Xgau Sez: June, 2026

Dream concerts, the Smiths not reevaluated, 'Last Critic' still on the festival circuit, Shakira's hips still not lying, once more to Monterey, whither the vinyl, and the sameyest great artist ever.

This has been going around on Bluesky and I figured you’d have interesting answers: Ten musicians you wish you’d gotten to see but didn’t, the more top of head the better. — Michaelangerlo Matos, St. Paul.

Top of head, fine, but why stop at ten? Charlie Parker, Robert Johnson, Gilberto Gil, Hank Williams, Billie Holiday, Marvelettes, Platters, Mungo Jerry, Ritchie Valens, Nat King Cole, Michael Jackson, Frank Sinatra.

Has your opinion of The Smiths changed after all these years? Looking back, wouldn’t you agree they were an ace pop band? Admittedly, more of a singles band than an album band, but still . . . I mean, only B+ for Louder Than Bombs? And their 1995 comp called Singles has to be an A, no? — Ray Tavares, Brooklyn

The Smiths never did much for me, and I gave them their chance more than once—very much a UK band I always thought. This bit from my Louder than Bombs review still seems fair at a distance: “Morrissey’s nattering volubility can get annoying, but the cadence itself always has its charms, and just when you think you’ve had it he gets off a good line.” But since albums are my professional specialty, never felt obliged to put in big time on their “hits.” Could have been wrong, which doesn’t mean I feel compelled to check back. You have every right to your own call, on this as on anything else. I’ve made my living and my rep trusting my own.

Will The Last Critic be streaming anywhere? — Hal, Florida

That’s the expectation, but no details yet. For now, check here for updates on future festival screenings—I hear tell it’ll be part of a Manhattan-based festival come fall.

Why can Shakira impress you but Rosalía can’t? — Luciano Rasenberg, Buenos Aires.

She has a more fetching sense of rhythm. Also less attached to the European classical tradition. Which in some ways is the same thing.

Re Xgau Sez May 2026: So you salvaged a piece of Jimi Hendrix’s guitar at Monterey and then went on to completely excoriate his performance in your Esquire article? (“He was terrible . . . a psychedelic Uncle Tom . . . vulgar parody of rock theatrics . . . he can’t sing”). Along with a pretty snooty mention of audience members scrambling for chunks of Jimi’s guitar that left out the fact you were in that scrum, wrenching scraps of fretboard from the hands of crying hippie girls (at least that’s how I imagine it). Wouldn’t it have been kinder to leave the remnants for the people who actually enjoyed the show? Maybe the subletter tossing it out was karmic justice. — Steve O’Neill, South Korea.

You imagine it inaccurately; the chunk I grabbed landed pretty much at my feet. Given my arguably misguided misgivings about the brouhaha Hendrix was obviously aiming for, I just couldn’t resist grabbing a piece.

What will become of your record collection upon your death? Any chance it will go to a university or museum for public viewing? Or perhaps someone could start “Christgau’s Record Bar,” one of those trendy Japanese-style listening bars? — Keith Shelton, San Diego.

Answering that thorny question, which has been on my mind for years as how could it not be, makes me wish I was younger than 84, but I’m not. Just have to see what happens when. I may have the chance to finalize some rapprochement and I may not. But I do have a long relationship with as well as geographical proximity to NYU, where I taught for a fairly long spell. Note, however, that what the hell a “Japanese-style listening bar” might be I have no idea, although I’m assured it’s more or less what you’d think.

Gregory Isaacs. Just as George Jones possessed the “greatest” voice in country music, to my ears Isaacs is the most exquisite vocalist to ever sing Jamaican music, but both are unknown beyond fans of the genre. It’s unfortunate—listening to Isaacs from ‘73-‘82 is to hear him evolve from rocksteady crooner into a complex tension of rastafarian determination, rural suffering, and black eroticism. And he did this while being a premiere hitmaker in Jamaica for the better part of two decades. Eat your heart out, Marley. In the early ‘90s you reviewed his ‘77-‘78 material, calling him “a master” and “the sameyest great artist in pop history”—which still contains the phrase “great artist,” so I’ll take it. But after that he never resurfaced for you. Probably because like Jones, he suffers from being over-recorded, re-recorded, and endlessly compiled (plus, drugs). Do you think he’s due a critical and commercial re-evaluation like his great white country counterpart received so long ago? — Nick, Milwaukee

You have every right to prefer something else, but not the authority or detail to make me fear I’ve missed something major. I mean, historically and aesthetically, Marley is one of a kind. “The aural image of an unconquerable, ganja-guzzling serenity,” is another nugget from the review you cite (an A-). That serenity may be why I barely remember Isaacs anymore, but whatever congruences of recording history or substance consumption there may be I see no reason to equate him with George Jones, a vocally blessed genius I never forget. This note may well noodge me into playing Isaacs a little. But I would not so humbly suggest you spend more time with Jones and also that you give a look at the obit I wrote about him.