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Title: The book was good, only in that it should me what truly bad criticism and writing can be.
Review: This book is unbelievably bad by a writer who possesses possibly absolutely no talent or intelligence. Unfortunately, it's a sad reflection on rock criticism and writing in general. This book doesn't merit me sitting here wasting my time writing or thinking of it, I want to forget this book, this writer, everything about the experience as quickly as possibly and just pretend it was a very bad dream. I have nothing good to say about this book, except if I'm trapped in a bathroom with only this book, I could come up with one useful thing to do with this book. What's his next book going to be: how boogers are responsible for some of the greatest literary works of this century? I wish this was just some bizarre comment coming off the top of my head, but I could actually see this joker writing such a book of 'weighty scholarship'. Peace out, music lovers, the X Man
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