, a falsetto whine, and a story from everywhere and nowhere--mostly the latter."
God, I hate it when she sings in her girl voice without swinging her guitar-dick.

Then there's this remarkably tone-deaf take on female sensuality in S F/J's analysis of Harvey's album Dry:

"You're not doing it for me, mister--and we haven't even met"
Seriously, New Yorker, are you kidding me? These are black-and-white words printed in a magazine that I myself pay money to receive in my mailbox.

S F/J goes on to explain that Harvey's

"stripped-down tour" of "her favorite topic: desire" was the "highlight of [his] concert-going experience" because of her "tiny red dress, enormous red lips, and a voice that sounded like an ambassador for the libido itself."
And just wait for Frere-Jones's insightful analysis of Harvey's performance with Bjork, whose career choices are "no more predictable than her hair."

BJORK, mind you. That last quote was about Bjork. Is that the least predictable thing? HER HAIR?

Well, at least Bjork is "thrilling." Harvey, on the other hand,

"has less luck reinventing herself, possibly because she got it so convincingly, punishingly right the first time: she does blunt force and sex like nobody else."
I am sick and tired of Sasha Frere-Jones. I am sick and tired of his (generously) FIVE-YEARS LATE reviews of relevant musicians and his MISINFORMED and MISOGYNISTIC reactions to "current" music.

O Sasha. My eyes are closed. My hair is unpredictable. I'm touching myself with my guitar from 1992. I am thrusting it in your direction as I whisper: Fuck you, Sasha Frere-Jones. I hate you and I HATE YOUR ASS FACE.