Contemporary critics still have the talent, motivation and ambition to make something of quality and consistency. But it is way too easy to troll, get what seems like a reaction, and call it music journalism. The relentless desire for the easily quantifiable pushes chin-strokingly qualitative to the fringes even more than ever.
That's not to say writers are less talented or the democratisation of culture into one big Saturday night talent show scrabble hasn't resulted in great music making to the ears of shrewed listeners. Good music still gets heard and shared. But as a punter - ticket buyer, record shopper, and t-shirt wearer - that joy of discovery feels less of a struggle, and some of the rewards not as sustained. More transient than in this ink stained past. It's easy to bemoan the passing of any great shared experience, which Thursdays and Fridays after the papers came out always was, but it genuinely mapped out the week. Channels of information and pockets of consumption were so much more limited which made them more precious. One upmanship and true musical snobbery was an achievable aim. The new shared experience is instantly stimulating, but also sometimes somewhat faceless.
The vivid tribal etiquette that came with astute and stoic musical preferences has been replaced with kids who take it as a given that everyone is now the ultimate polymath playlist, as deeply enamoured by Kendrick as they are quick to question George Ezra. Is that just like those music press devotees who knew why That Petrol Emotion were worth caring about, but Crazyhead perhaps less so. Maybe the only real difference is ink?
