For comparison, the United States' gross domestic product is just over $8 trillion, and the world GDP is about four times that.

Via e-mail

Kicking the critics
Having recently discovered the wonder of the Observer online, I was previously unaware of the level of hatred being hurled toward poor Robert [Wilonsky]. Before entering into the cyber archives, my only form of criticism on Robert's work was available above the urinals of various Deep Ellum night spots. I have tried to offer my opinions via that medium, but this e-mail seems to be much more sanitary.

As a critic, a certain amount of negativity from the readership should be expected, but this situation is escalating to a dangerous level and becoming increasingly vicious. Is it that these readers do not understand what a critic does? (They criticize.) Or are these the same peaheads who get upset when the media says bad things about their football team?

Whatever the case, in their rage they are missing the point and missing some of the best music journalism to come out of this city in a long time. Robert's pieces are always well researched, his access to the artists is unmatched in this market, and his writing is actually pretty concise, which I thought was a fireable offense at the Dallas Observer. My suggestion to those who feel the need to respond to every piece written by Robert is to invest in the fan clubs of your favorite artists.

Usually membership includes a fan-zine with articles galore proclaiming the greatness of Pearl Jam, etc. Or stick to the toilet walls at Dada. I hear there's a fresh coat of paint on them.

Via e-mail

I am sick and tired of reading Mark Stuertz's reviews of bad restaurants. Can't he please report on one good one and one bad one per issue? I was so glad to be rid of Mary Brown Malouf--she went on and on, spending half the text of the article on her family history, but you seem to have replaced her with someone even worse. Can't you find a food reviewer who loves restaurants and good eating? He seems to hate everyone, but most of all chefs.

Jaimie McNeice
Via e-mail

What an idiotic review by Zac Crain. The Dave Matthews Band [Music listings, August 13] is the most refreshing new wave of music to hit the airwaves in 30 years. The band is a study in how to develop a loyal fan following. They will continue to grow in spite of your idiot reviewer--no doubt!

Denny Thompson
Via e-mail

Art for the masses
Give me a break, please. I can't decide what's more pathetic--[Christina Rees'] confused sarcasm, Alexandra's predicament ["Kid cubist," June 4], or the sound of Dallas clicking its heels three more times in a vain effort to return to the days when we knew the difference between art and money. This reeks of another waste of time in a city where the art community is more impressed with the buyer and how much they paid for the work than the art or the artist who made it.

Did anyone but me read Alexandra's quotes? For God's sake! I admit, I'm probably not important, ahem, rich, cough--excuse me--I mean smart enough to really understand these things (you'd really want to ask someone who knows, like an investment banker or a gallery curator or an oil company CEO), but am I the only person who thinks that she's just reading from a script? Can you say prompting? In my experience, 12-year-olds generally don't understand the breadth of a concept like "a symphony of warmth and affection."

In fact, the only quote that sounds like a 12-year-old artist is the one in which Alexandra dedicates her piece "Artist's Universe" to what she describes as the perfect state of being an artist: "The artist is in her own world; nobody's telling her how to feel, nobody's forcing her to do anything she doesn't want to do." Gee, I wonder what kind of pressure her parents put on her?

Don't get me wrong, I know that life as a working artist is hard. But I guess a lifetime in Dallas has taught me that the locals are probably more interested in a new gimmick to sell paintings than nurturing an aspiring artist.

Eli Juicy Jones

« Previous Page
My Voice Nation Help