It might sound incredibly lame and pathetic, but it’s no exaggeration to say that Pitchfork has been as big a part of my adult life as anything besides my wife and two kids. I started reading it as a journalism major at Northwestern University in the early 2000s, tantalizingly close to the site’s old Chicago headquarters, not that I remember knowing it at the time. A review of indie-rock heroes Dismemberment Plan let me know I should be bummed their planned set on campus was rained out, a feature on the
50 worst guitar solos ever rewired my brain into the notion that Pink Floyd might suck, actually, and scathing reviews of the then-upstart emo band Jimmy Eat World called into question all the enjoyment I’d felt seeing them live at a tiny venue and memorizing every nuance of their CDs as a teenager in Arizona.