Martin Bernheimer, in his review of Philip Glass' new "1000 Airplanes on the Roof," gives us a shining example of the absolutely lowest form of criticism: the reviewer who writes only about himself while showing complete oblivion of the performance attended.
Bernheimer (who seems to be living in a Glass house himself) made it clear that he had absolutely no intention of liking the work well in advance of the first note.
He continued for all too many column inches to tell us about his ability to tell time and how he knew he wasn't going to like it, and by golly Glass and his collaborators did not let him down. This was a mockery of arts journalism.
Your jaded scribe summed things up well at the end of his quasi-review as he confessed that he was perhaps a bit old for this sort of thing. If you need to ask, you are.
But Bernheimer can take heart though. "Nutcracker" season is just around the corner.