Now, I realize that it may be somewhat of an impossibility to achieve perfection within one's art form, and understandably so: to attain perfection would create a falsified nirvana within the various segments of the entertainment industry and would therefore all but encourage the sort of onanistic, artistically lazy behavior that cash cows such as the Backstreet Boys engage in ritualistically. Imagine Moby sitting comfortably on the proverbial La-Z-Boy of commercial acceptance. Imagine Nick Drake's subtle suggestions of the Apocalypse wafting in and out of trendy Volkswagen commercials while Gap-clad and beautiful angel-headed hipsters (though more socially acceptable ones than the Ginsburg variety) dance around wistfully in the background, figures so perfectly wholesome that you can practically smell fabric softener as they peer aloofly past the camera just so in a Gen-X seduction worthy of a primetime slot on the WB. Imagine Massive Attack providing the soundtrack for Victoria's Secret's omnipresent peepshow. And imagine Rolling Stone, once considered a flagship of "pop journalism," once ripe with integrity and innovation, once home to such edgy greats as Hunter S. Thompson, putting Britney Spears on the cover, not once, not twice, not even three times, but so much that you seem to have lost count.
Frightening, right? Are there bells of cultural recognition going off in your head? Can you hear (go ahead, put your head to the pavement)-I mean can you fucking hear it!-the veritable loose change of advertising execs, record companies, Hollywood hounds and salivating agents everywhere hitting the ground at an alarming rate? Of course you can. You'd have to be deaf not to: because all of my frightening little "scenarios" have already exploded into fruition. At an era where the information and global commerce networks formed by the Internet, media conglomerates (think Viacom brainchildren VH1 and MTV) and the prolific presence of promotional material and incestuous advertising links between all of the above seem to find their way into everyone's homes, subconsciouses and everything in between-it's no surprise that artists of all types are put in a rather confusing quandary regarding their motives versus the motives of those around them.
Take, for example, the relatively well-known cases (now whoever said I was inaccessible?) of turntable wizards Moby and Fatboy Slim. Once we came upon the mid-to-late nineties, once the loud and noble last strums of true grunge and alternative faded from the spotlight and into late-night radio, popular music audiences everywhere were left trying to fill the gaps. Poppy one-hitters like Chumbawumba and Aqua came and went, rap music turned from the politics of race to the politics of ego, the Smashing Pumpkins continued to break up and overdose, Pearl Jam waxed bizarre on some critical disappointments and jam-bands like Dave Matthews and Phish bopped along to the beat of their own (or shall we say, to the beat of the Grateful Dead's) drummer, allowing a commercially accessible outlet for (chemically) mellow college-kids and highschoolers everywhere who were eager to trade in their flannel and Chuck Taylors for an acoustic guitar and hemp necklaces faster than you can say "kegger."
And then, of course there were the boy-bands. And the girl-bands. And Total Request Live. And plastic pants. And ... well, you get the point. So what, then, of the fans who are seeking something just a little different? What of those who wanted more than the prepackaged glitz and glam of commercialized pop, of "alternatives" who aren't really alternatives at all? Well, then there was "electronica" (or "techno," if you prefer). Deemed unsuitable for radio-play due to constraints of length and lack of "acceptable" structure, DJs like Moby and Slim were having some troubles getting any airtime or exposure. Exhausting themselves within club circuits all over the nation, these two enterprising virtuosos of anti-pop decided to use the techniques available to them within this complicated and contradictory "system" of commercial Goliaths and disaffected Davids-and in the name of music, made a controversial move. Moby was suddenly DJing at MTV Awards shows; Fatboy Slim was suddenly appearing on soundtracks. Moby sold the rights to around eight tracks of his critically acclaimed release "Play" to different companies for commercials; Fatboy Slim began renting out well-known liminal media characters such as director Spike Jonze and actor Christopher Walken to make music videos. Critics and fans who once embraced the two artists were left sneering indignantly at their move to "sell out," while millions of listeners were left with a somewhat enriched collection.
It is this situation which so typifies the problems inherent to the oft-blurred lines of the music industry (and other entertainment industries today)-it seems as though it's almost impossible for innovative artists to even be considered by the mainstream and when, for whatever reason, they do get noticed, critics slam the artists for "changing," fans whine perpetually about them "selling out," and happy-go-lucky radio scanners and MP3 rippers are left with not a breath-taking track by Moby but rather "you know, that song that was in that Adidas commercial that one time." It seems as though, in a day and age such as this one (or maybe, any day and age), it's impossible for artists to be recognized without losing face-and it's impossible for them to keep making music if they don't. To complicate matters more, the "critics" themselves are becoming further nebulous-in place of more seasoned, well-informed journalists who speak their mind, you have media darlings such as Carson Daly at the helm of "what's in." I miss Matt Pinfield (you know, that bald guy from, like, 3 in the morning.)