The Discordant Symphony: How Pitchfork's Merger with GQ Struck a Sour Note in Music Journalism
Image credit: Joe Daly
On Wednesday, January 17, the gnashing corporate behemoth known as Condé Nast, punched through the chest of Pitchfork and pulled out its still-beating heart. Then, in a move that makes about as much sense as installing turn signals in BMWs, they presented the trophy to GQ, a glossy men’s magazine as far removed from the grimy trenches of incisive music journalism as one could get without leaving Earth’s pull. Hyperbole? Sure, but desperate times require desperate prose. After all, this is more than some benign act of corporate reshuffling; it's a full-blown cultural heist, a remorseless pillaging of the very ethos that made Pitchfork a bastion of unapologetic and yes, often self-important, musical critique. It's akin to mixing whiskey with wine – both potent, but putrid when combined.
Let's set the stage: Pitchfork, that snotty rebel child of the internet era, born in the modest confines of a Minneapolis basement, evolved over the years into a titan of musical discourse. It wasn't just a website; it was a cultural force, wielding its 0.0 to 10.0 scale like Excalibur, slicing through the mediocrity and bloated excesses of the music industry. Its reviews, dripping with a mixture of scorn and admiration, became the stuff of legend. Pitchfork's writers were a unique fusion of analytical scholars and knee-jerk contrarians. These critics, well-versed in the nuances of sound and culture, used their extensive knowledge not just for enlightenment but for shock value. They embraced their role as cultural agitators, deliberately challenging norms and sparking heated debates. And it worked hellaciously well, casting Pitchfork as both a standout in music journalism and a platform where intellectual rigor met the thrill of confrontation.
Enter Condé Nast, the corporate Goliath, a fearsome titan in the world of publishing with titles like Vogue and The New Yorker under its belt. In 2015, it gobbled up Pitchfork, a move that was met with skepticism but also a glimmer of hope. Perhaps this alliance would bring stability and resources? Fast forward to now, and the true nature of this beast reveals itself, its slimy exoskeleton tearing free of its human host. A slate of layoffs, including the axing of editor-in-chief Puja Patel and executive editor Amy Phillips, signal not just a change in personnel but a seismic shift in philosophy.
Merging Pitchfork with GQ, a bastion of men’s fashion and lifestyle, is like trying to fit a wild, thrashing coyote into a ftted, three-piece suit – absurd, chaotic and destined for disaster.. GQ, with its glossy pages and suave demeanor, operates in a different universe from Pitchfork’s coarse and candid take on music journalism. It's a world of cocktails and cufflinks, far removed from the limb-filled mosh pits and deafening walls of distortion that mark Pitchfork's domain. This is not a merger; it's an assimilation.
The tragedy here is not just about losing jobs, though that in itself is a brutal blow. It's about losing a voice, a unique perspective in a sea of safe, advertiser-friendly, algorithm-driven bullshit. Pitchfork was never about playing it safe. It reveled in its self-appointed role as provocateur, the impassioned outsider, unafraid to say that the emperor had no clothes, or in their case, that the latest mainstream-hyped album was a turgid, overproduced collection of generic, auto-tuned ear sludge.
The merger is emblematic of a larger, more disturbing trend in media and culture – the deadening pursuit of profit over passion, clicks over creativity. In this new world order, the quirky, idiosyncratic voices are being drowned out by the monotonous drone of corporate speak. What happens to the dissenters, the mavericks, the ones who don't fit neatly into the glossy pages of a fashion magazine? Adios, muchachos.
As we mourn Pitchfork’s relegation, let's remember what it stood for – the raw, unfiltered passion for music, the willingness to swim against the tide. This is not just a loss for the staff of Pitchfork; it's a loss for anyone who believes that music is a vital, pulsating force that deserves to be discussed, debated, and yes, fiercely criticized.
In the end, this merger is a funeral dirge for the soul of a publication that dared to be different. As the corporate vultures circle overhead, one can't help but feel a dark sense of foreboding. In the immortal words of Hunter S. Thompson, "The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs." In the case of Pitchfork, it seems they didn’t even get a chance to bark.