MUSIC

The Critics

City Paper's 30 Years of Music

Published: Mar 2, 2011

  • "As the band played on, the pasta began to encompass an ever-widening area that soon left Revival's dance floor (and patrons) resembling the aftermath of a spaghetti holocaust." —Frank Blank on The Serial Killers, July 15, 1988
  • "Any college-educated kid, like Garrett, who insists on singing with the slurred creole of elderly sharecroppers needs to be slapped silly." —Roni Sarig on G. Love, Nov. 9, 1995
  • "Nearly everyone was seated quietly save for a young blind man who stood up waving his long metal cane in the air, assuming, perhaps, that everyone else was doing something similarly rowdy." —Margit Detweiler on Liz Phair opening for Alanis Morissette at the First Union Center, Feb. 18, 1999
  • "Value-for-money advocates might note the differential between the $27.75 ticket price and the band's well-under-an-hour set (as an hourly wage that puts them not too far below The Rolling Stones, for whom they recently opened a handful of shows), but the evidence is that The Strokes were giving it all they had — which is to say in the year and a half since they were playing for free every week at The Five Spot, they've managed to add about four songs to their set." —Sam Adams, Oct. 10, 2002
  • "Event staff were free to turn their energy to other pursuits, such as confiscating drugs and heaving paraphernalia over the back wall of the Tweeter Center in what is certainly for Camden potheads the equivalent of catching a Sammy Sosa home-run ball outside of Wrigley." —Jesse Delaney on the Y100 Feztival, June 5, 2003
  • "Stevie Nicks plays air guitar like she's never seen a real one up close." —M.J. Fine, Oct. 2, 2003
  • "Hey, how about we all take a trip to Ozzfest together next year? We'll sell you a ticket for only $65, which is the price on the ticket (a novel idea we hope will catch on). We'll have to leave our backpacks and water bottles and umbrellas and medicines at the gate, but warm beer is available at any of 100 identical kiosks! We'll just sprawl out on the dirt and listen to, like, Slayer or some shit echo off the concrete walls. At noon, if we promise not to get too rowdy — don't want to angry up those yellow-jacketed guards — we can even traipse over to a side stage and watch some 19-year-old drunken fuckface throw up on the hot blacktop. Who's in?" —Patrick Rapa, Dec. 23, 2004

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