Her best is never good enough
I lost count of Times-Dispatch writers' columns on the Rolling Stones concert at the beginning of the month (though I'd pay at least four bucks to see UR spokesman Randy Fitzgerald in what he calls his "gangsta pants."
But for an even more excellent indicator of what troubles the paper's arts coverage, look no further than Sambora jockstrap-wannabe pop critic Melissa Ruggieri, whose review of last night's Bruce Springsteen concert at the Richmond Coliseum could make even someone who likes the Boss (a category that does not include me) gag.
A few choice moments:
What kind of mind finds "exposed guts" in "cherished nuggets"? Probably the same type that can't make the connection between "nearly sold-out crowd of 6,000" and "at Richmond Coliseum"--we get artists when the rest of the world starts tuning them out. Instead, our critics swoon like wallflowers asked to service a lazy football player. No ring for you, sweetie.
Let's skip the first sentence, which sends me racing to find enough sleeping pills so I never have to read Ruggieri again; the nonrestrictive clause "all of which" in this case describes the word craftsmanship, not what Ruggieri sees as the singer's three roles, all of which most critics would rather be splayed open than pretend is unique. Li'l help from the editors, puh-leeze!
A: Good comparison; B: his rough voice turned "wrung from his throat"? Who'da seen that coming?
This is the kind of insight into pop music that lands you a job for life at a tertiary-market newspaper.
But for an even more excellent indicator of what troubles the paper's arts coverage, look no further than Sambora jockstrap-wannabe pop critic Melissa Ruggieri, whose review of last night's Bruce Springsteen concert at the Richmond Coliseum could make even someone who likes the Boss (a category that does not include me) gag.
A few choice moments:
That was the humble, amiable guy who played to a nearly sold-out crowd of 6,000 at the Richmond Coliseum last night, exposing the guts of cherished nuggets such as the opening "My Beautiful Reward" (on pump organ and harmonica) and his newest work, including the Dylan-esque "Silver Palomino" and nonchalantly explicit "Reno."
What kind of mind finds "exposed guts" in "cherished nuggets"? Probably the same type that can't make the connection between "nearly sold-out crowd of 6,000" and "at Richmond Coliseum"--we get artists when the rest of the world starts tuning them out. Instead, our critics swoon like wallflowers asked to service a lazy football player. No ring for you, sweetie.
If the thought of a solo Springsteen sends you racing for the NoDoz, that is understandable this tour isn't designed for the casual fan yearning to scream along to "Born To Run." But regardless of musical preference, it is impossible to deny Springsteen's craftsmanship as a songwriter, communicator and musician, all of which were splayed open for 2½ hours.
Let's skip the first sentence, which sends me racing to find enough sleeping pills so I never have to read Ruggieri again; the nonrestrictive clause "all of which" in this case describes the word craftsmanship, not what Ruggieri sees as the singer's three roles, all of which most critics would rather be splayed open than pretend is unique. Li'l help from the editors, puh-leeze!
Throughout the concert, Springsteen sounded like . . . . Springsteen -- gravelly, but warm, his rough voice turning tender on "The River" and wrung from his throat on "Lonesome Day."
A: Good comparison; B: his rough voice turned "wrung from his throat"? Who'da seen that coming?
Springsteen might not be Hornsby-level on the ivories, but he's no slouch, either, evidenced on "Incident on 57th Street," a request played with a power unexpected from one man behind a piano. That song, like so many in his catalog, perfectly represents Springsteen's mass appeal -- the guys embrace his ruggedness, and the women pretend he's singing to them in his husky, meaningful voice.
This is the kind of insight into pop music that lands you a job for life at a tertiary-market newspaper.
posted by Andrew Beaujon at 07:18
6 Comments:
You're exactly right, Andrew.
Also, in the facts dept: I may be missing something, but I don't see how 6,000 seats out of 12,000 to 13,000 (see http://www.richmondcoliseum.net/about.asp or http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richmond Coliseum) comes anywhere close to being a sold-out crowd.
Ruggieri reviews restaurants as well. She is why I read the TD's dining reviews; sometimes I need a laugh on the can. (I hope the semicolon is OK, Andrew.) I miss Randall Stamper, he had the balls to write reviews that refused to make old Richmond favs, such as Julian's, sound gourmet, while recognizing applaudable joints. Stamper deserved to use nonrestrictive clauses at will.
I apologize for all the deleted posts. I, like Ruggieri, don't have an editor.
This post has been removed by a blog administrator.
If you don't like Rob Sheffield, I say your loss. I know him, I happen to think he's one of the best music writers in the country, and I can't wait to read him every time I open Rolling Stone. If you disagree, hey, de gustibus non est disputandum and all that. But the comment about his wife dying is simply not relevant to his talents and more than a little beyond the pale.
FYI: Most of the arenas on this Springsteen tour were scaled down to theater size. The Coliseum was partitioned in half. Now you know the rest of the story.
noted.
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