Pitchfork 'reviewed' Jet's album with a monkey peeing in its own mouth. Zero words. They got paid.

FIRST of all — where is the review? I came here expecting words. Sentences. A thesis. Instead I got a zoo video I'm not going to describe on a family website. Is this journalism? Is this criticism? I've been to HOA meetings with more substantive critique than this.

Let me break this down, because apparently someone has to. Pitchfork assigned a staff writer a task. That writer presumably clocked in. They opened the album, listened to it (allegedly), and then — instead of doing their JOB — they embedded a YouTube clip and called it a day. And management APPROVED this. Someone edited this. Someone hit publish. A sales department sold ads against it. And then Pitchfork cashed a CHECK for it. I want to speak to the manager who signed the timesheet.

But does this review actually WORK as a review? Let's audit. A review is supposed to tell the reader what the album sounds like, whether it's worth their money, and why. Words I did not find in this piece: guitar, vocals, production, song, track, album, Jet. Words I did find: zero. Because there are zero words. I have written more detailed reviews of the parking situation at my local Trader Joe's, and my Trader Joe's reviews include a star rating AND a paragraph.

I'm not even going to address the 0.0 score. A 0.0 implies measurement. Measurement implies effort. This 'review' contains neither. If I order a sandwich and the deli sends me an empty bag with a note that says 'no', I don't rate the sandwich — I file a complaint with corporate. Pitchfork, this is me, filing with corporate. I want the editor's NAME. I want a formal apology to every reader who clicked expecting criticism. And I want my eight seconds of video buffering back. This isn't music journalism. This is a prank your coworker pulls and then gets fired for.