Late one cold, windy night in the not so distant past, I sat paralyzed in front of my computer, grappling with a very difficult question: should I write an original, literary-style review which diverges from the music criticism norm or should I adhere to a traditionally dry format which simply enumerates the fundamental characteristics of the music with little personal reaction? A debate had been raging as of late in the Pitchfork industrial megaplex, with a bevy of dissenters (read: two people) registering their partiality for Trouser Press-style reviews.

The basic justification for the argument was that the literary aspirations of certain Pitchfork writers give the impression of haughtiness and disdain for the artist, especially when the review spends equal time on both the album and a fanciful intrigue of the reviewer's design. To the less sympathetic reader, what the well-intentioned writer thinks is rather clever sometimes seems entirely inane.

But as I like to say, this vast, dominant empire was not built on trousers. Rather, the prime attribute of our staff has always seemed to be our innovative approaches to music criticism which have always relied on the emotions and imagery evoked by a piece of music instead of its formal attributes. Pitchfork's thorough readability and creativity, coupled with our infallible taste, was something I had thought to be an invincible tandem. How could it be that some of our dear readers did not appreciate our novel approach?

I sat. I pondered. I felt a sudden weight on my shoulders. Literally.

"Hello Taylor, we're here to help you," said two five-inch-tall indie rock notables in unison, perched on my shoulders. On my right shoulder stood Chan Marshall of Cat Power, decked out in full angel garb, replete with wings and harp. To the right, Fugazi's Ian McKaye kicked my earlobe, clearly trying his best to appear evil. He straightened his villainous leather jacket as he glared at me from under Joe Cool sunglasses.

"Wow! This is incredible!" I exclaimed. "But Ian, I don't see why you're here. I really don't listen to as much Fugazi as I should, and clearly there's a better candidate out there to represent my evil side. Take Jon Spencer, for example."

"Trust me, Taylor," he began weariedly. "It'll make sense in a few paragraphs."

Confused, I decided not to ask what exactly it was that he meant by this.

"So, Taylor. What can we advise you on?" asked Chan as she strummed her harp.

"As a matter of fact, the first thing you can tell me is what inspired you to do a slow, acoustic cover of the Rolling Stones' 'Satisfaction' on your new album," I replied.

"Listen up, you little punk. Don't make me shove this harp up your goddamn nose. Why are we here?" she retorted angrily.

"Ouch. I'm wondering if I should follow my heart and write epic creative story reviews, or if I should heed what these people are saying and wear tight British pants as I write. Or maybe just conform more. Hopefully not both."

"Hey, I love those crazy Pitchfork reviews!" chimed in Ian. "I'm frequently used as a literary foil to illustrate and draw contrast to the traits of lesser bands by that witty Brent DiCrescenzo. Go nuts! Chan?"

She appeared pensive and distraught, pausing for a brief moment before stating her reply.

"Well, the job entails that I disagree with Ian and try to tear your conscience in half as you would a copy of Rolling Stone, but I'm going to have to go with Ian on this one," she said with a troubled frown. "I definitely prefer creativity and a genuine, well thought out response to my music to a dry, average one. I also feel somewhat compelled to point out something to you, Taylor."

"What's that?"

"The fact that not only are you currently speaking in the past tense about a fictional event which could not be happening right now, but you are also writing a story review about whether you should write a story review. This sort of precludes any other answer to your question, doesn't it? Obviously, you've made up your mind already."

"Foiled! Chan, you're ruining my cover. The credibility of this fictional setting is rapidly diminishing."

"Oh, get off it," she retorted. "You knew that Pitchfork readers would see right through your little ruse. So, what are you reviewing, anyway?"

"Oh, that's a clever segue," mumbled Ian mockingly.

"Well Chan, I'm glad you asked. I'm going to review The Leading Hotels of the World, the swan song of a band from Nottingham, England called Bob Tilton. They've named themselves after an American Evangelist TV star I've never heard of. Shrewd, eh?"

"Terribly," said Ian. "What do they sound like?"

"What an odd coincidence that you of all people would ask that, Ian! To be totally honest, they sound quite a bit like you. Not you personally, but Fugazi. How crafty it was of me to slip you into this review! It's all coming together now. Bob Tilton have evoked comparisons to both Slint and Fugazi since their early days in the British post-hardcore scene and have done their best to keep that reputation intact. They take a mathematical approach to songwriting on this album, producing some very intriguing guitar riffs whose razor edges embed themselves deeper in your mind with each listen. The lead vocalist, Simon Feirn, is sonically a dead ringer for your bandmate Guy Picciotto in terms of inflection and delivery. Does that piss you off, Ian?"

"We're all sort of used to it now."

"I suppose so. Anyway, while Bob Tilton have unmistakably lifted pieces of your style, The Leading Hotels of the World is quite inventive at times. Songs like 'Every Kind Thought' pay close attention to vocal melodies perched atop subdued, delicate guitar. On the whole, Bob Tilton's approach is less aggressive than most Fugazi spin-offs with more focus applied to subtle rhythms. Most of the songs feature very interesting paradigmatic shifts in mood which make listening an engaging experience.

"Unlike most post-hardcore music, the instrumentation is complex and well-executed enough to merit compositional esteem, yet simple enough not to wander and lose the listener's attention. But while being recognizably derivative in certain respects, Bob Tilton manage to forge their own identity through a notable sense of musicality as well as their poetic lyrics. A line like 'The roads bled over proud hills' arouses vivid imagery with remarkably erudite skill for an indie band. Their angular guitar assault is both elaborate and rock-solid. I actually like it more each time I hear it."

"Your word count is running a little high there, bucko. Any quick humorous anecdotes you wish to relate?"

"Actually, yes. Bob Tilton lost a lot of indie cred back in England when NME named one of their songs a 'Single of the Week.' What actually happened was that their former label, Subjugation, had refused to issue promo copies to NME, prompting NME to go and actually pay for a copy. Indignant outrage ensued. Also, Bob Tilton's press kit actually calls them 'emo,' which is not only patently false, but nearly suicidal. Perhaps they don't quite realize that to some in America, this is akin to saying outright that they suck."

"Are you through now?" Chan inquired.

"Quite. So you imaginary incarnations of indie rock icons are unanimously in favor of fanciful literary reviews? That's it?"

"Absolutely. Just as long as you people never utter the phrase 'American Radiohead' again, we're happy."

And just as quickly as they had appeared, Ian and Chan vanished, off to assist speculative writers at other, lesser publications. Pleased at having this conflict settled as well as having been able to somehow transmogrify this diatribe into an actual review, I went to bed. I slept well that night, safe in the knowledge that creativity shall always emerge victorious over triteness. Rah.

-Taylor M. Clark