Knifed & Spooned

Knifed & Spooned is a publication dedicated to the review of record reviews published on Pitchfork. Pitchfork reviews are each disseminated before being assigned a numerical value on an arbitrary scale, which we prefer not to divulge. Contributions are made by journalists, editors, established artists and readers like you. This site does not review records and should be viewed only as meta-commentary on a singular phenomenon of popular culture.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

A Review of Peter Macia’s Review of Jay-Z’s Kingdom Come 7.2

I wasn’t sure if there would be another review. On November 20th, 2006, I retired. But after 9 days, I’ve become tired of retirement. I’ve done everything I’ve ever wanted to do. Granted, I’m a fucking phenomenon in the arena of critiquing critical review. I’m the reviewers’ reviewer- the word after the last word. That can be tiring. Not just for you, but for me too.

If my hyperbole makes your stomach sour like chunky milk and olive loaf, than what do you think of the criticism sandwich Peter Macia serves up on Jay-Z’s Kingdom Come. Everyone knows how to make a criticism sandwich. Pretend the new Jay-Z record is an underwhelming pile of languid productions and lethargic rhymes devoid of any content worth a crumb from anyone’s stinking ass. Just pretend.

Now, saying this could be potentially unfashionable, and incur the slings and arrows of Jay-Z lovers everywhere. Less likely, Jay-Z’s feelings would be sincerely hurt and he’d have no recourse but to dry his eyes on a fistful crisp bills. By piling on some flattering words and grand overstatement for the self-proclaimed Jay-Hova, a hostile rebuttal is effectively sidestepped, even at the expense of scuttling Macia’s most insightful moments.

My personal favorites:

Twice he addresses his recent heavily publicized boycott of Cristal champagne which even he acknowledges is unimportant. But that's Kingdom Come: Jay boringly rapping about boring stuff and being totally comfortable with it

and more notably:

He thinks he's going to save hip-hop and New York City with his triumphant return, and maybe he might. But it won't be because he shouldered their burdens; it'll be because he shrugged and someone else carried the weight.

Macia’s opening paragraphs feel like a misguided attempt to sate fans who are likely as disappointed (if not more) with “dozens of uninspired stretches and misguided rants” instead of the anthems comparable to those that earned him accolades in the first place. If his editors had just axed the first two ball-cupping paragraphs, Macia’s review would retain some ballsy sincerity.



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