What do you call it if someone commits a crime in an attempt to prove they were right that the crime rate is increasing? Last year, Martin Bernheimer wrote about the sorry state of arts criticism in the country:

Many US papers have abandoned thoughtful, detailed reviews altogether. Publishers, editors and, presumably, readers want instant evaluations and newsbites, preferably with flashy pictures. It is Zagat-think, simplicity for the simple-minded.

Today, Martin Bernheimer reviewed the New York Philharmonic’s performance of Mahler’s Eighth Symphony. You can guess where I’m going with this. (Disclosure: I sang in the chorus.) The Financial Times as an organization may or may not have abandoned thoughtful, detailed reviews, but Bernheimer nonetheless gave them the kind of review he said many US papers want. Nope, I won’t be filing his review under “thoughtful and detailed.” The date of the concert, the names of the soloists, and the row in which Bernheimer unhappily sat unfortunately don’t pass the bar for detail. And nothing in his mostly weasely review fits the thoughtful category. Not to omit detail myself, I’ll mention a couple of things Bernheimer got wrong: Joseph Flummerfelt didn’t prepare all three choirs, and Anthony Dean Griffey wasn’t motley. Admittedly, the hypothesis that Bernheimer is writing bad reviews to support his claim that there are too many bad reviews is hard to support. If that were the point, wouldn’t he write the bad reviews using a pseudonym? So here’s another hypothesis about what’s wrong with the guy. He reported today that Avery Fisher Hall

distorted the inherent complexities virtually beyond recognition. Echoes abounded, balances went awry, attacks blurred. Some voices disappeared in the muddle, others boomed as if electronically amplified. It was ugly.

I think one of the abounding echoes was that of his own voice in his own head, because last month, he had this to say about Boulez’s performance of Mahler’s Eighth in Carnegie:

Balances went askew. Melodic details got buried in textural muddles.

Next time someone pays for Bernheimer to sit in a chair, an audiologist’s office might be the right venue. Welcome to my new sarcastic and bitter category. My excuse for being sarcastic and bitter? None, but I’ll point out that I’m not claiming to be a real critic, nor am I getting paid to write this. I promise to post something warm and fuzzy soon. Related reading: Shut up, Martin Bernheimer (Einstein on the A Train, April 23, 2008) Related hearing (only through July 10, 2009): tonight’s performance of the concert, which was broadcast live. I think you’ll love it.