In 2006, Pitchfork refused to review Jet’s sophomore album, Shine On. Instead, it posted a video of a chimpanzee pissing into its own mouth with a “0.0” rating. No explanation.
The writers collectively attributed the article to “Ray Suzuki,” a ghost they made up to catch the flak from their most controversial reviews.
That review has now become legend. It was so harsh and sensational—so goddamn hilarious in its outsized hatred—that it galvanized the already meteoric rise of Pitchfork among its readership. Phoebe Bridgers later called it the “best review of all time.”
In fact, most people remember it better than the album, On Shine, or whatever.
But no matter how bad Moon Shine by Jet was, that review eventually became an emblem of Pitchfork itself. Yeah, they were scathing music snobs, but they were funny too. And they could usually get it right.
But 20 years later, the good ol’ monkey piss days are gone. And this time, for good.
Last week, Pitchfork announced it was putting up a paywall.
According to Mano Sundaresan, the chief content officer at Pitchfork, if you want to “read unlimited reviews, see the reader scores, and comment yourself or read the comments of others, you’ll have to smash subscribe.”
Also, “smash subscribe?” This isn’t YouTube in 2015, Mano.
You’ll need to pay $5 per month for their new subscription service if you want unlimited access to their archive, which contains over 30,000 reviews.
Which means most people won’t see their reviews anymore, because I can’t see anyone paying five bucks a month to get told that their favorite music sucks ass.
If it sounds like I’m being harsh, remember, this is Pitchfork, we’re talking about. If they can dish it, they can take it.
Pitchfork was many things in its day. A tastemaker. A champion of indie rock. A high-horse hipster who thinks he’s got better taste than you. An asshole who’s into weird music and bashes anything mainstream.
Or, to borrow a phrase from Brockhampton: “Fuck Pitchfork.”
In recent years, Pitchfork has been like a dementia patient on life support. While it’s not technically dead, it hasn’t really been the same since its last stroke.
In 2015, Pitchfork was sold to Conde Nast, one of the largest media companies in the world, and the same guys behind Vogue, The New Yorker, GQ, Vanity Fair andWIRED. Reportedly, they bought it to gain some traction in the market for “millenial male” readers.
At the time, several critics questioned whether the acquisition would lose Pitchfork its “indie cred.” But despite some pushback from hardcore fans, it mostly maintained its place in the music world.
The downward spiral really started in 2024, when Conde Nast announced they were laying off half of Pitchfork’s staff and folding the magazine into GQ, a fashion magazine, to save money.
Which, I mean, hey. What the fuck?
News outlets rebuked the move — one pithily chiming: “Did Conde Nast even read Pitchfork?”
Later that year, Pitchfork was also forced to cancel its popular music festival, then due for its 19th anniversary.
People love to shit on Pitchfork. I’m one of them. They stand for so much of what I hate about the music world. Quick judgments. Snarky attitudes. The out-of-ten review score, which doesn’t really mean anything.
The paywall is a reminder that Conde Nast is trying to squeeze whatever juice they can out of Pitchfork before they throw the sad husk of what’s left in the garbage.
Pitchfork occupied a special place in the music world. Despite all the awful takes, they’ve also turned a lot of people onto really great artists. Cindy Lee and Radiohead come to mind.1
Sometimes, you need a villain who’s going to diss everything about your favorite album to force you to take a good, hard look at it.
Other times, you need someone who won’t do a conventional review and writes in free verse, or uses made-up, satirical conversations between bands and venues to make a point.
And Pitchfork used to do those things.
But the new Pitchfork aren’t the guys who’ll post that monkey gulping pee anymore — even when you need them to most. And it’s been that way for a while.
The rules of the game change when you get bought by a giant media corp. Suddenly, you can actually afford to pay your writers well (even if you end up firing half of them to be “profitable” later). You run a music festival with big-name artists and sponsorships.
And now, writing a weird, snarky, off-beat review about Tyler, the Creator’s new album, framed as if he were ordering a cheeseburger, isn’t a quirky boon. It’s a liability.
My editor just asked if that was a real review. It’s not, but the new Pitchfork guys wouldn’t write that anyway. If they’re still the OG chimp-piss guys, why haven’t they done anything remotely like it in the last two decades?
Simply put, posting a monkey juicin’ jetstreams in its jaw can fuck up your “network” of professionals.
In 2024, former Pitchfork editor Scott Plagenhoef said its writers at the time felt Jet’s second album, Shoe Shine, represented the way rock music had “curdled into a set of lazy signifiers and poses.”
They felt it would be a waste of time to write a normal review, so they created something “metaphorical and dismissive” instead. It was bold and audacious.
Ironically, I feel the same way about Pitchfork as they felt about that Jet album, Shiny Pokémon.
Now, instead of that monkey piss daredevil of its youth, Pitchfork is more like a middle-aged, turtleneck-sweater-wearing, beret-clad, juice-cleanse addict at your local coffee shop.
Actually, no. Worse yet, Pitchfork isn’t even that old, lame guy, nor the one on life support.
Pitchfork’s current incarnation is like being at a party and watching an out-of-touch billionaire walk around wearing the actual skin of a guy you knew.2
Granted, you didn’t even like the guy that much when he was alive, but watching the epidermis-draped ghost walk around the party brings the vibe down. It makes your skin crawl as he cracks a cider and does a poor impression of that guy’s voice, but with none of the same vitriol or bite that made you love him. And hate him.
And the worst part is — Conde Nast killed and skinned him themselves just so they didn’t have to pay him.
At least that guy had taste. And balls.
Last Tuesday’s paywall announcement included a reference to the chimpanzee post, but it rang hollow.
It’s one thing to remind people you posted a picture of a ‘panzee pissin’ in its own mouth 20 years ago.
It’s another thing to do it again.
