If I were a music critic, I would have some standards.

Writing quality would be important. I wouldn�t falsely call myself a copyeditor, if I didn�t have the skills.

I would do more than compare most disks to Uncle Tupelo, Steve Earle and Emmylou Harris, because I know such comparisons are trite, unhelpful, and generally just stupid.

I would never take getting into shows for free for granted. In fact, if I were at a show and noticed I was one of about 10 people in the bar and that there were 6 fellas in the band, I would fork over some cash for the band. Or I would buy them drinks, give them gas money, or buy some albums.

I would not demand free merch, simply for having written a review in a local alt weekly. In fact, if I�d written an article about the band in the local alt weekly and only 6 paying customers showed up, I would take is as a personal insult. I would infer that I�m so wretched and offensive and such a poor writer that the entire city gave no credence to my opinions.

I would not loudly claim I�m too busy to e-mail the band with contact information for a local radio station who�d play their stuff, simply so I could have the band send the free stuff to me to pick through before I passed it on.

The biggest point�I would be quiet and attentive while the band is playing.

I am angry.

Once the tornado warnings (and Dawson�s Creek, which was ridiculously offensive and dreadful) were over, Reb and I braved the unsettled atmosphere and headed out to our least favorite bar in the county to hear the Drunk Stuntmen, who seemed more than a bit disturbed at having driven in during the tornado warnings. I guess Northampton doesn�t get many tornados. Bill W.?

It was a great show, in spite of it all, but I�m rocketing angry e-mails hither and yon. Somebody give me a good nom de plume. A nom de guerre, if you will.