A Rational Hatred For Joanna Newsom

About this article: This is my Birth of a Nation, sorry. Needlessly provocative and mean-spirited.

I'm here to clarify something for those not in the know. Joanna Newsom and her "music" are garbage. The term is used loosely. Her latest album was an un-catchy number called Have One on Me, which like Miles Davis' Bitches Brew proves if you've made a name for yourself you can make an indulgent, boring, unappealing album a critical hit. It came out in 2010 and the memory has yet to leave my head. That is to say that the Have One on Me experience is an unforgettable one, in the same way Columbine is. Oh, sure it was long ago, but it resonates with me still, that solitary listen. It's ingrained in my psyche juxtaposed against images of discarded weapons, bloody walls, and lobotomized schizophrenics letting out one scream in ten minute increments.

Joanna Newsom is a borderline retarded lady from California, and I apologize for use of that ugly term, meaning I hope the mentally ill don't take offense with the comparison to their intellectual inferior. By retard I mean not in the way say, Woody Allen characterizes neurotic, socially inept men, I'm talking special in the way no parent would be proud of. Watch any interview, it's like anyone who's ever taken their last hit of MDMA which became the straw that broke the camel's back and turned their functioning brain matter into something resembling swiss cheese crossed with silly putty. She's a cripple on a harp with only the creative half of the brain working, and the other, more responsible half is not letting her know her voice is bad. Despite this I must note, if you're reading, Joanna, I'd still shave my barren chest hair for a chance to date you, as obnoxiousness can be a great aphrodisiac, superseding both personality and mental incapacitation.

Joanna has the voice of a witch. A pleasant witch, perhaps, who even feels a bit of remorse over eaten children, but a witch nonetheless. Its charm is lost approximately three minutes into any song. For most this would be fine, you'd think, but this wench indulges for about five times that length, with looming tunes that often start out pretty like a slow-motion video of a plant growing and then at some point you realize jesus christ this song's not going to end and suddenly it turns to a nightmarish depiction of bathtub drowned babies; an utmost suffocation that begs, "Please, let me out. I'd rather be locked in a McDonald's rest room." At this point you realize there are 12 minutes left.

So she sings her Welsh/leprechaun music which works kind of like that flute music that makes a snake come out of a basket except this is targeted at Loch Ness. If pedobear repeatedly raped Enya over wild rose bushes and she wrote a concept album based on the events that's basically the best descriptor for Joanna's sound. Her music serves its purpose for self-loathing types who are too against the grain to admit Maroon 5 is better because their frontman is handsome and people have heard of them. When will people finally confess this excessively unique, untalented gremlin is less listenable than even Coldplay? Likely never, which is unfortunate as it entails being hip and with it is more important than her two decent songs being worse than "Yellow."

There's no justifiable reason for admiring her work outside a fashion statement. Her music's a hologram of water over a pond made to look pretty but will only leave you in broken limbs should you dare jump in. That's right, it's shallow. Her mangled claws picking a harp is no less unpredictable or potentially catastrophic than HAARP. If you dig her work you're into vacant posturing, indulgent self-aggrandizement and Holocaust denial. You're not mysterious or different for your efforts of feigned appreciation, just another sucker who knows the words and not the music. And if all this hasn't done the job, here.

Kinda kills the mystique, no?
Okay it was a bad day but she's still an angel sent from above to desecrate our graven images and spread the word of love, hope & all things good with no less style than Federico Fellini and no less grace than a blind third world peasant who's faced decades of molestation and never denounced his faith in the Almighty Creator. Art's not about what you see, but what you don't see. As soon as I turn this picture to monochrome it will become an instant classic and an ironic, subversive commentary against a world gone cold.

No, it's still quite shit.
There you have it. The mystique is dead. Joanna Newsom is basically that girl at the bar cradling a Miller Lite whilst discussing $7 chapstick, Victoria's Secret, and how a lack floating zebras gliding through rain forests on rainbows dropping sequoia cones, has inhibited her repeated visits from imaginary limbless dwarfs, that are her only means of orgasm. It's a fact, people. Look it up.