Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?, Part I

One of the overriding themes of Watchmen is "Who Watches the Watchmen?". This same idea can be applied in a vast range of instances, but today the focus is on one singular application: Who criticizes the critics?

Pitchfork Media has done much for the mainstream crossover appeal of indie music over the past several years. What started out as a website where people could go to actually find a review of an album that would never appear in Rolling Stone or Spin has developed into a leading opinion-maker, hype-generator and status-definer in popular music today. With this kind of influence and relevancy, though, come some unfortunate side effects. Has Pitchfork gotten away from its initial role of filling the void in coverage in independent music by creating a new standard that marginalizes and pigeonholes music just like previous generation of mainstream commercial media outlets did?

This is not a new concept and not really a terribly important one in the grand scheme of things. A very small percentage of people who buy music do so solely based on a review they read. If a teenage girl in Nebraska hears a K$sha song on the radio and likes it (somehow), she's going to buy or download it regardless of what some pale dude living in a commune in Williamsburg thinks of the song. If the president of the Bon Jovi fan club chapter in Great Falls, Montana hears that Jon and the boys are putting out a new album, he's not going to pick up the latest issue of a magazine to help decide whether or not he wants to buy it. The people that read reviews most and actually let the review influence their buying/listening decisions are those who buy and listen to the most music anyway: the obsessives.

Regardless, bands in the "indie scene" are inclined to align themselves with Pitchfork in any way possible. For example, the Texas band Midlake released a new album recently that hit store shelves with a sticker on the cover that advertised a couple of the songs featured on the album and some bonus multimedia material. However, on this same sticker, above the information about songs and content, there was a quote that really meant to grab potential buyers' attention:

"...lush, haunted." -Pitchfork

This is all fine, except that Pitchfork gave the album a rating of 3.6 out of 10 on their so-refined-it-needs-a-decimal-point-and-tenth-of-a-point-intervals scale. It is hard to believe that Pitchfork wrote their review with the hope that Midlake would be using this review to promote their new album. Thing is, the "...lush, haunted" reference did not even come from Pitchfork's review of the album. No, it came from the introduction to an interview with Midlake's frontman, Tim Smith, that Pitchfork published last November. In the interview, it was discovered that some of the lushness and haunted-ness was inspired by English folk bands like Fairport Convention and Pentangle, which aren't exactly common names on Pitchfork (or anywhere for that matter). Furthermore, the interview was conducted by one Pitchfork writer, while the review was written by another staff member. Maybe Mr. Breihan, the interviewer, LOVES Midlake's lush and haunting sound, while Mr. Thompson, the reviewer, believes it to be "languid" and "uninterested".

Has anything really been accomplished by using the Pitchfork name when it does not represent a particular sentiment? After all, most people that might actually respect the Pitchfork reference are the same people that likely read the disparaging review on the website back in February. What about the bands themselves? Do they really care? Probably not, as evident by the multiple on-stage references to Pitchfork's ratings by performers at, of all places, the Pitchfork Music Festival. Irony aside, it does make you wonder if there is minimum score required in order for a band to be invited to play that festival. If not, maybe Pitchfork realizes, just like some bands, that (segue) it's all just a business.