Artist: Easton Corbin

Album: Easton Corbin

Reviewer: Jonathan Keefe

Slant, 2010

Writing Disorders: Infectious Punctuation, Detachment Syndrome, Jargon Palsy








Most Emo Phrase: “those nicer moments are still too isolated to make for a satisfying debut”

Cleft rectum: “stale ’80s arena rock and early-’90s contemporary drivel”




Jonathan, I’m going to call you John. If it’s Jon, my apologies, but I feel weird addressing you as Jonathan repeatedly. I tried, but kept thinking we were locked in loving embrace on a spring morn before the Crimean. Don’t worry…I’ll still wait for you in Devonshire, Jonathan.

This is your first time in the chair, John, so I’ll walk you through my motions. First I’m going to show you a bloated sentence here on the monitor and highlight what I think is wrong with it. Feel free to guess at any time:

“Corbin sings well enough (though, again, in drawing such uncanny parallels to another, infinitely more famous vocalist, he doesn’t do himself any favors or announce the arrival of a distinctive new voice), but lacks the maturity and depth of experience to elevate some of the record’s middling material.”

John, why? Why the bulgy parenthetical thorax? It’s not like you had no choice but to cram a huge explanation in the midsection of your sentence. You could have just as easily dropped the word “though” and stuck the whole choad right after the period without the smile lines. It’s clear you didn’t have readability at the fore of your mind, so something else must be afoot. You know what I think happened here? I think you were so uncomfortable writing straightforward praise that you needed an immediate way of speaking to the contrary. Well, thanks for the intermission between “enough” and “but.” I pinched a nice deuce.

I like wearing the shoes, but I’m not just a formatting nanny, John. I’d have beef with your claims even if they were clear.  Let’s move to that bit about Corbin not doing himself ANY favors drawing parallels to George Strait:

“in drawing such uncanny parallels to another, infinitely more famous vocalist, he doesn’t do himself any favors”

Somehow I don’t envision most country music fans being as nitpicky about a dude singing country in a country tenor. Sure, there may be some who’d stick up a Strawberries just to burn Corbin’s albums in an oil drum. But it seems far more likely that folks who like George Strait might be like, “hm, this guy sounds like George Strait. That’s something I would listen to.” Let’s just throw an “m” on your “any favors” and we’ll be straight, capisce?

Well, we know that you have a passion for hyperbole, John. Let’s check to see if there’s any unintended irony scattered about the place:

“a slightly more purposeful variation on an interminable series of rote lists of rural-ish points of reference that Nashville’s unambitious go-to songwriters have been attempting to pass off as songs for the past few years”

John, I’m going to suppress my laughter after reading that mess and try to focus on one point here. Travel back to self-awareness 101 for a minute. Am I dreaming or did you actually write the phrase “interminable series” and follow it with a Dennis Miller rant about “rural-ish points of reference?” Maybe the geniuses behind bit.ly will eventually write some code that condenses obese prose, but until then you might consider keeping it on manual control for a while.*

I’m thankful the Slant editors aren’t as free-love about word count as some zines, but you still managed to pack those 400 words to the brim with anaerobic stink:

“it’s only the four tracks on which Corbin shares a co-writing credit that show any real personality or point of view, with “That’ll Make You Wanna Drink” and “Leavin’ a Lonely Town” demonstrating a promising awareness of genre conventions and a real sense of wit.”

John, I’m always amused when music critics bookend vernacular song titles with stuff that could sterilize a toilet bowl. You know, like:

“Pistash-Yo’s new single “Thumb my Bitch’s Booty” demonstrates a promising awareness of genre conventions and a real sense of wit.”

Priceless, dude. Do you actually listen to music or do you just use it as your brain’s ashtray? Read some of this butt pucker you rattled off:

“there’s precious little here of interest”

“too isolated to make for a satisfying debut”

“stale tropical island shtick”

Speaking of stale, John, you’re reviewing an album featuring a guy kicked back on the porch with a guitar and a cute dog on the cover. Even if you couldn’t bring yourself to relax and enjoy it without , you might have considered speaking the guy’s language to snip his sack. All right, visit’s over. Here’s your floss.

*For those of you who thought of the trip to Degobah, cheers