BY BARBARA MITCHELL

Dear Ryan Adams -

Fucking get it over and retire.  Go fill your time writing books or bad poetry or nonsensical blog entries and spare us all.

Yeah, I know - you're an easy target and you and your fans expect critics to crucify you.  But here's the deal - in the height of the Ryan/Bryan Adams debacle a few years back, I actually defended you in one of America's snarkiest alt-weeklies.  It was the only time a preview has elicited a rebuttal in said publication and I took a lot of heat for saying you were capable of being a genius.  I stand by that proclamation.  And I call for your retirement effective immediately.

In some ways, you're the Seattle Seahawks of alt-country - so much potential, but always dropping the proverbial ball (or worse - losing the goddamned plot) and breaking the hearts of your biggest supporters.

At times, you've looked Super Bowl-worthy. I've seen you do shows that were jaw-droppingly awesome:  the kind of performance that most artists would sacrifice small children to create. You were soulful and self-deprecating and funny and singular. Apparently, your Melbourne show - Saturday, January 31 - this weekend fell into that category.

So about last night...

I walked out on you about 45 minutes into your dimly lit set. I've worked in the music biz for two decades now and if I had actually paid to see you play - well, let's just say that no one was actually seeing you play. The sound was pristine, the band sounded awesome and since I don't like playing games (particularly not "spot the lead singer" or "bobbing for sightlines"), wondering when a brilliant performer was going to do something more than karaoke, paying for overpriced drinks and wondering if public transport is going to be operating when the "show" is over (and I'm sure most attendees will agree that this was more of a "no show" than a "show"), I made the unprecedented move of going for late-night vegan snacks (which will shock anyone who familiar with my love of bacon and/or cheese and particularly music) and I left.

If I had stayed, you see, someone was going to mistake my catatonic state for drunkenness or death and I would have been hauled off anyway.  Three-quarters of an hour into your set and you didn't even address the audience?  Those are the folks who make it possible for you to avoid working a minimum-wage job and date actresses. The people who root for you when evil critics like my editor at the Stranger take pot-shots at you.

I feel betrayed.  I trusted you - or at least your talent.  I was excited to see you play, having been regaled with tales about the first night's awesome set and riding high on previous shows I've seen you play. I guess I've just been lucky up to now. Like rooting for the Seahawks, I managed to miss most of the missteps and was blindly expecting the greatness I know you're capable of without realizing how much you're truly addicted to self-sabotage.

I could've stayed and reviewed your show, but why?  If you didn't bother showing up for it, why should I have stayed and been pummeled into a death-like state of boredom?  I'll let the bloggers (who walked away with the same frustration I did) have their say.

Are you done yet?  And if you're going to go out like this, will anyone care?

[Photo Credit: Mark Abrahams]