(imaginary) Christgau's Consumer Guide reviews of The Long Afternoon's Regression
As the long afternoon shares the regression album, the organization will publish reviews that could appear in Pitchfork, Tiny Mix Tapes, and other sites and publications under conditions that may be possible in some distant, alternative plane of existence. Content both favorable and unfavorable will be procured where possible.
No confusion should exist between any real reviews published elsewhere by prominent individuals and these fanciful, imaginary scribblings, which are shared primarily to amuse the organization's stakeholders and constituents.
Christgau's Consumer Guide
The review from the positive alternate universe:
The Long Afternoon, Regression [Problematic Audio] "Let's knock this one out, you fuckers!" snarls someone just before a joyously stoopid, fuzzed-out guitar riff begins "Don't Tell Me You Don't Have the Time," and by the time the drums stomp in a measure later, it's useless trying to resist this cryptic indie outfit's agreeably utilitarian approach to rock music. True, no wheels get reinvented—although bonus points must be given for the miracle of transforming Al Stewart's terminally wimpy "Year of the Cat" into an ominous and atmospheric rocker—but the band somehow ignores or elides most of their limitations to create music that, if it doesn't always attain the greatness to which it aspires, nevertheless provides 45 minutes that more often than not remind this grizzled old fuck that rock is still worth listening to. A-
The review from the negative alternate universe:
The Long Afternoon, Regression [Problematic Audio] You can hear one of these dildos mutter a contrived "Let's knock this one out, you fuckers!" just before a shockingly stoopid, fuzzed-out guitar riff begins "Don't Tell Me You Don't Have the Time," and by the time the drums lurch in a measure later, you'll find yourself cursing whatever tin-eared record company exec greenlit this obtuse indie outfit's utterly utilitarian toonage. Not only do they reinvent no wheels, these sad sacks can't even muster the gumption to inflate the tires. Although bonus points must be given for the I-wouldn't-believe-it-if-I-didn't-hear-it-myself transformation of Al Stewart's nearly unsinkable "Year of the Cat" into a slo-mo shipwreck. It would be easier to take if these guys evinced any self-awareness of their limitations, but they don't. Instead, they don't merely fail to attain the greatness they plainly aspire to—they also make this grizzled old fuck question whether any rock "music" was ever worth hearing. Maybe I've thrown away my life. F+
In this universe, Robert Christgau is the "dean of American rock critics," and has never written anything about the long afternoon or their mission.
"Don't Tell Me You Don't Have the Time"