Q

I was thumbing through the december issue of Q magazine, and all was well. All was well, that is, until I came across a review of Biffy Clyro's Only Revolutions. Or more specifically, the opening paragraph. I'll type it up quick like for your viewing (dis)pleasure:

"It's tough being a young British band, specifically one on the heavier end of the musical spectrum. In rock, as in glabal politics, America dictates the agenda: musicians from that side of the pond are more confident, more image-savvy, more glamorous and just generally better, with embarrasingly few exceptions. Legions of jowly, guitar-toting Gordon Browns have stumbled their way onto the world stage, only to find themselves shoved to the sidelines as their polished counterparts recieved the full glare of the publics adoration."

I was stunned. Taken-aback. Flabergasted. I foamed at the mouth. I wrote a letter. I pity the poor Q email-lackey who bore the brunt of such a verbal firestorm. No doubt much quailing was done. Dave Everly, the pitiful hack who wrote that abomination, will meet with many puzzled stares as he fearfully stops, turns, and shuffles of warily, the uncomfortable impression that someone, somewhere, is watching his every move, waiting.

Q, your reputation has been sullied.