Broken social scene pitchfork7/24/2023 He corralled advertisers and started paying his writers. In 1999, Schreiber bravely threw his whole wad into running the still-insignificant site. ![]() Interviews and features (mostly top-100 lists) followed, but the meat of the site was, and remains, the reviews, which grade records on a ten-point scale. Gradually, unpaid freelancers came aboard to contribute copy. On the off chance you haven’t heard of Pitchfork, here’s the backstory: In 1996, teenage slacker Ryan Schreiber launched from his parents’ house in suburban Minneapolis, writing all the CD reviews himself. And because every good plan has an ulterior motive, here was mine: to find a new album that I could fall in love with. My plan: to buy ten of Pitchfork’s highest-rated CDs from this past June, listen to them, and get a feel for what kinds of music the most influential indie tastemakers in the country are digging. ![]() I decided, therefore, that the best way to re-access the strange world of music obsessives was to let Pitchfork be my tour guide. In fact, nearly every big new indie band of the past couple years has, at some point, received the Pitchfork stamp of approval. As any young, hip American could tell you, the Arcade Fire is one of the most important bands in indie rock today, their big-deal status cemented by a so-glowing-you-gotta-wear-shades review of their first album on the music webzine Pitchfork. “Haven’t actually heard their music yet, though.” This was a shameful admission. “I’ve read a lot of good things about them,” I sputtered in response. Which brings me back to the Arcade Fire, and my brother’s simple question. If my seventeen-year-old self could see me now, he’d be horrified. I love music as much as ever, but-with my yearly CD and concert intake down roughly fivefold from my fanboy peak-I’ve become the type of music fan I’d once ridiculed: a casual music fan. ![]() You know how it goes: Now college-degreed and gainfully employed, I’ve simply lacked the time, strength, cash, and patience to keep up with the mutating musical tastes of young, hip America. If anyone could be trusted with a music recommendation, it was me. Earlier this year, my brother asked me a simple question: “Hey, what do you think about the Arcade Fire?” See, as far as my family and close friends know, I’m still the same fervent music obsessive I was back when I was a teenager, the kid who spent most of high school lying on his bed with the new issue of Spin propped against his knees, lost in his big headphones.
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