My favorite paragraph of snarky music commentary ever…

From a 1995 New Republic diarist by Roger Rosenblatt which frequently pops into my head (and which I dredged up in Lexis):

As soon as I find out where Andrew Lloyd Webber lives I’m going to stalk him, watch his every move, get as close to him as his clothing. If he goes to a gambling casino, I will bet on his numbers. Should he visit a race track, I’ll bet my kingdom on his horse. Webber is, I have concluded, the luckiest man who ever lived–a creator of sensationally successful musical plays so sensationally bad that at the moment you think “this can’t get any worse”– referring to his music or someone else’s lyrics (it hardly matters)–it does get worse, it gets twice as bad; and then you think, “Well, the fellow has hit rock bottom this time,” and thwack–the floor drops out from under you and down you go again. Whooo!

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