An otherwise entertaining article on queer identity and Grace Jones spoiled by the interjections of various brats at the bottom. In particular, the string of empty signifiers that make up Eric Shorey’s take on Jones’s version of Warm Leatherette is typical of the sort of empty, self-entitled, faux-intellectualism that Pitchfork loves to indulge in:
“In Jones’ hands, the song becomes a sassy tribute to the pleasures of ultraviolence, queering the original text from a self-serious and mega-ironic love poem into a campy exploration of black female sexual identity. By subverting the tropes of white, male, anglo sci-fi, Jones turned the Ballardian porno-nightmare into a celebration of perversion via the intersection of technology and sexuality”
How? Why? the reader is left asking. Oh, I see, because you say so…
Indeed, more than anything, the reader comes away with the impression that the writer seems not to have read, or has failed to understand, Ballard’s source novel.