EVERYTHING is amazing. Everyone super-stoked to be there. No matter who it is, no matter how bad the artist, every set list is full of bangers.

And that’s bollocks.

When did we pass this law forbidding the publishing of an honest review? Why do most of the current brownnosing music ‘writers’ fawn in unison over every new single, every gig, every new album?  

Take Brix Smith. (Please. Somebody.)

I was unfortunate enough to see her twice in quick succession last year, once supporting Killing Joke at Hammersmith, then at Kentish Town, opening for PiL. And she was beyond dreadful both times. Way, way, way beyond.

In the build up to both gigs she announced, “I’ve put together the motherfucker of all girl bands.” And I still have no idea what she meant.

The reviews of the two gigs were almost identical in their enthusiasm and praise for what the writer had seemingly witnessed.

However, those reviews should have included the words, incompetence, cliched, tired, unconvincing. They didn’t. I can only assume I passed into a parallel universe on both nights, but I’ve seen more talent watching pissed up, denim clad female ‘singers’ monopolising the karaoke machine at an out-of-control office Christmas party.

But those who profess – erroneously – to represent the music press (studied journalism? If not, you’re just someone with a pad and pen) the ones who arrived clutching their complimentary ticket as if it granted them admission into some kind of enchanted, inner circle, choose to repeatedly, unquestioningly tow this illogical, unified party line of sugar-coating everything they witness for fear of missing out on the next freebie, for fear of upsetting the star of the evening.

Go ahead, comply with the belief you must always supply a positive review, tremble at the thought of occupying the role of the outsider, and kiss everyone’s arse from here to eternity. Nice work if that’s what you crave.

But you’re doing nothing more than cheapening journalism, music, the artist, and yourself. Who cares if your views are seen as antagonistic, grow a pair, write the truth. Educate, inform, and entertain.

California Smile, Aphrodite, Fast Net, Black Rain, Black Butterfly, Rainbow Sky. Brix presented her school project songs thick and fast; her ad lib lines – identical during both shows – were juvenile and irrelevant.

You have to be spectacularly bad to even get close to our ‘Wall of Shame,’ but Brix achieves it with ease.

“Go. Away.” A lone, wise, voice suggested during an all too brief, yet welcome, lull in the ‘music,’ that night at Hammersmith. If only.

Return your clothes to the dressing up box on your way out Brix, and don’t ever come back.

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