Anachronistic Crit-Disses

His performance has to be seen and heard to be depreciated.

He comes from a family with a turn for music—they were organ-grinders.

He should be given mustard gas—it goes good with ham.

He’s such a ham, no wonder he’s critic’s meat.

He’s living from ham to mouth.

The entire audience was hissing him, except one man. He was applauding the hissing.

She’s a promising singer—she should promise to stop singing.

She has a nice voice. In time, it may reach her throat.

Her voice is like a drowned seaman—it dies at C.

Her rendition was a howling success.

Instead of singing “The Road to Mandalay,” he should have taken it.

He gave a very moving performance—everyone moved to the exit.

Her singing was mutiny on the high C’s.

She claims she insured her voice for $100,000. It would be interesting to know what she did with the money.

The audience called for him after his performance; and if it hadn’t been for the riot squad they would have gotten him.

He gave the same performance five nights running—he wouldn’t dare give it standing still.

His audience was with him all the way—no matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t shake them.

His audience was real polite—they covered their mouths when they yawned.

He was a pioneer on radio. He was the first to be turned off.

He’s an M.C. all right—a Mental Case.

She has a singular voice. Good thing it isn’t plural.

The way she hits a high C, it sounds as though the high C hits back.

With a voice like hers, if she sang in a cage full of lions, the ASPCA would get after her.

He put his heart and soul into the rendition. Too bad he couldn’t put a little music into it too.

She has a nice voice. She ought to cultivate it—and then plant potatoes in it.

The only reason he wasn’t hissed is that the audience couldn’t yawn and hiss at the same time.

She claims singing warms the blood. Hers makes ours boil.

There’s only one explanation for that voice—he gargles with ground glass.

In his last appearance he drew a line three blocks long, but then they took his chalk away.

He developed his singing in the bathtub. Maybe he should take more baths.

You don’t dare call for an encore—he may call your bluff.

After his performance, the audience yelled “Fine! Fine”—and darned if he didn’t have to pay it.

He has discontinued singing on account of his throat. His audiences have threatened to cut it.

As an orchestra conductor, he doesn’t know his brass from his oboe.

His audiences are glued to their seats. One of these days he’ll run out of mucilage.

She insists she’s an artist. Her considerate friends are keeping her secret.

As a nightclub singer, she’s worth watching. Too bad she’s not worth listening to.

He belongs to a five-piece band—they only know five pieces.

He gives the type of performance that gives failure a bad name.

His repertoire needs scissors and taste.

Her performance had a happy ending—the curtain finally rang down.

His act starts at 11:30 sharp and ends at 12:30 dull.

He says he dreams his material—how he must dread going to bed.