The Critic was a tall, obese man with a booming voice, and when he spoke to you he would get right in your face and his head would bounce from side to side as he interrogated you or offered up his unsolicited opinions on anything and everything under the sun, or told tall tales about his personal history. Spittle often flew from his mouth as he told you his many accomplishments, which were all the more amazing considering his tragic upbringing (vicious beatings from his father, insane religious training from his mother, early sex addiction due to an unscrupulous female teacher, etc.).
I would be working at a copy machine and The Critic would lumber over, get right in my face and boom “AC/DC never made a single bad album! Never! We're all going to watch Astrid shave her pussy tonight, you wanna come?” and then he would turn around and stomp away before I could answer 'yes.'
I would be working at a copy machine and The Critic would lumber over, get right in my face and boom "I've got a metal plate in my head from the time I drove my cab into a Boeing 747 on the runway at Metro Airport!"
The members of the rock band told me what they believed to be the true story of The Critic. He had been an arts editor at a weekly newspaper when he was fired after it was discovered his resume was a work of fiction, including a masters degree from a prestigious university. He had now attached himself to the rock band and the rock band had let him attach himself as they both used each other's connections in the arts scene to promote each other. It was a strategy that was successful for both. The Critic would rise again, suffer an even greater fall, and then make an even greater rise to the position he maintains today as one of America's preeminent music critics. If you are a hardcore music fan and research music on the internet, you have read one of The Critic's reviews. You might not recognize his name, but it is impossible you haven't stumbled across one of his reviews, either online or in print in Rolling Stone, Creem, Musician, Spin. There are lengthy, heated debates about The Critic on internet music forums, there are parodies of his reviews, as the Critic is the master of the 3 star review, hedging his bets, never upsetting anyone, providing a few biographical tidbits then stuffing the review with empty phrases such as *open and purposeful melodies,* *the approach is both organic and disciplined,* and *appealing chord changes and a pop sensibility.* He invented a successful formula that pleased enough artists, content creators and fans to maintain a three decades long career.
Anyway, I worked with The Critic at Kinko’s for a couple months then got fired for cursing at a customer. My next job was as a manager of a store on the campus of the University of Michigan at which, among many other things, we happened to sell used CDs. That’s when I next ran into The Critic. I hadn't seen or heard from him in quite a while. I had no idea what he was up to. I was working in the store when the cashier called me to the counter. There was The Critic! We looked at each other in surprise. It turned out The Critic was still making his way back to the top. He had at this point secured a position as a music buyer for the most prestigious record store in the area. He had come into the store to sell some used CDs, well, technically they weren't used CDs, they were promo CDs The Critic had received as music buyer, these weren't supposed to be sold, but The Critic and I quickly agreed upon an arrangement profitable for both of us. I would buy his promo CDs for five dollars each, he would get three dollars and I would keep two, then sell them to my customers for 8 bucks. Once a month The Critic would come to the store and we would make ourselves a tidy little sum. We agreed workers were entitled to steal from the owners who exploited us.
If you’ve read this far, I apologize. I’m not going to finish this boring anecdote from my early work life. In truth, I lost interest almost as soon as I began writing it. I thought I could push through, but with every sentence I thought: what’s the point?
Anyway, I’ll give a brief summary of what was going to follow, so you at least will have some sort of conclusion.
I was going to tell about the day The Critic came into the store with an associate previously unknown to me. While we were doing the paperwork on our CD business, the critic introduced his associate. James O’Barr. ‘Hello.’ ‘Hello.’ We shook hands. Did I know him, The Critic asked? No. The Critic informed me James O’Barr was the writer/creator of a comic called The Crow, and had just recently concluded a lucrative movie deal.
All the while The Critic was explaining this to me, O’Barr stood there looking embarrassed by all The Critic’s effusive praise.
You would never guess from O’Barr’s appearance and demeanor he had just scored a huge success. He wore old blue jeans and a t-shirt, he looked about my age, late 20s or early 30s, a little bit younger than The Critic, he looked like he could be a pizza delivery driver or a grass cutter, just an ordinary white Downriver working class dude.
The worst part of the encounter was when The Critic informed me that the tragedy at the heart of The Crow was based on the real life tragedy O’Barr suffered with his girlfriend. O’Barr had to listen to The Critic, in his booming voice, explain to me about the brutal car crash from a drunk driver that killed O’Barr’s girlfriend. It had to have been an unpleasant experience. Here was The Critic, in his booming voice, telling O’Barr’s most painful experience to a complete stranger. He looked very uncomfortable, but didn’t say anything.
After The Critic finished with his recitation of the tragedy, we all stood there enduring an awkward silence. Finally I looked at O’Barr and offered the best platitude I could muster: gee that’s rough, I hope your artistic work can bring you some sort of peace. He mumbled something I couldn’t understand and nodded his head.
O’Barr accompanied The Critic one other time into the store. That meeting wasn’t as uncomfortable or awkward. We exchanged a few sentences, I can’t recall the exact detail, just mundane talk. I retain the impression to this day O’Barr was the most humble, down to earth person I ever met. You would never look at him and imagine he was some big comic book and movie guy.
I have no idea if O’Barr and The Critic remain friends or acquaintances or whatever they were. I would run into The Critic every four or five years, always under some odd chance encounter. My last contact was by email. I arranged to do an interview with him for this blog. Sent him the questions. He never responded. I asked him three times if he had changed his mind or if he just needed more time to answer the questions. He never responded. Was he offended by the questions? Who knows? I haven’t heard from him in eight or ten years, probably.
The End.
The End.
