I Like Sir Mix-A-Lot and I Cannot Lie

I’m coming towards the end of the teaching weeks of my university degree programme. Reaching this climax has made me think about the start. The term begins in October, and I try to open each academic year by looking at the main pop events of the preceding summer. In 2013 this was easy. There had been the big news stories of ‘Blurred Lines’ and ‘Wrecking Ball’. There was copyright and sexual exploitation to debate.

            The summer news of 2014 seemed more trivial. Big butts were on the agenda. Meghan Trainor was topping the charts in the US and the UK with ‘All About the Bass’, while Jennifer Lopez had released ‘Booty’ and Nicki Minaj had released ‘Anaconda’ (‘I wanna see all the big fat ass bitches in the muthafuckin’ club’). Everything about these releases seemed a bit tired, from the provocative subject matter through to the provoked response. I nevertheless found myself coming down on the side of mild liberal outrage, finding these female artists more exploited than exploiting, not least because each of the songs was primarily written by men and men were also responsible for the sexually graphic videos for the Lopez and Minaj singles.

            Looking at male composers and directors leads us directly to Sir Mix-a-Lot. Minaj’s ‘Anaconda’ samples heavily from his 1992 track ‘Baby’s Got Back’, a pioneering work in the field of big butt songs. I played the Trainor, Lopez and Minaj songs to my university students. In general, the response was negative. Most of them thought that the songs and/or videos offered negative portrayals of women. I also played the students ‘Baby’s Got Back’. Here we paused for thought. Almost all of the students loved this track. I do too. And yet its lyrics can’t be said to be any more progressive than those sung by the female artists (‘If you want to role in my Mercedes/Then turn around, stick it out’; ‘My anaconda don’t want none/Unless you’ve got buns, hon’). The song doesn’t even have the excuse of being a larger woman’s riposte to our diet-infatuated society.

            Why do we let Sir Mix-a-Lot get away with it? It’s not because we see him as some authentic pimp, providing us with a slice of ghetto life, nor is it really because he’s perpetuating the innuendo-laden tradition of black popular song. It is instead because ‘Baby’s Got Back’ is great. In contrast, the Trainor, Lopez and Minaj tracks are not. Aesthetics do matter, even when it comes to songs about backsides.

Quality doesn’t need to be maintained throughout the whole of a track either. What makes the Sir Mix-a-Lot song is its opening line. To an extent, you can forget the rest. ‘I like big butts and I cannot lie’ may not be Shakespearean, but it’s certainly arresting. More important is the way that Mix-a-Lot delivers it, pausing and rising through the first four words and skipping more frantically through the next four. Meanwhile, the bassline prowls away and the drum machine starts to clatter like crazy, cued by the crucial first mention of the word ‘butts’.  The content of this lyric is as carefully weighted as its style. ‘I like big buts’ is brazen, but ‘I cannot lie’ is confessional, leading us into one man’s story, told in the face of white society’s norms. And so, do we find ourselves liking this track against our better judgement, or is it because of it?

Yowsah, Yowsah, Yowsah?

Recently I heard a radio show about Sgt. Pepper. The weak excuse to rake over old ground about this record was that it was the 48th anniversary of the photo session for its sleeve. That said, hearing some of the hyperbole that surrounds the LP did make me wonder how much of it is true.

            First up was the tale about Sgt. Pepper’s public debut. The story goes that the Beatles took an acetate copy of the album to Mama Cass Elliot’s flat, just off the Kings Road in Chelsea. They played it at full volume at six in the morning with the windows wide open. According to the Beatles’ press agent, Derek Taylor, there wasn’t a single complaint. What happened instead was that local residents opened their windows because they wanted to listen to the music.

            Really? There is no music that appeals to everyone, particularly when it has the convulsive shock of the new. It’s less likely still that music will be welcomed at six in the morning. It’s also the case that different elements of music travel at different rates. What most of the neighbourhood would have heard was the low throb of the rhythm section. Was the whole of 1960's Chelsea into drum and bass?

            This idea that everyone liked Sgt. Pepper is perpetuated elsewhere. The radio documentary recalled Kenneth Tynan’s review of the album for The Times, in which he described its release as ‘a decisive moment in the history of Western civilisation’. It also quoted Langdon Winner, looking back on the album a year after it was issued. He believed that:

The closest Western Civilization has come to unity since the Congress of Vienna in 1815 was the week the Sgt. Pepper album was released. In every city in Europe and America the radio stations played, “What would you think if I sang out of tune . . . Woke up got out of bed . . . looked much older, and the bag across her shoulder . . . in the sky with diamonds, Lucy in the . . .” and everyone listened. At the time I happened to be driving across the country on Interstate 80. In every city where I stopped for gas or food – Laramie, Ogallala, Moline, South Bend – the melodies wafted in from some far-off transistor radio or portable hi-fi. For a brief while the irreparable fragmented consciousness of the West was unified, at least in the minds of the young.

Once again we are provided with the idea that there was unity in appreciation of this album (and once more the people caught up in its public broadcast were somehow hearing pure melodies rather than distant bass thuds).

            Maybe the truth of these statements doesn’t really matter. What’s interesting is that people were moved to say them in the first place: there must have been something about the release of this record that felt like a new community was being forged.

            Could such a thing happen today? The nearest that popular music has come to a unifying force in recent times is ‘Gangnam Style’, or maybe ‘Harlem Shake’. Nobody would write about these songs in such an overblown way.

            This is perhaps to do them a disservice. It could be said that these songs are, in fact, more global than Sgt. Pepper has ever been. They have united people of the west and east. That they’re not taken seriously is perhaps a mark of our times. One of the reasons why the Beatles elicited such highfaluting commentary was because there were divides: between the young and old, between the old and new, between the high and low arts. Cultural critics were keen to validate the Beatles and in the process could get carried away. These divides have broken down in recent years. We’ve all gone pop!

Another reason why ‘Gangnam Style’ and ‘Harlem Shake’ aren’t taken as seriously is because they are dance songs. Dancing to music is nevertheless just as important as thinking about it. It’s also, in truth, a greater force for change. Although Beatlemania is often seen as the real beginning of the sixties, it should not be forgotten that ‘The Twist’ had already done much to break down social barriers. Dancing can be dangerously cohesive. The Black Panther leader Eldridge Cleaver once described the Twist as ‘a guided missile, launched from the ghetto into the very heart of suburbia’. Adding that it ‘succeeded, as politics, religion, and law could never do, in writing in the heart and soul what the Supreme Court could only write on the books’. The power of dance had been seen earlier with jazz and rock ‘n’ roll, and would be seen again with disco and rave.

As so often, George Clinton helps us make sense of these things. He foresaw ‘One Nation Under a Groove’. Unity is best achieved through getting on the good foot, not by stroking our chins. Say what you like about Sgt. Pepper – and I’m sure that people will go on saying what they like about it - but it’s not great for dancing to. 

Vinyl: A History of 2014

I’ve been slow at offering a report on vinyl sales for 2014. There’s a good reason for this: there were plenty of others willing to get there first. Stories about vinyl are now mainstream, just as the product is itself. The vinyl market is no longer niche; it is an established part of the music economy. In 2014 vinyl album sales in the UK topped a million. They were 65.1% up on the previous year, eventually selling at 1.29m units. According to PIAS, one of the UK’s main distributors of physical formats, vinyl now makes up 20% of their market. Meanwhile, in the US, 9.2 million vinyl albums were sold last year. This represented a 52% increase on 2013. More significantly, these albums accounted for more than 6% of all physical album sales.

            What needs to be borne in mind is that vinyl albums are expensive. They can make people money. Edwin Schroter, managing director of PIAS, has acknowledged that ‘at the higher dealer price this is good business to be had’. He also attributes the rise in the number of independent record shops to the growth in vinyl sales.

            This type of success doesn’t go unnoticed. In last year’s annual report, I noted that independent record labels were disproportionately successful within the vinyl market, accounting for nearly 60% of the trade. The majors are now raising their game. 2014’s Record Store Day was underscored by complaints that some indie labels couldn’t get their product pressed up for it on time. The shelves were instead filled with titles from the major’s stars, among them One Direction and Herbert von Karajan. This activity led to complaints from indie distributors that the day had been ‘appropriated by major labels’.

            The major record labels went on to dominate vinyl’s top 10 as well. In 2014, all but two of the top ten were on majors. Number one was Pink Floyd’s The Endless River. This was in contrast to 2013, when indie labels released all but three of the best-selling vinyl albums.

            Music Week published 2014’s sales figures on 9 January 2015. In the same edition of the journal there was an interview with Tony Wadsworth, marking the end of his tenure as chairman of BPI. Prior to looking after the UK record industry’s trade body, Wadsworth spent 26 years with EMI, where he rose to the position of CEO. This pillar of the UK music establishment has marked his semi-retirement by joining the indie record retailer Sister Ray, with whom he has set up a vinyl-only branch of the shop. In undertaking this move Wadsworth has indicated that he was in it for the love of music all along. He’s also provided further evidence that there is good business to be had. 

The First Ear, the Second Ear and the Final Good Ear

When record producers listen to music, how do they listen to it? In Performing Rites, Simon Frith suggests that they have an ‘imputed audience’ in mind; they are obsessively worrying ‘what does the listener want?’ Frith writes about the people who do this successfully and repeatedly, broadening out his scope to include other record company personnel, such as the staff from A&R and marketing:

There is a touching faith in the industry in anyone who can claim to read the audience, to be in tune with public taste (the usual measure of which is a previous success); such people carry a special authority in in-house arguments; they have a “good ear,” and it takes many failures to offset the original success.

In America, such people used to be known as ‘record men’ (women, apparently, did not have great ears). Back in the 1970s, to have this sense and to use it well was a criterion for helming a record label. Mo Ostin at Warner Bros., Clive Davis at Columbia, Ahmet Ertegun at Atlantic and David Geffen at Asylum were all record men. Ertegun explained their particular talent:

You have to develop a second ear. The first ear is your private taste, which is what moves you personally. The second ear is one that, when you listen to a piece of music and you personally think it’s terrible but it’s a hit commercially – the second ear has to say, ‘This is great!’

Is this the heart of the popular music process? Record company bosses and producers aren’t interested in art; they are instead trying to predict the debased tastes of the public. Frith suggests that this is one of the reasons why the ‘industry’ is frowned upon. Obsessed with hits, these people are seen to ‘“interfere” in the proper communication of musician and audience’. Music is meddled with as it is mediated. It loses its initial sense of contact and meaning.

            Frith doesn't buy this line of reasoning. He suggests, instead, that it is the ‘record men’ of the industry who make communication between performers and audiences possible. I would go further than this. I believe that popular music is mediated music. Music doesn’t exist in a pure state at one end of a process, waiting to go through the wringer of the record business before it reaches the audience. It is created with production processes in mind. Virtually all artists will have first experienced popular music via its mediation. They encounter it through recordings and through broadcasts of those recordings. And they will create their own music with recordings and broadcasts in mind.

            But what about audiences? They’re not blind to mediation either. In fact, it can excite them just as much as performance can. Audiences imagine themselves in a number of situations. They picture themselves in direct communication with artists. They also picture themselves as artists: the air guitar might well be the most widely-played instrument. But they also place themselves at the heart of the mediation process. They imagine what it feels like to be in a studio as a record is mixed. They also listen to music with the ears of a ‘record man’. Industry bosses aren’t the only people with second ears, and they aren’t the only ones to get excited by terrible records either. There’s a little part of each of us that thinks we can predict a hit. And this is one of the reasons why we admire one when we hear one. Not all of our popular music pleasures are centred on music that moves our hearts and our minds. We also enjoy being a part of the game.

Anticipation Is So Much Better

We live in an era of music documentaries. This year sees the release of films about Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse, the Backstreet Boys, NWA, Tower Records, Wilko Johnson, Danny Fields, and the Grateful Dead. There are also more music documentaries on television than before (while other forms of music broadcasting have declined). Recently I’ve watched programmes about James Brown, Dave Clark, Culture Club and Kenny Rogers.

            I’ve fallen under the spell of these films. Documentaries are now at the centre of my musical enjoyment. They can trigger off a new phase of obsessive listening: the James Brown documentary, for example, has made me think again that he might be the single most astonishing figure in all of popular music. Documentaries also provide one of my favourite ways of experiencing music. Oddly, not all of this is related to hearing the music itself.

            It is the build up that I enjoy. I like to hear people talk about records, particularly when they are describing a song I know and love. Hearing someone rhapsodise eloquently about it brings me out in goosebumps before they even play the track. I’m also hearing the track in my head before it comes on. Recent examples of this include Pete Waterman talking about ‘The Winner Takes it All’ and ‘The Day Before You Came’ in The Joy of ABBA and various DJs talk about ‘I Feel Love’ in Electric Dreams: The Gorgio Moroder Story. In the latter, I wanted them to delay the track for as long as possible, as I knew it was going to slay me when it was finally played. Just as it has done every time I’ve heard since 1977.

            And there was another one today. This wasn’t in a documentary, but in the latest edition of Desert Island Discs. The castaway was Paul Millar, producer of Sade’s Diamond Life and Everything But the Girl’s Eden. He had this to say about ‘Gimme Shelter’ by the Rolling Stones:

‘Gimme Shelter’ has the best 45-second intro of any rock record ever made. Beautiful guitar riff with a vibrato on the guitar, giving it a sort of shiver. And then the producer, Jimmy Miller, plays a little South American fishbone with a stick: chk, chk chk chk. Then a couple of notes on the piano from Nicky Hopkins. A second guitar. Then, a little, strange, haunting harmonica from Mick Jagger. And then, Charlie Watts: BAP! BAP! BOOM! A perfectly timed riff from Keith – ba, ba, badada. And then Mick Jagger comes in – screaming his head off. And they mix it way back in the mix. And then the producer says, ‘I think we should get a woman to sing on the chorus’. And it was the end of the sixties. And it is an incredible piece of apocalyptic music. But more than anything else, if you don’t want to play air rhythm guitar and be Keith Richard when you’re playing this, there’s no hope for you.

Then they play the song. And it is, of course, one of the greatest pieces of music ever recorded. Obviously, when asked which of his selections he would take with him if he was only allowed to keep one, it was this record that Millar chose. 

Even Compact Discs Have Got Soul

When it comes to the vinyl revival, much is made of the young audience. Older analogue fanatics love the fact that there is new generation that has discovered the joys of vinyl. They also love the fact that they can condescend to them. Mention of the young audience is always coupled with the fact that many of these record buyers don’t have record players.

            But the kids do love the sound of vinyl records. Growing up in a world of MP3s, what hits them when they hear analogue records is just how good their sound quality can be. Maybe vinyl isn’t the only factor in this, though. It is possible that we now have a generation who don’t know how good a CD can sound. Their experience of digital might be restricted to hearing it in its compressed form. Perhaps worse, they might only have heard CDs from the years of the loudness wars. Vinyl is going to sound fantastic if you've known nothing but MP3s. A CD might be mind-blowing too. 

Even Simon Cowell Has Got Soul

Simon Cowell is often cast (not least by himself) as the ultimate music industry gatekeeper. He stands sentry over popular music, determining who is allowed in and who is kept out. And yet the truth is that he’s more conspired against than conspiring. Some have argued that the digital age represents the twilight of the gatekeepers – the internet apparently provides open access for all. Nevertheless, there are people out there who are willing to stand sentry against Cowell. From one corner, we have the public, launching their Facebook campaigns in order to stop X Factor winners from having the Christmas number one. From another corner, we have the old guard of the music industry, throwing Cowell sops in order to prove who is really in command.

            Evidence of this comes via the Brit Awards. Looked at one way, they flatter Cowell. The organizers have invented award categories so that his acts don’t go home empty handed. In 2013 and 2014 they included a Global Success award. This was given to One Direction on each occasion, and rightly so. In 2012 they sold more albums globally than any other act. In 2013 their album Midnight Memories was the best-selling album in the world.

            But this record was snubbed in the British Album of the Year category in 2014. In my previous blog entry I pointed out how the winners of this trophy are commonly the purveyors of the biggest selling UK album of the previous year. This was true of Ed Sheeran in 2015, Emeli Sandé in 2013 and Adele in 2012. The exception to this rule are One Direction, who weren’t even nominated for this category in 2014, despite Midnight Memories’ global success. It seems that it is only when Cowell is doing well that aesthetics come into play. His acts were similarly snubbed at this year’s Brit Awards. The consolation thrown to him this time was the one award open to a public vote: British Video. One Direction claimed it for ‘You and I’.

            The BPI uses the Brit Awards tactically. On the one hand, they are a means of showing Simon Cowell how little they care about his music; they reduce his acts to their money-making attributes. On the other hand, in demarcating Cowell as a mercenary who is after global domination, they try to kid us that the regular categories are about art. In reality they are no less money-driven than One Direction’s custom-made awards.