DIAGNOSIS: You have a Chan Marshall (of Cat Power), Neko Case (New Pornographers), or Conor Oberst (Bright Eyes) bedtime doll.
ILLNESS: The Lead Singer-Emo Complex leads the average fan-girl or -boy to the misbegotten conclusion that they are the man in the white shirt stopping the figurative tank that is Beyonce/J-Lo.
SYMPTOMS: Wrongly assuming that songwriter duties elevate a hash-brained verbal diarrheic such as Oberst to demigod status, many Emo-lites claim emotional connection to their listening material, yet haven’t the foggiest notion of how derivative their hackneyed lifestyle really is. Considered tersely and with incision, at worst an emo constituent is a cleaned-up hippie with a trust fund and a Prozac bottle.
PRESCRIPTION: With the months remaining on his fame lease, dear Conor may try to sway his devotees away from an open-minded perusal of the musical landscape. All of you under his spell, wrest yourselves free! Josh Homme (Queens of the Stone Age), Hope Sandoval (Mazzy Star), Tim Gane (Stereolab), Ben Watt (Everything but the Girl), and PJ Harvey are all recommended replacements.
PROGNOSIS: If the Elvis Costello glasses and Hamtaro lunchbox have not left your possession within six days of So Tonight That I Might See ingestion, meditate upon the truth of Glassjaw, Jawbreaker, Piebald and the like comprising a ramshackle fraternity of whiners.