Lana Del Rey and the blogosphere of exhaustion.

Lana Del Rey has yet to release an album, and she is already the “new singer music bloggers love to hate.” If you follow my link, you'll find more links, and I'll provide you with even more links, ad nauseam. I might beat the dead horse that I'm slightly frustrated and complaining about. The rehashing, reviewing, self-conscious writing I provide is a necessary evil and part of the whole point.

The source of Lana-Del-Rey-induced blog-angst is her image. Her music video for “Video Games” was the trigger, drawing a lot of wanted (or perhaps unwanted) attention. The lo-fidelity video reminded me of disconnected nostalgia: vapid celebrities, young people having way too much fun, and Lana, with collagen-filled, pouty lips and a retro coiffure. The song is deliberately paced, and the modern lyrics about video games and 21^st century disconnect contrast her “gangster Nancy Sinatra" package. The aesthetic and sound has appeal but at the same time feels calculated.

“Video Games” has given Lana Del Rey internet fame or infamy. The internet fame has generated a large amount of attention. With a little research, people learned that Lana Del Rey is the reincarnation of Lizzy Grant, a normal-looking blonde with normal lips, hair, and clothes. Lizzy Grant flopped a couple of years ago, ignored by the same medium that has carried her in the past couple of months. Is Lana Del Rey a phony, alt-poser? Is she sincere? Is she a reverent calculator? There is no doubt that Lana Del Rey is calculated. It doesn't matter who is doing the calculating. What matters (but isn't that important) is that the blogosphere has super-sized “Lana Del Rey's” image.

For better or worse, the music blogosphere has become an exhaustive, saturated form of entertainment. The content is overwhelming, too interconnected, constantly moving, creating torrents of not-that-important controversy. There is too much commentary on commentary; and then there is the commentary on the commentary about commentary; and most of the commentators take themselves very, very seriously. They want you to read their ideas, agree or disagree with them, and generate a bigger commentary with your friends. The content generators enjoy their roles as taste-makers, a sort of gate-keeper of cool. Some writers are sincere. Some are self-absorbed. And the serious ones like to think that they are upholding something bigger and meaningful.

With too many people wanting to do the same thing, writing about music has to deal with the limitations of time and space. The writers who want to be read must distinguish themselves. How to do this? Stay extremely, intensely current; create a musical stream of consciousness with a lot of noise. It turns out that everyone has the same idea. The same things are being covered over and over. In recent years, the meta-blogger has filled the space traditional bloggers left unoccupied, rising in prominence. Writing with a lot of pretense, using irony as a guard, some meta-blogger make fun of someone or some blog while trying to make some bigger, serious point. The serious point is made in between the lines of tired humor.

Lana Del Rey is central to this post because she incited the music blogosphere's symptoms: guarding, rebound tenderness, paranoia, malaise, hyper-sensitivity, etc., etc.. The sad thing, though, is that the symptoms are self-inflicted, not Lana's fault. Blog A supports Artist X. Blogger B claims that Artist X is a phony and takes a shot at Blog A. Blog A indirectly responds to Blogger B, explaining their stance re. Artist X. Blogger B makes fun of Blog A for being defensive. You get the picture. Blogs read each other; meta-bloggers read a lot of blogs and push buttons, creating an environment where everyone is pushing each others' buttons. The music blogosphere has a sizable readership that demands constant information and stimulation. With an increasing readership and self-perceived sense of importance, how will music blogs react to this demand? Will “the indie underground’s self-conscious [cause] slippage toward E!-networkreality-show fodder”? If online music writers have trouble writing about meaningful things, will "u still [bb] in2 blogs"? 

With respect to Lana Del Rey, the blogosphere has proved to be informative and exhaustive. An artist's image affects our perception of their music. Artists have consciously or unconsciously used images to enhance their agenda. As consumers of the music (especially indie music), though, we hope that the image is sincere, true to the artist. If an image is fake, it's easy to associated the work with a dirty, cheated feeling.  When I listen to Lana Del Rey's other songs, I hear something different from “Video Games.” The music is closer to Lizzy Grant's strengths, i.e. jazz-pop; it's like LDR wants to develops a persona; she wants to be an entertainer; and that is how I will evaluate her. Sure the blogs have influenced the way I hear and see her perform. I hope that I can still form opinions on my own, though.

Strange Specific Stuff Meets Sadsack Backpack Rap

I’ll admit it—I’m a nerd, and only recently have I embraced that label. I completely agree with Donald Glover’s description of the experience of being a nerd, and being black, during Steve Urkel and Carlton Banks’ heyday. He talks about how things have improved for us black nerds over the last few years since at least a couple of our current exemplars—Barack Obama and Kanye West—are considered cool, in part, because of their nerdiness. Kanye is a black nerd because he likes strange specific stuff (robots and teddy bears)—the definition of nerdiness according to Donald Glover. I like that definition. It’s all about context and expectations. If your passions and interests don’t correspond with convention, then you’re probably a nerd. When his white friends in high school expect him to know all about sneakers and rap, Glover feels stifled. He’d rather talk about The Cranberries. Similarly, I’d rather talk about The Knife and David Lynch. Strange specific stuff.

I see 808s and Heartbreak (808s) as the unfiltered manifestation of Kanye West’s inner nerd: his sort of corny, heartbroken, grieving inner nerd, and therein lies its appeal to me. One reason why 808s interests me so much is because most of the material is mined from Kanye’s tragic experiences in the world, yet it feels universal.  I can empathize with the album’s emotional undercurrent of love, loss, pride, and grief. The tracks Welcome to Heartbreak, Paranoid, Street Lights, and Coldest Winter are what make 808s especially memorable for me. Street Lights’ chorus in particular strikes me not just because of its content, but also its delivery. The catchy drum beat and backing soulful vocals both complement Kanye’s robotic tone and give the song a sense of urgency. “All the streetlights glowing/Happened to be just like moments/Passing in front of me.” 

It’s clear from his body of work that Kanye has a thing for using lights (All Of The Lights, Flashing Lights, Street Lights) to help create his lyrical imagery. At first, “Lights” brings a few images to mind: the glow of fame, hip hop ballerdom in general, and omnipresent paparazzi. However, in the case of Street Lights, I picture driving alone at night and seeing the passing glint of street lights as I speed by, perhaps not considering my surroundings in the moment, but reflecting in the aftermath and eventually regretting that I didn’t appreciate that part of my journey as it unfolded. This is the point where the album gels together for me. I don’t know what it’s like to deal with the flashing lights, but I get the down-to-earth personal pathos underlying 808s’ lyrics and feel.

The offbeat technical parts of the album (Auto-Tune, singing instead of rapping, absence of traditional hip hop sound effects, etc.), combined with Kanye’s obsession with publicly unpacking his personal baggage are strange (nerdy) given what the vast majority of his hip hop contemporaries were putting out at the time. Another highlight for me is “Coldest Winter” when Kanye samples the Tears For Fears song “Memories Fade”. The vocals on “Coldest Winter” are just as hammy and melodramatic as on “Memories Fade.” To me, Kanye seems particularly moved by Memories Fade’s chorus, “Goodbye my friend. Will I ever love again?” because he repeats the question over and over then answers it with a statement, “I won’t ever love again,” followed by a gorgeous synth hook refrain. I can almost picture Kanye humming that hook to himself while walking Charlie Brown style with his head down missing his mom and brooding over his failed relationship. Or maybe I’m just projecting…

The roller coaster on boardwalk of Kokomo.

I grew up listing to The Beach Boys on the radio, hearing fragments of their massive discography  sandwiched in between Billy Joel and Fleetwood Mac and Cat Stevens. The radio constructed a disjointed narrative that evoked snapshots of California beaches, surfing, young romance, endless summers, and cheesy soft rock. I could see the band harmonizing around a bonfire, without a worry in the world.

I'm fascinated by the stark contrast between The Beach Boys' carefree sound and their volatile history. Brian Wilson's life story is compelling enough that I'm tempted to read his autobiography. Dennis Wilson died before he could release an autobiography: in 1983 he drowned, attempting to recover the items he threw off his boat in an intoxicated fit. I had no idea growing up that Brian Wilson rarely toured with the band and that he had serious personal problems that affected his creative output. I had no idea that Dennis Wilson released a pretty awesome solo album “Pacific Ocean Blue” and that he had died when The Beach Boys revelled in commercial success with their 1988 #1 hit “Kokomo.” I wonder what Dennis would have thought about “Kokomo.” When asked about the M.I.U. Album, which seems to be the beginning of the Beach Boys' creative end, Dennis said that he didn't “believe in that album" and that it was "an embarrassment to [his] life. It should self destruct... I hope that the karma will fuck up Mike Love’s meditation forever."

A lot of critics agree that The Beach Boys' best work was created when they were not that popular. They were the band that could have been even greater. For a time in the mid-to-late 60s, I've heard that The Beach Boys were as critically and commercially popular as The Beatles. I can only imagine how ground-breaking Pet Sounds was: it was the album that paved the way for the British Invasion's psychedelia. Post-Pet Sounds, The Beach Boys could not reach the same level of commercial success, prestige, and cool as their British counterparts. Oddly enough, The Beach Boys made a comeback in the mid-70s, riding the wave of Endless Summer, a pre-Pet Sounds compilation of hits, and in 1974 they were named the Rolling Stone's “Band of the Year.” It seems like a return to 10+-year-old sounds in the post-psychedelic-rock era ignited this bizarre nostalgia for sunny songs. The Beach Boys then started pushing music that resembled bad soft rock; it made them a lot of money, though. 

It's a weird experience revisiting The Beach Boys' music and correlating it with their history. I'm not sure I would have liked growing up in the 60s listening to and loving their albums like Pet Sounds, Smiley Smile, and Wild Honey. I imagine I would have experienced some sort of profound disappointment listening to their later albums. Their bad music, though, does not create a vacuum; it fills an important musical space. All music tells a story. Some music might not tell the story I want to hear. Should I ignore the bad music, the stories I don't want to hear, like it never exist? No. I try not to dwell on them; and when I do dwell on them, I try to see how they fit into the bigger narrative. It turns out that The Beach Boys have a very compelling narrative with a lot of sad stories.

Living and learning and moving on: Joni Mitchell avoided a cliché and constructed something beautiful.

I've decided that it's okay if my feelings fall in line with a cliché; they exist for a reason, because the reality is that our humble experiences aren't that unique, which I believe is a good thing, providing a large platform for empathy.

Like a cliché, some songs lose their original meaning if listened to over and over again. It's the good songs, the artful ones, though, that retain their meaning. Yes, I experience song-burnout, but with the good songs, it's always there, when I'm ready for it again.

My favorite songs tell a story through their lyrics, vocals, and instrumentals. My favorite songs grow with me. While I'm still young, I'm reaching the age where songs begin to evolve in meaning, depending on the time and space. Take the ex who introduced you to Junior Boys and LCD Soundsystem. Take the middle school friends who convinced you to play guitar and Sublime. The songs meant wildly different things now and then, and I love them all the same, wildly.

I had a recent fling with Joni Mitchell's Blue. I had listened to Joni Mitchell before but in the peripheral sense: I had heard that song before; this song sounded familiar; etc.. Now that I'm older, with a wearing-out pair of ears, I gave Mitchell a good, thoughtful listen. I didn't think too hard, though. I listened and let her tell her story.

Blue was written after Mitchell's difficult break-up with Graham Nash, some while traveling Europe. The themes of heart break, the sadness that follows, and the road and redemption ahead are not unique. Many artists fail to compose work that covers these topics in a digestible form that won't make you vomit. But her work is so damn lyrically, vocally, and instrumentally insightful that she avoids the “bad” sentimentalism, and she transports us to her emotionally lush oracular-world.

In “A Case of You,” she masterfully depicts her infatuation, addiction to her past love.

Oh you are in my blood like holy wine/

Oh and you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet/

Oh I could drink a case of you/

I could drink a case of you darling/

And I would still be on my feet/

Oh I'd still be on my feet.

While the entire album is filled with gems, it's “California” that gets me. “California” takes us through her journey, where she runs away, literally moving on. After she's run enough, exhausting her alienation, she knows it's time to come back home, to California. The return is when she can really move on. So as she is ready to go home, she asks California to take her as she is. And this is the end of the song, the most important part of the song. We don't need to hear the resolution because we know that when you come face-to-face with your emotions, you're going somewhere; California, like Joni's feelings, like Joni's close family and friends aren't going anywhere. Thank you, Joni. I look forward to listening to this song again tomorrow, the day after, and when I'm really old. 

Sincere Old Friends, Not Just Yet

In Jonathan Franzen's “Freedom,” Walter Berglund and Richard Katz, two old friends, with a pretty fucked-up and endearing relationship, pay a visit to Conor Oberst, Bright Eyes. Katz's, the rock star's, omniscience reflects on Oberst's “tortured Soulful Artist shtick, his self-indulgence in pushing his songs past their natural limits of endurance, his artful crimes against pop convention: he was performing sincerity, and when the performance threatened to give sincerity the lie, he performed his sincere anguish over the difficulty of sincerity.”

Is one of this year's “cools” the antithesis to cool? i.e. taking the avoided path because it's okay to be sentimental when you are sincere about what you are doing and doing it artfully? Have we reached a point in music where revivalism swallowing in irony has reached a noticeable level of shallowness that artists organically react with sincerity? In the context of American literature, David Foster Wallace speaks of the hypothesized anti-rebels who “eschew self-consciousness and hip fatigue” and who are “backward, quaint, naïve, anachronistic.”

If you don't understand something is it ironic? Is it ironic in the Alanis Morrissette way? Irony has metastasized as a construct, infecting our perception of the world. It's nothing new, but it is used and misused with a frightening frequency. Justin Vernon (Bon Iver), in an interview with Pitchfork, says that “the simple answer is that irony is based on insecurity; it seems to me that when people are doing something ironically, it's because they're challenged by something or they like to hate something that's popular.” He doesn't bother defending "Beth/Rest," which is definitely anachronistic, in and out of place, and when listened to by an ironic ear comes off as insincere: “I literally just don't give a shit.” He made the song for himself. He's telling us, if you don't understand it, deal with it or don't listen to it.

When word broke that Justin Vernon and James Blake were collaborating on a project called “Fall Creek Boys Choir,” I, very plainly, got very excited. Blake, like Vernon, has pushed the “anti-rebel” agenda. In another Pitchfork interview, Blake revisits the idea of honesty: “People can smell dishonesty on you. On this album, I felt like I was being totally honest-- so I don't have anything to lose.” Blake is candid about where he draws inspiration from. A few of my favorite Blake tracks are derivatives: samples or covers. I love the use of Aaliyah's “Are You That Someone” in “CYMK.” Blake's covers are particularly interesting and bold. “Wilhelm Scream” covers the lyrics of his father's (James Litherland) yacht-rock love song “Where To Turn.” “Limit To Your Love” is an obvious Feist cover. And he pays homage to another female pop artist, Joni Mitchell, in “A Case of You.” Compared to Vernon's visceral sincerity, Blake's sincerity is conceptual and technical.

So Blake and Vernon have released “FallCreek Boys Choir (FCBC),” and we now know that “FCBC” is part of Blake's upcoming EP Enough Thunder. “A Case of You” is said to be included in Enough Thunder, and we are all left wondering what Vernon's larger role will be on the EP. When Blake was asked whether he would produce for anyone else, he said, “I'm too aware of that approach of, 'Oh, let's get that one producer to work on this.' There's a weird producer-mating-season thing going on and I'm not really a fan of that.” Which is interesting because on “FCBC” it sounds like Blake is on the production and Vernon is on the vocals. I'm going to withhold judgment, though, on “FCBC” until I hear the EP in its entirety. I'm just waiting for Vernon and Blake to cover Simon and Garfunkel's “Old Friends,” composed and recorded in Vernon's log cabin. 

In seriousness, though, how many yacht-rock covers can we listen to (See Washed Out perform “FarAway.”)? When will sincerity fail to be sincere and we get inundated by musicians who have to pull an Oberst and perform their “sincere anguish over the difficulty of sincerity”? I hope the sincere anti-rebels don't fall into the recursive loop of self-conscious art.

20-somethings, the suburbs, nostalgia, and music.

When I listen to Arcade Fire's title track “The Suburbs,” I'm hit with a feeling that I can unjustly reduce to something along the lines of nostalgia. The nostalgia is hard for me deconstruct, pinpoint where it's coming from, and I don't feel the need to do so: that's what makes the experience meaningful, artful, expansive enough that I can visit it many times over, feeling a similar but different way with each listen.

The Suburbs was inspired by Win and Will Butler's youth in a Houston suburb. In an interview they state the album's lyrics are “neither a love letter to, nor an indictment of, the suburbs – it's a letter from the suburbs. [1]” They are reflecting on times past, when they were free of adult-like responsibilities but confined by their social space. Win recollects that "a lot of [his] heroes from Bob Dylan to Joe Strummer were suburban kids who had to pretend they were train-hoppers their whole lives. Talking about an experience and not make-believe [is what we're doing on The Suburbs]. [2]"

Did I grow up in the suburbs? Yes. Did I feel restless, bored, like nothing ever happened? At times. But, surprisingly, I wasn't particularly angsty about it, and I don't look back at my adolescence wishing it was different or thinking it was wasted. So if growing up in the suburbs as a privileged youth wasn't mind-blowingly awesome but certainly wasn't awful (not even close), then why do I feel nostalgic listening to songs about kids running through their neighborhoods but not away? Why do I feel this way when Bradford Cox sings about being saved by old times? Or when I listen to M83 songs about young French love on Saturdays?

I feel elements of empathy when I listen to bands like Arcade Fire, Deerhunter, M83, etc., but I think their music evokes a broader pathos that I've resigned to calling nostalgia. Their lyrics require careful listening – the vocals and meanings are often obscured – and are emotionally rewarding in different ways. Their sounds like all sounds are derivatives of old sounds. Win made an analogy, stating that The Suburbs is like Depeche Mode meets Neil Young [3]. I've heard several people say that Saturdays = Youth was made for a John Hughes' film. While some bands purposefully reproduce sounds to evoke nostalgia, other bands create nostalgia organically with or without borrowing from the past.

I'm going to say that Arcade Fire, Deerhunter, and M83 are artful bands that create organic nostalgia. There are many other bands that I've left out, and there are many bands that evoke this sentiment in some people but not others. I'm not sure whether it's my particular taste in music, but I feel that this organic nostalgia is a key theme in contemporary indie music that hits a strong chord with this generation of music listeners. To define this generation of music listeners is a long and difficult task. I've found this article to be informative, however:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/22/magazine/22Adulthood-t.html.

[1] from Wiki via NME magazine, 31 July 2010, pg. 24
[2] http://www.nme.com/news/arcade-fire/51270

[3] http://www.spin.com/articles/new-arcade-fire-depeche-mode-meets-neil-young

“Loser wins”: What if Nick Drake had bandcamp.com?

Nick Drake had a complicated life, complicated by mental health issues and commercial failure. At the age of 26 he died after ingesting a lethal amount of amitriptyline, one of his prescribed antidepressants. Following his death Fruit Tree was released, sparking interest in his earlier work, which sold poorly and was hardly performed. Today he is lauded by musicians and critics, something he might have not liked even though he might have sought it. His death, his illness, his lived career failures, and his postmortem success have influenced the way the music world has shaped his legacy.

Second hand, I have read about Pierre Bourdieu's The Rules of Art. One of the rules is that the artistic “loser wins,” where the art universe is an “economic world reversed”:“The artist can triumph on the symbolic terrain only to the extent that he loses on the economic one, and vice versa.” According to Bourdieu's rule, Drake has won in a weird, twisted, morbid way. Drake was inaccessible, physically and perhaps sonically[1]: his records did not sell; he did not want to tour. But, I believe, he did not want to be the losing winner. He probably did not want to be the cliched tormented artistic genius that was so connected to the world that he disconnected himself from everything, everyone else.

Drake's failures were likely a function of personal problems and technological limitations that could have been overcome in today's music landscape. Pre-internet, I imagine, marketing and distribution were vital to the commercial success of a musician. Drake, the quiet, introverted, melancholic acoustic guitarist was not the ideal poster boy to sell out venues and pack record stores. Other fringe artists suffered financially, but the persistent, talented ones gathered cult-like followings, fringe-critical acclaim, and inspired burgeoning artist. Now that music has transitioned to the virtual space, could Drake's shortcomings have been overcome by the blogosphere and online record stores?

Do talented-fringe musicians exist any more? People will listen to talent. People will find ways to have other people listen to talent. These days “good” “fringe,” “experimental” groups have audiences: their music is online (willingly or unwillingly); people will access their music (legally or illegally); devoted fans will support the music with (not a lot of) money. Groups like Animal Collective, who may have floundered in a parallel, techno-deficient universe, have found reasonable financial and critical success, performing at big stages at large festivals, having a music video played on MTV U, garnering glowing reviews from well-read blogs, etc., etc. Should Animal Collective renounce Merriweather Post Pavilion and start making some noise? No. They don't have to be losers to win.

[1] A lot of the qualifiers stem from the fact that I am too young to know. I'm a relative newcomer to Drake's work.