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I was perusing the Post-Gazette online and noticed that there was a concert review of Dionne Warwick’s appearance with the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra at Heinz Hall Friday night. Besides wondering why it would take three days for someone to write a review of a Dionne Warwick concert (perhaps it took that long for the writer to come out of the comatose state induced by the concert), I also wondered why anyone would care to read a concert review of a Dionne Warwick concert. I mean, really. Dionne Warwick’s career isn’t exactly on the upswing and anyone who is a big enough fan to be interested in a review of the concert probably went to said concert. Folks, there’s no gray area when it comes to Dionne Warwick—you either like her or you don’t—and the enticement of the prospect of hearing “Do You Know the Way to San Jose” with full orchestral accompaniment isn’t a big enough enticement for the anomalous fence sitters out there.
Reading about the former Psychic Friends Network pitchwoman in concert got me to thinking about concert reviews in general. What insight have I ever gained from reading a concert review really? None. If I love a band, I’ll go to the concert and don’t need to read about it since I was there. If I didn’t go to a concert, it means that I either don’t like the act enough to pay money to see them in concert or another commitment prevented me from attending. If I don’t like the band enough to go see them, I don’t need a newspaper review telling me how the concert turned out. And if I missed a concert I really wanted to attend but couldn’t because of a conflicting commitment, why would I want to read an article rubbing my nose in it by telling me how great the concert was that I missed?
Besides all of that, personal musical tastes are so varied that the subjective nature of concert reviews causes me to further question the need for them. I’ve been to concerts that I enjoyed only to read a review the next day panning the performance, causing me to wonder if the “journalist” was at the same concert that I was. Music critics have biases just like anyone else, and therefore I put little value into their analysis. If I hated Metallica (which I do), I know that I wouldn’t be capable of writing an honest Metallica concert review. (My review would be as follows: “If you like bad songs about wizards and dungeons, you were in for a real treat last night. As expected, that Lars dude didn’t wear a shirt again and got all sweaty. Also as expected, the concert sucked ass. The only purpose seeing Metallica in concert served was to remind me just how unfair life is; Stevie Ray Vaughan and John Lennon are dead and these bastards are still alive and making money to boot.”)
To be fair, concert reviews are not the only reviews found in newspapers of which I take umbrage. I find restaurant and book reviews to be one step above useless only because they may contain very basic information that will determine whether or not I will try out a restaurant or buy a particular book. Forget the commentary on the service or décor; if one of the entrees sampled is something like pork chops in a roasted garlic-infused reduction served with a raspberry and mango chutney, that is a big enough indicator to me to not try that place. And if a book review describes a story of a mystic wiccan fighting cave-dwelling wombats from the future or something about the Kennedy’s, then the chances are I’m not going to enjoy reading that novel. Otherwise, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass whether or not the writer liked the book.
Everyone’s tastes in music, literature and food are all so very different, but I suppose the sorry local newspapers have to fill the pages with something. Maybe some people find them valuable, like people who can’t think for themselves. I don’t know. But I do know one thing–Dionne Warwick is frightening.
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