I've reviewed more than 7,000 albums (and EPs and singles and…) during the last 20 years. By and large, these are short (4 or 5-paragraph) reviews, but reviews they are, nonetheless. People keep sending me music because they seem to think that I'm doing the job reasonably well.

I am not a famous music reviewer. Almost no one has heard of me. That's cool. I didn't get into reviewing in order to get famous or rich or anything. I just like music, and I like to think that I know enough about music to help out the occasional musician.

Recently, I've read reviews by people who don't seem to understand the point of reviewing artistic endeavors. They seem to think that, somehow, the review is about themselves and not the art (however crassly commercial it might be). These people are wrong.

The Spiderman musical finally had its opening night. After only three thousand previews (this number is an estimate and probably a slight exaggeration), the famously-retooled musical opened to a critical thud. As it should have. I haven't seen the production, but as a fan of Broadway musicals, I could have told anyone that it was doomed from the start. The key to a successful Broadway musical is good songs. And the songs for the Spiderman musical were written by U2's Bono and the Edge.

U2 is known for many things, but songcraft is not one of them. To be completely fair, writing well-crafted songs has nothing to do with being a rock star or even putting together good albums. Led Zeppelin's "The Crunge" is an excellent ode to the art of unfinished songs ("Has anyone seen that confounded bridge?"). Matthew Sweet, who has written some of the great pop songs of the last two decades, is also notorious for not finishing his work. His stuff can be wonderful, but he's very hit-or-miss.

Broadway demands good, tightly-crafted songs. Which is why no one should have been surprised that the U2 boys delivered what they always deliver: unfinished songs that don't really go anywhere. Most U2 songs fade in and fade out as if they were part of some steady-state universe. Most of the band's songs have no lyrical or musical arc. They simply are, and when the riffage is working, the songs sound cool.

In any case, the beginning and end of the failure of Spiderman rests with whoever hired the U2 boys. They're fine rock musicians, but their talents in no way translate to Broadway--which just about anyone who isn't starstruck has known since forever. But while some of the critics mentioned the blah songs and score for the musical, no one said the obvious: That the musical reins of a $65 million (or $75 million) show should never have been given to songwriters who tend to skimp on craft. Bono and the Edge did nothing wrong, but their talents are astoundingly unsuited to the Broadway stage.

Yeah, well, Broadway critics are insular beasts reporting on a very small world. Movie critics write (and blather) about things just about all of us can see. I first saw bus ads for Mr. Popper's Penguins about a month ago, and I knew then that I'd be spending a fair chunk of my hard-earned cash on a trip to the theater this past weekend. My youngest loves penguins, and both of my boys have read the Newberry-winning book that inspired the movie (though the only apparent connection between the two is the city of New York, a man named Popper and the fact that he accidentally comes into some penguins). Choice was not an option.

Sitting in the theater waiting for the film to start, my wife cranked up her phone and found a review on Hollywood.com. From start to finish, this scathing review screamed "Look at me! I swear I'm a brilliant writer! See how cleverly I can put down this piece of supposed enetertainment?" The review dismantled the movie in a semi-coherent way. My wife looked at me with some alarm, but as we had already plunked down $37, we decided to stick it out.

Mr. Popper's Penguins is a perfectly fine movie. It is formulaic to the extreme, and there are a few too many penguin poop jokes for my taste, but overall, there's nothing really terrible about the flick. In fact, there is one understated set piece involving pouring champagne into an ear that is positively delightful. Give it two stars, for sure, but the movie is hardly the reprehensible pile of dung suggested by the Hollywood.com review.

The opinion of a reviewer is useless unless that reviewer can set up a rapport with the audience and explain the whys and wherefores of the opinion. Also, a reviewer must be unafraid to piss off the powers that be and be willing to tell uncomfortable truths. All of this while writing a piece that makes sense even if the reader has no intention of ever experiencing the art described in the review.

In short, reviewing is a pain in the ass. And even well-meaning, experienced critics often fuck up. I've made more mistakes than I care to remember. But those of us who wield the poison pens need to remember to take our responsibilities seriously. After all, if we do our jobs well, we are able to help artists make even better art. Which is the point of the whole exercise.

I think.

Jon Worley has been critiqued plenty of times, and he doesn't like it, either.