There is often an assumption that to become a music journalist, you must first become a failed musician. When you are a music journo, there can be times when active musicians see your opinion as irrelevant and riddled with resentment. It’s a fair cop – after all, most writers would rather be spending their Friday night snorting cocaine off of a groupie’s gumdrops than scribbling down setlists. And, lest we forget, journalists cannot resist the occasional slice of sensationalism.

That notwithstanding, the musician-journalist relationship can become particularly tempestuous if the artist is issued with a bad review. Lana Del Rey, the sullen chanteuse whose post-birth wail must have been drenched in reverb, is the most recent example. Her new record Norman Fucking Rockwell! is replete with her usual atmospheric, stormy sentiments. Journalist Ann Powers, however, was unmoved, criticising the record for being “undercooked” and “derivative”.

Such scathing slights did not go unnoticed, and Del Rey took to Twitter to issue lengthy ripostes and epithets. While I sympathise with Del Rey – and I’m sure hearing that will be of great comfort to her – I feel that such salacious comebacks could be avoided. Whether you’re a professional footballer, musician or politician, taking flak comes with the territory and the most dignified way to respond is with stoic silence. Not everyone is going to like what you do, and in my case as a musician not anyone liked it, but taking to Twitter to vent feels like the petty kvetching of a 14-year-old whose YouTube makeup tutorial got a thumbs down.

I can see it from both perspectives. As a musician, if I’d have reached the dazzling heights of my own private toilet roll I might have let the reviews go unread. But as an unsigned artist, I was always curious and a good review from a good publication can garner quite a bit of traction (or, in my case, a Facebook like from your Nan). Even this summer, my Best Of album – yes, you read that right – had one review which just moaned for three paragraphs about the length. If the journalist was reviewing a product where the length was essential, such as a table or a penis, then fair enough, but could you have at least mentioned one lousy lyric?

One review labelled my first band “for those who find Travis too edgy”, another branded us a “poor man’s Busted” and my voice like “a trapped Disney character”. The most egregious of all, though, occurred when I made love to a journalist the evening before a big headline gig. It was not, naturally, a testosterone-fuelled attempt at securing a solid ten-star review, but if it had have been, it would have failed spectacularly. I hoped my performance between the sheets made my performance between the strings even better for her and that I’d, at least, get a solid seven.

Instead, I opened the review to find thinly-veiled insults at my sexual prowess. It was obvious to me that the statements about my onstage performance – “short, rushed and thrashy”, “anti-climactic”, “the encore was non-existent” – were actually jabs about my bedroom antics. Suffice to say, we did not become intimate again, mainly because I was dreading what she’d say about our Destiny’s Child cover.

As a journalist, I have received it, too, from being banned from a Facebook group consisting of portly Ocean Colour Scene fans (my crime? Writing a review that was over 300 words long) to being disallowed entry to a band’s gig for fear I’d “say something I’d regret”, as if I was a drunk grandfather at a Jewish colleague’s birthday.

Bad reviews come and go, but Lana Del Rey and co need to take it on the chin. Or do what I did and stop making music and start learning to plaster.