Pitchfork reviews music the same way narcissistic parents name their kids: with zero soul and way too much performance. These dimwits don’t review music. They chase moments. They are like a thirst-trapping influencer refreshing her notifications. They’re the escorts of music criticism: pay them enough, and suddenly your project is “important,” “genre-pushing,” and “redefining the conversation.”

It’s almost 2026, a whole decade later, and somehow, people are still  talking about 2016 like it was the second coming of Christ. What happened that year? Did humanity ascend? Did the school system finally make sense? Nah. None of that. Just a bunch of young internet dickheads acting like boomers, crying about how “ great things used to be back in those days .” Harambe. The Soundcloud Era, Pokémon GO. Damn Daniel. That horrible 2016 XXL Freshman Class freestyle. Vine. Suicid