I had a minor relapse the other day.
Some dude wrote a shitty review of a show that I thought was really happening; he just beat the piss out of us. Really hated it. Actually, he seemed to hate everything I had ever done in my entire career; he called Soul Coughing “lite rap” and the show “meaningless,” “middle of the road,” “declawed funk,” and invoked Dave Matthews as if that were damning in and of itself.
So I wrote a letter to the editor; like, can a dude with a voice as weird as mine, whose hit single contains the word “decathecting,” really be considered middle of the road? I need to check out this road he’s been hanging out on; it sounds pretty happening.
And I called him out for getting a song title wrong (he called “Your Misfortune” “Stand in the Light,” I guess because that’s the most repeated phrase in the tune), which annoys the hell out of me. Even if you think I’m a piece of shit, look at the back of the fucking CD, could you?
I don’t think the paper ran it. And thank God they didn’t. I feel like shit after I do that; for one thing, why bother? For another, if I object to a critic being gratuitously cruel, what good does it do me to be mean right back at him? How hypocritical, how petty.
At the NYPress, I wrote tons of mean shit about critics that wrote mean shit about me. And, actually, some mean shit about critics that wrote nice things about me. I was just angry at critics. Well, actually I was really just angry at everything. I really regret it. I want to systematically contact all the writers I was shitty to, and tell them I regret it. Really, honestly I do. I think it might make me feel better.