Billy Joel is one of the most successful and accomplished songwriters of all time. He’s also unanimously loathed by pop critics (with the exception of Chuck Klosterman). Few musicians represent the disparity between popular and critical consensus better than Billy Joel.
Barring his underwhelming classical experiment from 2001, Fantasies and Delusions, Joel hasn’t released a proper album of original material since 1992’s River of Dreams (which is actually much more listenable than its awful cover art suggests). For music journalists looking to brandish their snark, Joel is the perennial low-hanging fruit, though there aren’t any new reasons to make fun of him.
Many criticisms of Billy Joel are valid, as are criticisms of virtually any artist. He has written some horrible songs, and some of those songs are his biggest hits. His attempts at portraiture are laughable (“Piano Man”; “Goodnight Saigon”), and when he plays the role of pugnacious cultural critic (“It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me”), he just seems like a paranoid one-upman hell-bent on besting his imagined nemeses.