Pitchfork reviews

Added Aug 20, 2025By Avacurrentlywatching

Why are you into it?

Good taste disguised as a routine.

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About

Pitchfork built its empire on the simple premise that music criticism could be both ruthless and reverent. Founded in 1996 by Ryan Schreiber in his Minneapolis bedroom, the site became the arbiter of indie taste through decimal-point precision and prose that swung between academic deconstruction and outright character assassination. A 6.8 rating could kill a career. A 9.0 could create one. The numbers mattered less than the words behind them, but everyone pretended otherwise.

The reviews themselves became a genre. Writers like Brent DiCrescenzo turned album critiques into performance art, famously opening a Jet review with "This band has the depth of a parking lot puddle." The site's influence peaked in the mid-2000s when a positive review could move thousands of vinyl copies and festival bookings followed Pitchfork's annual best-of lists like a roadmap. Bands courted the publication with the desperation of suitors. Some succeeded. Most learned that Pitchfork's attention could be more brutal than its indifference.

The publication's cultural authority began fragmenting around 2015 as streaming democratized music discovery and social media scattered critical consensus. Condé Nast's acquisition that year formalized what many suspected: the scrappy outsider had become the establishment it once mocked. Recent layoffs and restructuring have further diminished its footprint, but the reviews remain. They're archived testimony to a moment when a few dozen writers in Chicago could determine what qualified as good taste for a generation raised on file-sharing and irony.

What survives isn't the numerical ratings or the cultural gatekeeping. It's the idea that music deserves serious attention, that albums merit the kind of close reading once reserved for novels. The best Pitchfork reviews still accomplish this, cutting through promotional copy and fan enthusiasm to ask what a record actually does and whether it does it well. Good taste disguised as routine. The verdict was always in the writing, never the score.

Fun fact

Pitchfork's infamous 0.0 review of Travistan by Travis Morrison contained more words than some novella chapters, turning complete dismissal into an art form.