Taste Your Own Medicine

Some friends of mine from Portland just got a downright venomous review in the Willamette Week.  (For they’re protection, I won’t reveal who they are.  But their name rhymes with “times” and is synonymous with the phrase “10 cents.”)  These guys are special; honest and true, and immensely creative.   So I’m gonna take a deep breath and count to 10 before I say anything.  And while I’m counting, you can go read the review in question if you like.

1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10

Okay, Mr. Willamette Week reviewer.  (We’ll just call you “Jeff Rosenberg” for the sake of this blog.)  I haven’t yet heard the new album of which you speak, so, maybe… just maybe, it is as horrible as you say.  Maybe the guilty should slink into your office with tails between their legs, and apologize for putting you through such an excruciating 40-minutes.

But I doubt it.  Something tipped me off that your listening experience, and subsequent communication thereof—as authoritative as it rings—was not entirely honest.  What was it?  What could it be?
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