Out
of
the
need
for
both
concision
and
supremacy,
name-dropping
has
taken
up
shop
as
the
go
to
for
immediate
description
in
criticism.
It's
all
over
review
sites,
often
finding
itself
at
the
center
of
what
one
might
call
the
general
criticism(s)
of
criticism.
It's
the
David
Guetta
of
description
(you
know,
like
super
effective),
the
easiest,
cheapest
and
most
successful
way
of
mocking
Indie/hipster
culture
(ie.
Portlandia,
ugh).
It's
what
everyone
thinks
of
when
they
think
hipster.
For
the
outsider
looking
in
on
the
world
of
Indie
music,
name-dropping
is
the
greeting, (re:
my
haphazard
contest),
it's
that
what-the-$&%#-are-you-doing-here
look,
the
unspoken
barrier;
the
most
off-putting
part
about
this also undefinable musical world.
People
who
love
obscure
music
love
to
name-drop...
and
it
rests
comfortably
next
to
grammar
and
punctuation.
To
get
a
better
understanding
of
it,
let's utilize wikipedia:
“Name-Dropping
is
the
practice
of
mentioning
important
people
or
institutions
within
a
conversation, story, song, online identity, or
other
communication.
The
term
often
connotes
an
attempt
to
impress
others;
it
is
usually
regarded
negatively,
and
under
certain
circumstances
may
constitute
a
breach
of
professional ethics.”
-
Straight
from
Wikipedia,
bruh
This
is
the
“proper”
definition.
The
kind
that
makes
the
true
critical
professional
nod
and
agree.
To
them,
it's
seen
as
the
step-child
who
does
all
the dishes
-
super-efficient
but
kind
of
dirty
and
ignored.
You
take
credit
for
the
job,
but
the
professionals
know
somebody
else
is
really
cleaning
up
your
mess.
And the
truth
is,
I
sometimes
wish
I
could
be
that
professional;
a
true
critic
of
contemporary classical
music
(or
contemporary
art,
if
that
was
my
bag).
One
that
actually
warrants
an
education
in
musicology
or
art
history.
We all aspire to
some form of the professional,
whether
we like to admit it
or
not.
It's
too
bad
we
aspire
to
dead
icons.
Or
unknown
geniuses.
The
thing
I
find
myself
forgetting
the
most
regarding
the
pros
also
happens
to
be
the
biggest
difference
between
them
and
us;
professional-critics
live
and
breathe
the
purest
of
air
-
thinking
isn't
optional
in
High-Art.
The
thoughts
and
intentions
of
the
people
producing
legitimately
way-up-there
Art
not
only
matter
more
often
than
the
aesthetic
appeal,
they
demand
thousands
of
words
of
authentication.
Quarterly's
as
long
as
a
website's
entire
existence.
High-Art
critics
operate
at
a
level
where
un-intention
doesn't
exist.
Where
people
think
before
they
show
others their
work.
The
moment
I
think
name-dropping
is
for
bitches
and
I
consider
being
descriptively
poetic,
I
remember
that
the bulk of our criticism revolves around shit.
I
mean
like,
literally,
shit.
That
sometimes,
musicians
release
an
album
and
then
think
“fuck”
afterwards.
Name-dropping
is
a
tool
we
have
for
identifying
that
“fuck”
moment.
What
average
people
and
wikipedia
have
trouble
understanding
is
that
it's
become
much
more
than
a
technique
for
us to
use,
it
is
a
part
of
us.
Embedded
not
just
in
our
reviews,
blogs,
and
criticisms,
but
in
our
language;
our
way
of
being.
Its
roots
are
so
deep,
the
term
itself
has
become
meaningless
to
us, used
exclusively
by
people
who
frown
upon
it,
who
laugh
at
it
and
mock
it.
The
same
people
who
think
that
“hipsters”
even
exist.
It's
the
way
we
immediately
digest
art.
Sure,
the
professional
intellectual
my
consider
it
a
breach
of
their
ethics,
but
we're
not
professionals.
This
is
why
the
anti-professional
broke
my
heart.
Why
my
lofty
peers
punched
me
in
the
face.
Name-dropping,
regardless,
takes
skill.
Much
like
bro-step
with
dangerous
presets
and
predefined
expectations,
it's
easy
to
throw
around
a
bunch
of
bands
or
genres
and
impress
people.
But
carelessly
throwing
around
bands
in
a
pure
act
of
supremacy?
Or,
more
correctly,
a
misguided
act
of
re-establishment?
'Cause
that's
really
what
this
is
all
about:
somebody
heard
a
saxophone
properly
resolve
a
pitch,
got
all
offended
their
Cool-God
betrayed
them,
and
decided
they
needed
to
make
sure
they
themselves
were
still
above
saxophones.
It
takes
thought
and
care;
the
references
should
spark
interest
or
generate
disgust
based
on
what
one
is
trying
to
convey,
they
should
compare
and
criticize
by
just
being
there.
Transparency.
When
name-dropping
stops
supporting
an
argument
and
becomes
the
focus
of
that
argument,
something went very wrong.
Only
when
the
highest
degree
of
*both*
effect
and
efficiency
can
be
attained
in
no
other
way
should
one
resort
to
our
lifeblood.
These
critics
done
said
I
love
you
way
too
many
times.
The
name/genre
dropping
partaken
in
so
epically
in
the
reviews
of
Kaputt
forces
us,
the
reader,
to
conclusively
decide
what
they,
the
critics,
are
trying
to
say;
combine
the
sum
of
that
name/genre-dropped
reference's
parts,
stir-em-around,
and
materialize,
to
the
best
of
our
knowledge,
what
the
over-arching
meaning
or
point
of
that
reference
is;
what
the
critic
is
trying
to
say.
Combining
and
boiling-down
a series
of
name-dropped
reference
points ends
with the
reader
materializing
the most
distinguishable
of
the
references.
Like this.
Ingredients:
Momus,
Roxy
Music,
Dave
Koz,
Sade,
Kenny
G,
Hall
&
Oates,
Steely
Dan,
and
George
Benson.
Ok.
The
discerning
audience:
slightly
to
extremely
pretentious
20-30
somethings
who
regard their musical taste above most.
Immediate
conscious/sub-conscious
reactionary
thought
process/materialization:
Momus?
Who
is
that?
Roxy
Music?
Yeah,
I
have
Country
Life,
it's
pretty
good.
Dave
Koz?
Who
is
that.
Sade?
I
think
he
did
that
one
song
“Smooth
Operator,”
kinda
lame.
Kenny
G?
Kenny
G,
what?
I
HATE
Kenny
G!
Hall
&
Oates?
So
soft,
I
think.
Steely
Dan?
Lame,
my
parents
love
Steely
Dan.
George
Benson?
Who
is
that?
End
result:
I
HATE
KENNY
G.
But
I'm
interested?
Who,
in
that
category,
knows
what
Gaucho
sounds
like?
Or
could
really
sing
“Feels
So
Good”?
Maybe
two
percent.
But
Kenny
G?
Everyone
in
that
audience
knows
who
Kenny
G
is
and
what
he
sounds
like
and
what
he's
associated
with
and
what
he
looks
like
and
how
much
they
hate
him.
So,
the
very
initial,
almost
subconscious
reaction
to
this
particular
form
of
description
re:
Kaputt
has
to
be
disgust.
Or
maybe
my
Mom
somehow
stumbled
onto
Tiny
Mix
Tapes
and
saw
that
some
band
called
Destroyer
put
out
and
album
that
was
like
Dave
Koz
but
with
words.
By
simply
lumping
every
descriptor
into
1-2
sentences,
the
critics
turned
soft
into
smooth.
Turned
Goldfrapp
into
Dave
Koz,
and
Roxy
Music
into
Sade,
and
Steely
fucking
Dan
into
Chuck
Mangione.
AND
VICE-VERA.
Not
only
did
they
disregard
the
difference(s)
between
soft-rock
and
smooth-jazz,
they
made
them
one
in
the
same.
You
bros
following
me?
I
mean
truly.
Destroyer
IS
“ Kenny
G,
David
Sanborn,
and
Dave
Koz
combined”!
They're
not
“like”
that
egregious
trio
anymore,
they
are
that
egregious
trio.
Either
way,
without
breaking
through
the
outer-shell
of
the
critically
self-described
“pristine,
immaculately
produced
biosphere”
of
soft-rock/smooth-jazz,
Kaputt,
to
the
unknowing,
is
an
immaculately
produced
smooth-jazz
soft-rock
schmaltz-fest.
Kaputt,
to
the
unaware,
is
smooth-jazz;
too-good-to-be-true
drums,
Chuck
Rainey
bass
vamps,
R&B
backing
vocals,
reverb,
echo,
compression
and
a
“wailing”
saxophone
(no
way
was
Chris
Botti
getting
referenced,
he's
too
obscure).
But
to
me?
I
mean,
what
do
you
think
that
whole
story
of
my
life
was
earlier?
I
just
felt
like
sharing
that
un-told
chronicle
cause
I
thought
it
was
interesting?
No.
I
know
what
smooth-jazz
is.
What
soft-rock
is.
And
that
there's
a
difference.
I
can
off-put
middle-agers
like
no
other
because
I
hate
it
that
much.
To
truly
hate
something,
one
has
to
understand
exactly
what
that
somethings
all
about,
and
sadly
I
understand
it
too
well.
So
when
Bejar
tricked
the
critics
into
thinking
he
was
crucifying
himself
on
the
bandwagon
of
Retromania,
I
don't
blame
'em
for
jumping
up
there
with
him
-
they
didn't
know
better.
But
they
shouldn't
have
acted
so
surprised
when
he
Kris
Angel-ed
that
shit
and
watched
his
volunteers
die.
Destroyer's
Kaputt
is
a
life
of
escape.
A
portrait
of
America's
secret
havens,
seen
through
the
eyes
of
a
man
struggling
with
his
own
ambiguity.
It's
a
sprawling
collection
of
pieces
individually
focused
on
portraying
the
distinct
impressions
of
loneliness,
despair,
longing
and
bittersweet
happiness
that
push
us
(Bejar,
Nancy,
Jessica,
Eva,
you,
me,
America)
into
beautiful
refuge.
Kaputt
is
gorgeous
because
these
places
have
to
be
gorgeous
– we
wouldn't
keep
coming
back
here
if
the
beauty
didn't
perpetually
ease
our
loss.
The
emotional
strife
and
physical
beauty
resonate
as
one
one
this
record.
Destroyer
creates
a
musical
landscape
so
apt
for
the
stories
of
Bejar
it's
hard
to
see
the
musicians
as
individuals.
His
voice
whispers
invitations
of
pleasure
and
joy,
but
riles
when
you
fall
into
the
same
addiction
and
emptiness
that
he
has.
Life's
never-ending
paradox
of
immediate
fulfillment
and
everlasting
pain,
why
we
go
to
the
back-rooms
of
the
world
all
night,
drinking
as
our
home
lies
in
ruins.
There's
something
so
beautiful
and
humane
about
this
existence;
it's
universal.
Ghostly
structures
haunted
by
years
of
joy,
glorified
imaginations
of
spectacular
city
peaks
founded
on
nothing
more
than
a
dream,
socialite
night-lives
filled
with
sorrow.
Bejar
watches
as
America
inhabits
every
crevasse,
every
tainted
experience;
his
song
for
America
depicts
the
beauty
of
our
refuge.
“Bay
of
Pigs”
is
the
stepping
point
for
Bejar's
observations,
themes
set
in
motion
two
years
ago
– ironically
it's
the
last
track
on
the
album.
An
incredible
summation,
several
stories,
all
revolving
around
what
feels
like
his
personal
experiences
of
heartbreak.
Christine
and
Nancy;
the
symbolic
nymphs
of
anxious
thoughts
beckoning
days,
months
and
years
later.
They
represent
not
just
our
relationships,
but
everything
we
can't
forget.
Experiences
that
made
us
who
we
are,
so
intertwined
in
our
existence,
they
become
a
part
of
us.
And
as
often
as
we
try
to,
the
cycle
remains
stagnant,
“the
tide
comes
in;
the
tide
goes
away.”
Naturally,
we
play
them
down,
“it
don't
mean
a
thing,
it
never
means
a
thing,”
“every
night
was
a
waste
of
time.”
But
Bejar
knows
his
natural
reactions
the
same,
it
won't
do
any
good
-
he
drinks
in
his
broken
home
(the
park,
the
pier),
he
takes
a
walk,
throws
up
in
an
English
garden,
slings
mud
at
a
tower,
and
wrestles
with
his
melancholic
memories.
“Bay
of
Pigs”
was
written
before
anything
else,
ostensibly
foreshadowing
Bejar's
intentions.
By
his
own
words,
he's
a
“subconscious
writer.”
His
portrait
of
escape
transformed
from
the
immediately
personal
to
the
broadly
relatable,
from
the
singular
nostalgia
of
his
own
experience
to
the
universal
experience
of
everyone.
Bay
of
Pigs
is
Bejar
recalling
the
pains
and
bittersweets
joys
of
his
experiences
and
what
he
did
with
them.
Kaputt
is
Destroyer
showing
us
what
America
is
doing
with
them.
Bejar
tells
us
the
story,
and
Destroyer
puts
us
there.
Without
Destroyer,
Bejar's
words
are
disconnected
abstractions
– random
recollections.
The
musicianship
supports
these
abstractions,
weaving
a
landscape
so
rich
and
deep,
its
hard
to
imagine
a
more
realistic
one.
The
feel
sets
our
base:
every
song
runs
on
the
consistency
of
the
minimal
bass
and
drums,
to
the
point
of
interchangeability.
There
is
nothing
spontaneous
about
these
two
facets,
everything
they
play
is
connectedly
composed.
It's
a
shame
that
this
kind
of
feel
is
frowned
upon
in
Indie
music.
Unless
you're
Basic
Channel
or
LCD,
consistency
is
unwelcome
– to
the
Indie
masses,
once
“real”
instruments
(cough)
start
grooving,
they're
sliding
into
kitsch
territory.
That's
what
normal
rock
bands
do,
I
guess.
The
groove
or
feel
is
the
basis
of
music!
Mason
Jones
from
dusted
put
it
perfectly
in
his
review
of
Can's
recently
re-issued
Tago
Mago,
“Listening
to
Tago
Mago...
...makes
me
realize
that
it’s
the
groove
that’s
missing
from
so
many
bands
these
days.
Somewhere
along
the
line,
"groove"
got
a
bad
rap,
became
uncool,
when
instead
it’s
where
the
central
nervous
system
lies.”
The
central
nervous
system,
that's
what
the
feel
is
on
this
album.
The
groove
signifies
that
we're
alive,
that
our
weathered
hearts
are
ticking.
And
it
essentially
allows
the
remaining
members
of
Destroyer
to
paint
the
structure,
finish
the
incomplete,
bring
the
nuance.
The
guitar
is
easily
the
most
nuanced
part
of
the
album,
camouflaged
as
a
hi-hat,a
bass
guitar,
a
keyboard,
and
at
perfect
times
the
central
figure
– solos
filled
with
aching
beauty,
so
simple
they
traverse
the
boundaries
of
existence.
It's
a
shame
TMT
called
this
moment
(in
“Savage
Night
at
the
Opera”)
“one
of
the
most
deliriously
empty
guitar
solos
ever
recorded
since,
say,
1986.
It’s
perhaps
the
silliest
moment
on
the
album,
nothing
serious
or
aggressive
about
it.”
Until
Ed
Comentale
decided
that
our
lives
could
never
possibly
be
empty,
he
hit
the
nail
on
the
head.
He
identified
a
truly
great
moment,
like
so
many
of
these
critics,
and
couldn't
grasp
it
or
understand
it.
It
challenged
him,
and
he
got
up
and
re-established
his
own
misguided
sense
of
greatness
instead
of
rolling
with
the
humbling
punch.
I'm
done
ragging
on
the
critics,
what
they
said
about
the
horns
hurts.
The
horns.
Saxophone.
Trumpet.
God
bless
you.
You
are
the
crowning
achievement
of
this
album,
above
everything
else.
I
can't
even
find
your
names,
can't
even
thank
you
properly.
You
put
breath
back
into
a
dying
age
of
corporate
wind.
Above
the
heartbeat
of
the
groove,
the
colors
of
the
synth
and
guitar,
You
are
the
voices
of
Bejar's
characters;
the
Nancy
and
Christine,
the
Magnolia
and
Eva.
You're
the
other
half
of
the
conversation
– aging
memories,
they
speak
through
the
subjective,
retuning
gestures
to
imagined
thoughts
of
what
could
have
been.
They
wail
above
everything
else,
grasping
onto
our
existence
until
the
beauty
of
refuge
temporarily
relinquishes
the
grip.
Never,
and
I
mean
never,
have
horns
been
treated
this
way
on
a
rock/pop/Indie/whatever
album.
The
structure
itself
is
revolutionary.
In
complete
contrast
to,
say
Donald
Fagen,
Bejar
took
away
the
restraints.
Listen
to
the
title
track
from
Aja.
Even
with
its
position
at
the
top
of
lists,
Wayne
Shorter's
solo
sounds
constrained.
The
limits
are
blatantly
obvious:
Steve
Gadd's
everywhere,
the
rhtyhm's
syncopated
beyond
belief,
and
Fagen's
phrasing
interrupts
any
progression
he
might
actually
make.
Admittedly,
its
a
phenomenal
solo,
but
he
hits
a
point
where
you
hear
him
say,
“ok,
fuck
it.”
He's
still
playing
in
a
context
where
horn
player's
have
“solos.”
Gaucho
is
even
more
startlingly
confined,
predetermined
horn
parts
overdubbed
over
the
recording.
Don't
even
get
me
started
with
Diamond
Life's
Stuart
Matthewman.
When
looking
for
comparisons
to
any
other
horn
player
on
any
other
album,
the
comparisons
just
aren't
there
for
Kaputt.
Maybe
in
the
way
Coltrane's
instrument
was
an
extension
of
his
soul,
but
these
horn
player's
aren't
even
speaking
through
their
own
soul,
they're
speaking
through
the
fantastical
soul
of
a
mute,
desperation
that
we
wish
would
speak
back.
And
it
doesn't,
so
we
wallow
in
our
American
refuge
and
listen
to
the
sad
beauty
of
our
lives.
This
kind
of
instrumental
thought
transcends
the
aesthetic,
it
demands
to
be
looked
at
not
just
for
how
great
it
sounds,
but
what
it
means.
Kaputt
and
Destroyer
in
general
created
a
piece
of
art
amongst
commercial
garbage
given
to
an
audience
so
caught
up
in
their
self-worth,
they
couldn't
stop
and
digest
it.
When
the
critics
say
it's
nothing
more
than
a
good
re-working
of
something
that's
already
come
-
a
silly
guitar
solos,
smooth-jazz
saxophone
lines,
laughable
production
-
I'll
say,
I'm
saying,
you
missed
the
fucking
point.
Big
time.
The
point
of
music
criticism,
regardless
of
what
rank
one
belongs,
is
to
identify
and
in
doing
so
glorify
the
obscured
meaning
of
the
object
of
commentary;
that
which
makes
a
piece
of
art
more
than
just
what's
on
the
surface.
Anyone
could
write
about
how
the
Rite
of
Spring
centers
on
the
sacrificial
dance
of
a
virgin,
that
Ive's
4th
of
July
uses
themes
from
traditional
American
songs,
how
Sunn
O)))
based
their
sound
entirely
on
Earth
or
how
Lana
Del
Rey
is
bad
– it's
right
there
in
the
program
notes,
the
facts
sheet,
the
press
release.
Anyone
could
incorrectly
call
Kaputt
smooth-soft-jazz-rock,
cite
bands
from
the
era
via
internet,
and
cast
Destroyer
into
Retromania's
fleeting
flavor
of
the
week
meltfest.
It's
all
there
on
the
surface,
just
as
the
flaccid
connections
and
criticisms
through
shallow
references
are
for
anyone
to
make.
That's
journalism
– efficiency
for
efficiency's
sake.
“Let's
make
sure
that
that
Destroyer
review
hits
print
the
day
Kaputt
hits
shelves.
Gotta
beat
the
other
corporations
to
the
press.”
(If
you
skipped
the
life
story,
you
should
stop
reading)
Bros,
let's
get
real
here.
Who
wants
to
go
listen
to
some
smooth-jazz?
I
understand
it
now.
I
think
I
can
finally
laugh
at
it,
make
fun
of
it,
enjoy
how
truly
awful
it
is
without
feeling
desperately
unable
to
define
it.
Because
the
truth
is,
it's
not
aesthetically
different
from
those
acceptable
forms
of
jazz
I
mentioned
so
long
ago
(Jazz-Rock,
Fusion,
etc).
The
instrumentation
is
basically
the
same,
it
grooves,
there's
some
people
soloing
or noodling, or doing something.
You
know?
Like,
there's
apparent
passion
and
love
and
stuff.
It
can't
be
explained
by
showing.
The
definition
lies
in
its
own
intention,
what
that
particular
musician
is
trying
to
do
with
the
music
they're
releasing.
Breathless,
Dave
Koz,
and
Diamond
Life
are
the
definition
of
corporate.
There's
no
way
Kenny
G
gets
pussy
like
Lil
Wayne
with
the
garbage
he's
putting
out.
Dave
Koz
is
gay.
Gato
probably
is
too.
They
can't
really
enjoy
playing
it
-
let's
be
honest
with
ourselves
-
Jeff
Beck
was
the
only
one
who
pulled
off
Jazz-Rock,
and
you
actually
had
to
be
talented
to
play
the
fun
complexities
of
Fusion.
So,
no
pussy
and
no
talent?
What's
left?
Ok,
maybe
you
like
hearing
yourself
on
the
radio
and
TV?
How
many
tomatoes
do
you
think
Kenny
G's
been
hit
with
in
his
life?
Still
not
as
many
as
how
much
money
he
has.
Their
audience
is
only
money:
rich
married
couples.
They'll
pay
top
dollar
to
watch
that.
To
escape
from
the
life
of
monotony
they
know
and
fantasize
about
fucking
that
satin-shirted
Fabio-looking
dude
in
front
of
their
husband.
Whatever
landscape
smooth-jazz
is
pretending
to
depict,
if
it's
your
personal
escape
from
torment
and
sorrow,
Kaputt
is
depicting
you,
trying
to
ease
your
existence.
