THEY SAY it takes a real man to admit when he's wrong.

Months ago, I wrote a review of the latest Flaming Lips record, The Soft Bulletin, where I called it a brilliant train wreck of ideas -- the first easy-listening indie rock record (Error #1: That would be Mercury Rev's Deserter Songs). I said it was the best Flaming Lips record to date, even better than Transmissions From the Satellite Heart (up until then my favorite), and Clouds Taste Metallic.

This I still stand by. The Soft Bulletin was my favorite record of last year, a CD I still listen to nearly every day. Every song, from 1-14, affects me in a different way. It has become the soundtrack to the movies in my head, able to change my mood from sad to happy, and vice versa, at its own whim. The Soft Bulletin makes me extremely territorial. I want to be the only person who has ever heard it. I want it to be special to me -- mine alone. And, perhaps more importantly, I want to be the one who made it, to be the one who is that talented (which I will never be).

Now for the major fuck-up (Error #2).

A month or so after The Soft Bulletin was released, the Lips played two shows at the Showbox. They called the evenings "The Music Against Brain Degeneration Revue," and stacked the deck with four opening bands (including Sebadoh and Robyn Hitchcock). I went with some friends and waited breathlessly through nearly five hours of hoopla until, after midnight, the Lips finally took the stage. Too much fucking around, not to mention the glut of opening bands, had cut their playing time short, and by the time they actually began to play, I was so annoyed, I no longer cared how well they played, or even if they played at all.

The following week my review came out. In it, I called the Lips the "indie Styx," and labeled singer Wayne Coyne the new Michael Stipe -- whiny, pretentious, self-important. I completely trashed the show, in what I now look back on as ridiculous yellow "journalism." But at the time, I felt let-down, wounded. I was ready to write off the Lips entirely, and made a silent vow not to listen to their records anymore. It wasn't until later that I realized this feeling was exactly why I had been wrong in my review.

After my review came out, people started yelling. A friend cornered me at the Crocodile and called me stupid and petty. Letters came in saying the same thing, but for every accusation, I had a perfectly sound defense: The Lips had played a shitty show. They had let their insipid pageantry get in the way of actually performing. They were pretentious fops! But even as I defended myself, I could feel I was wrong.

If the best records become personal to their listeners, the best reviews are the complete opposite -- cold, analytical, concerned mostly with the performance itself. People who love a record will most certainly go to see that record performed live, and even if that performance sucks (up until recently I had never seen a good performance by Modest Mouse, for example), they won't just write off a band and move on. Reviews are intended to inform people who missed the show what to look out for when that band plays again. In my review, I had let my personal feelings overtake a review of the performance itself. I had been so excited about the show -- then so disappointed -- that it blinded me. Instead of merely saying that the Lips had played a bad show, I had turned on the band, on a personal level, and aired my feelings in print.

On March 24, the Flaming Lips return to the Showbox for an all-ages show. This time they have just one band, Looper, in tow. I'll be there, just as excited as before. Only this time, I won't be there to review, but to enjoy the show on a completely personal level. If the Lips put on another bad performance, so be it. I know I'm not going anywhere.

In the end, I may not be able to call myself a great music journalist, but I can call myself a true Flaming Lips fan, which is what it's all about, really.