Brendan Soderberg might be a rapist-assisting piece of shit who mocks dead cancer victims, but here at The Martorialist we couldn't help but empathize when he recently voiced his annoyance at being boxed into a critical cul-de-sac as "the Rap guy". Us too, yo, so here's a special installment of Just sayin' where we bedazzle the Rap Internet with the sheer breadth of our unpopular-but-factual opinions about other genres of music!
I'd Rather Jack by The Reynolds Girls offers more insight into the concepts of retroism and popism versus rockism than any of Simon Reynolds' masturbatory theorizing.
The Clash's London Calling album is the Rock equivalent of Kevin Costner's Waterworld.
At best, Daft Punk are little more than the Kwik Save K-Klass; at worst, they're a duty free D Mob.
Because he's never shot a defenseless dog in a song or indulged in alternative-Susan Boyle karaoke, Marty Robbins will always have a superior catalogue to Johnny Cash.
If it weren't for Stock, Aitken & Waterman finding such diverse talents as Dead Or Alive, Sonia, and The Reynolds Girls in Merseyside then the city of Liverpool would have never produced a single act of any merit.
With the possible exception of Kill The White People by Eddie Murphy, the entire history of Reggae from 1967 to 1993 exists only as a minor footnote to Shaggy's career.
Due to his deft understanding of rhythm and his ability to energize stadium audiences, Skrillex is an infinitely more talented composer and DJ than the Aphex Twin.
Now that Rap producers have exhausted Jazz as a mine for samples, the works of Miles Davis, Charlie Mingus, John Coltrane et al should probably be burned because nobody has ever sit through a full Jazz album and honestly enjoyed its contents.
Dischord Records and Revelation Records will both go down in history as two labels who spent the past part of twenty years funding rubbish bands who were just Fall Out Boy without the songwriting skills.
Britain's cultural nadir of the eighties wasn't Margaret Thatcher's Tory government but the ‘Madchester’ music scene which still pollutes northern pubs/bars/clubs twenty years later with bowl-headed troglodytes in cagoules and Adidas Gazelles still doing the Bez dance to Fool's Gold.