Thank you for giving me your album to review. I know that this set of nine or 10 songs — more or less — is the end result of many days, perhaps even years, of effort: of late nights and long afternoons, of piecing together scraps of scribbled-down lyrics and melodies heard in dreams. Songs come easy or hard, but either way, there is the necessity of catching inspiration the moment it sparks, and afterwards, of honing over time, onstage or in the studio.
I know that. However — and this is the cruel part — as with any artistic endeavor, sheer effort never automatically results in excellence. Results, as they say, may vary, and what sounded like utter brilliance to you as it poured out of what felt like your soul may strike other, less invested ears as ersatz U2, or slapdash New Order, or wannabe Eraserheads. Even worse: you may sound like an even crappier version of an already crappy band. Who needs a Pinoy version of, say, Creed? Or a Pinoy LMFAO? (Actually I can imagine a Pinoy LMFAO having some entertainment value… and, just as I typed that sentence, I knew I would regret it someday. But I digress.) Most cruel of all, if this is not your first album, is the notion that you just became a watered-down version of yourself: an uninspired rehash of past glories.
It is unfair, and inevitable: Your work can and will be compared to anything that came before (yes, even if it is just 60 minutes of machines squealing, or whale sounds set to disco beats; I can already imagine the Lou Reed and Moby comparisons) — whether it’s music by someone who died decades ago, or yourself, last summer. Albums exist in a context, and part of my job involves gauging their originality or lack thereof, of sifting through the synthesis of influences.
And who am I to say that your album sucks? Well, first of all, I rarely ever just say “Your album sucks.” I will go into detail about how badly it sucks, and why, on a sliding scale of suckitude. And while a bad album is, in many ways, easier to write about than a good one, I try to avoid unnecessary glee when I write a negative review. I once wrote one that began with these words: “You know how some albums have hidden tracks? This is an album where every track should have been hidden.” I cut out those lines when I revised the review. It just seemed needless (although it was true; that was a really bad album).
We all want the same thing, as I once wrote to a major label that threatened to pull its advertising from my music magazine when I ran a scathing review of one of their (and I use the term loosely) artists: a strong music scene, and really good music. If I loved every album I was ever given to review, I would be in bliss. And we would all hold hands and skip through a land of ice cream flowers and wish-granting hamsters. Sadly, that is not our reality.
Once again, thank you for giving me your album to review. If it turns out that I enjoy it, then you have my thanks twice over. If I hate it, and I write about it to say so (in what I hope are reasonable, well-weighed words), I offer no apologies, but it is my hope that you understand that I harbor no malice or ulterior motives. And if I never get around to reviewing it either way, just assume that that is for the best, for all concerned.