How The Scenester Got His Cred

As an opening gambit, the following may initially appear to be somewhat convoluted, self-serving, pretentious, meaningless drivel. But please, bear with me. I'm going somewhere with this.

Recently, I had to write an essay on whether History can act as a useful resource for novelists. Before writing it, I had quite an argument with my mum. To sum up, she thought it to be a stupid question: Of course “History” is a useful resource for novelists. Even to write a book in the past-tense is to set it in “History”, surely?

You'll notice, though, that I've chosen to capitalise “History”. On three occasions now, I've even placed it in inverted commas. This is important: “History” is a completely different entity entirely to “the past”.

Briefly, let me explain. “The past” is a loose way of referring to “anything that happened before the right here, the right now”. That cup of tea you made this afternoon. That's a product of “the past”, but, by extension, is it “History”? Well, potentially.

The writing of essays, the theorising, the arguments, the debate, the points of view, the endless rhetoric – that's History. Put very, very, very simply, “History” is any attempt to interpret or make sense of the events of “the past”. That cup of tea you made in “the past”. If scholars later argue that, had you not made that cup of tea, life itself as we know it would today be unrecognisable – then it would become History.

History!

The above question, then, wasn't asking me to consider as to whether novelists could find inspiration from “the past”. Rather, it was asking me to consider as to whether these “Historical” arguments and debates (mainly, arguments) could be of any use to Johnny Writer. Can a fresh interpretation of Event X make for a good novel? That sort of thing.

It got me thinking. A lot of things do. The conclusion I've come to is that everyone – in all walks of life – attempts to make “History” out of anything. Even if they don't themselves realise that they're doing it. This, of course, is just a fancy way of saying that “people are going to argue”. Well, yes. But on a much deeper level is a search for meaning, for definition, for order.

You'll find it everywhere. Nothing ever exists in a vacuum. That cup of tea, for instance – what does it say about you? What does it say about your attitudes toward globalisation, imperialism, nutrition, breakfast? Everything is instantly suggestive of about a thousand other things. In order to make sense of this, people look for patterns.

Now, music journalism. This search for something – anything – it's rife in the world of music journalism. It's not enough to just report. Ever. Beyond (and within) the previews, reviews, reports, musings and interviews is a seemingly endless search for patterns, for trends. And, whilst this search is taking place, there's a few individuals who – perhaps as part of their own attempt to make sense of things – will look for trends amongst the search for trends.

That's me. Hello. The “History” of music goes far beyond the simple chronology of who wrote, released and recorded what. Like all Histories, nothing is canonical. As much as the likes of such publications NME and Pitchfork would like you to believe, nobody's “take” is ever doctrinal. For example, take the chronic debates concerning genre. This in itself is often a nightmare for anybody with more than a passing interest in music. For some reason, it's important that people know whether the music they're listening to is rock, punk, punk-rock, alternative, alternative rock, indie, indie-rock or dub-step.

The real headache, though, is in deducing as to how these billions of sub-genres came to be. Some could argue 'til they're red in the face over the evolution of just one branch of the lush tree of rock music. Metal – does its roots lie in the distorted staccato riff of “You Really Got Me” by The Kinks, or in the blistering sonic assaults of Blue Cheer? Or, we're all bands simply lacking balls before Deep Purple, Sabbath, Zeppelin? And then what? How could one ever, for instance, ever argue that if you start with a single Kinks riff and take it from there, eventually and inevitably you'll always end up with Napalm Death?

Napalm Death: Picking up directly where The Kinks left off.

The biggest question though, is “does it even matter?”. What difference does it make if you're into rock, pop, classical, jazz, anything? It's all music, surely? You listen to what you like and leave it at that. But it doesn't end there. No. Always the search for new genres, too. The more they come to define our times, the better. Ironically, though, the more widespread and accepted become these new terminologies, the more meaningless such terminologies eventually become. Indie music – any music created by anyone not signed to a major label? This has never been the case. I'm sure those legions of post-grindcore skin-heads who fill the bills of countless “unsigned” band nights the world over would have something pretty caustic to say were you to dare describe their music as “indie”.

I once thought I had it. I asked myself, what is “pop music”? I concluded that, pop meaning “popular”, all music is “pop”music seeing as the only alternative would be “unpop music”. Unpopular. And who listens to that? Nobody. Therefore, all music is “pop music”,as all music is in some way “popular”. This argument, however, died on its arse the second a part of me asked, “what about Gary Glitter?”.

No, the only reason any of these debates ever takes place – the only reason we're ever so argumentative in regards to genre – is because of the crucial question of identity. We define ourselves in terms of the music we listen to. It never suffices to just say “I like music”, because everyone likes music. No shit! What sort of music do you like? I need to know, because I need to know as to whether you count as a human being.

This is why the aforementioned NME is so keen on identifying “new” genres. The more trimmings, the better. Every time they “identify” a new “movement”, it always comes hand in hand with an entire lifestyle. Often – that is, always – the lifestyle will come to be more important than the music itself. Who cares about music? It all sounds so similar anyway. The clothes, though – the clothes! - and the drugs, and the glow sticks, and the attitude – the attitude, man – that's where it's at.

Pictured: Culture

Over the past decade, the NME has been desperate to find a “movement” which would define a generation as succinctly and effectively as had disco and punk in the '70s, Acid-House and Britpop in the '90s. Every year there seemed to be something new. It began, if I recall correctly, with the “New Rock Revolution”. The Strokes. The White Stripes. Rock music was exciting again! Suddenly everyone pretended that they'd only ever admitted to listening to Travis for lack of anything better to listen to. However, this “New Rock Revolution” didn't seem to last. I'm not sure why. Perhaps the rehashed garage-rock was too sonically similar to a lot that had come before. Whatever the case, they were in no time at all looking for something new.

Then came 2003. Remember 2003? They proclaimed it to be “the third summer of love”. The first revolved around Woodstock, Hendrix, LSD; the second around 808 State, ecstasy. Well, third times a charm! Once again the NME had identified a cluster of bands who seemed to have a similar agenda – sunshine! Hazy, summery psychedelic music. The Bees, The Polyphonic Spree, The Thrills. They even had a unifying drug of choice – mushrooms. Well, maybe not The Polyphonic Spree. Or The Thrills. Or...anyone. Probably not even The Bees. Nevertheless, though, that third “summer of love” was recognised as the high-point for this new “shroomadelica” movement. Psychedelic music made on mushrooms rather than LSD, you see. I kid you not.

The future!

Well, this didn't last, either. Goddammit, must have shouted the NME. How are we supposed to define ourselves or anyone if music continues to insist upon being so transient? Lucky for them, though, after an extremely short lived “summer of ska” - (which consisted of nothing more than an album by a Liverpool band called The Dead 60s and a new brass section for The Ordinary Boys – both of whom opened for Morrissey. Now that's a movement!) - came a slew of cool new British bands.

This was very important. A new revolution! The already, by this point, ridiculed “New Rock Revolution” was pretty much solely an American affair. Now, though, there were suddenly British bands to care about. Franz Ferdinand. The Futureheads. Maximo Park. Bloc Party. The Kaiser Chiefs. Gang of Four were suddenly, it seems, the most influential band of the past ever. Everyone sounded so angular, so post-punky. All guitars were trebly and tense, all vocals yelped. I don't think the NME ever got round to giving this exciting new movement a name. Or, if they did, it's escaped me. I think they were just too excited by the notion that all of these bands were British. It was “cool” to be British again. But the term “Cool Britannia” had already been used to describe Britpop. And, no matter how compressed and “anthemnic” became the sound of The Kaiser Chiefs, the NME apparently could never bring themselves to declare that we were in the midst of a Britpop revival. No, man. It had to be new! We can't define ourselves in terms of the last decade! We need something of our own. I'm reminded, at this point, of the scene from Jarhead, the Gulf War drama, in which a passing helicopter blasts out the haunted strains of The Doors' “Break on Through”. “We haven't even got our own music”, laments Jake Gyllenhall's character.

Pictured: British music scene circa 2004

Concurrently, a little band called The Libertines were making the rounds. The NME were quite muted in their coverage of this band. I think they described them as “the most important band in the world” or something. I don't know. But, apparently under their noses, this little outfit became impossibly popular before disintegrating in a scummy brown puff of heroin and rancid sweat. They were gone. And, in their wake, came suddenly the search for “the new Libertines”. Cue countless identikit bands who slurred in regional accents half-arsed lyrics about bouncers and nights out over jangly, detuned guitars – barely standing, eyes half-open, soaked in gin, sweat and piss. Heroin chique. Abhorrent. The absolute low-point was an album by a band called Little Man Tate. They called their album “About What We Know”. Music, suddenly, didn't really seem so exciting.

All this, however, was just paving the way for a monumentally successful outfit with a stupid name and permanently bemused facial expressions. The Arctic Monkeys. They took the sound and energy of The Libertines but replaced the slurred heroin nonsense with...well, some people call it poetry. Some rate singer Alex Turner as a lyricist on the level of Dylan, Cohen, Morrissey. Well, I'm not going to argue with that. To each their own, it takes all sorts etc. But, forgive me, at this point I dropped out.

See, it was 2005, we were halfway through a new decade, and it seemed that the NME had found their “defining” band. It wasn't necessarily ambivalence towards The Arctic Monkeys which made me jump ship, though. In their constant search for meaning – their constant making of their own History – the NME were also constantly in the process of rewriting History. It's to be expected, I know. Like I said, nothing's doctrinal. Ever. But when they made a list of “The Most Important British Albums of All Time”, placed the Arctic Monkey's debut at no.2, and left no room at all for the grandiose sonic adventures of the likes of Pink Floyd, Genesis and Yes – well, that was the last straw. Frankly, I didn't even want to be part of a generation which defined itself on such terms that ignored the importance of “The Dark Side Of The Moon”.

Amen, brother. Amen.

I think I got out just in time, too. Remember what came next? 2007? Day-glo, glow sticks, strobe lighting? No? The Klaxons? That ring any bells? No? You want me to say it, don't you? OK. I'll say it. But God help me. You know not what you ask of me...

...New Rave. Yeah. The overall worthiness of a “scene” or “movement” can, I find, be judged in terms of the speed at which people cringe at its mentioning. I think there are even people born after the arrival of The Simpsons who'll harbour embarrassing New Rave memories. Still, though. At least it's not Nu Metal. Remember Nu Metal? It was the worst music ever. Objectively speaking. I know.

Anyway, like I said, it's all to do with identity. Even “History” - as in, proper “1066 and all that” History – all the debates seem to take place in the interests of better understanding ourselves. Indeed, things come full circle the second one begins to use an era's Historical writings as a means of exploring the ethics and attitudes of the era in which it was written. The Historians of Ancient Rome, for example, as well as providing fascinating  insight into such cultures who never got round to actually, you know, writing things down – also happen to tell us about issues much closer to our be-toga'd friends' hearts.

They always used to begin their “Histories” with dedications to the current emperor and with summative contemporary accounts of whichever nation or people they were writing about. It doesn't take a Historian to understand just how useful this would prove to anybody trying to garner an insight into Ancient Roman attitudes and understandings. They understood the arch importance of writing their own History. The Roman Empire, then – the NME of its day, public executions and all.

Conor McNicholas circa AD30

All of the above, though, might only make sense to a current (or former) reader of the NME. At the very least, I suppose, an awareness of who they are and what they might represent would be necessary. But that, my friends, is the whole point.

For the entirety of the past decade, so many people seemed to view preceding generations with desperately jealous eyes. They had their Woodstocks, their Orbital raves, their Sex Pistols, their loon-pants and their discos – they had it all! And what did we have? Nothing. Worse than nothing! Too much – all of it transient.

But, don't you see, it's that “too much” which, itself, acts as the defining “trend” of the past-decade. Thanks to the internet, music quickly became a lot easier to obtain than it had for any previous generation. More importantly, it became a lot cheaper to obtain. Suddenly it was possible to hear everything – as much – or, as little – as you wanted.

And therein lied the problem for a generation who not only had such an abundance, but also knew things to be no other way. Of course we would initially attempt to define movements and trends in such familiar terms as had worked for previous generations – what else had we to go by? The result of this, though, was not some kind of defining “movement” or “scene” for an entire generation. Rather, it was a mess of genres, sub-genres and fly-by-night notions of “cool”.

And that's it. That's how the music of the first decade of the twenty-first century will be remembered. Not via some catch-all term such as “punk” or “new-wave” or “Britpop”. Rather, via a distinct lack of anything so definitive.

Instead, I believe that as a decade (and a generation) – in future years the noughties will be remembered not by a defining set of bands or genres. Rather, it will be remembered in terms of exactly the means which served to make so much music so very accessible and exciting in the first place. I'm speaking of the inevitable products of such a confusing array of genres, sub-genres, movements, themes and trends. Unwittingly, people already tend to define themselves as such.

Think of youth-culture. Think of punks, of hippies, of mods, of rockers, of metalheads, emos or whatever. Well, pretty soon, to this list we'll be adding such disparate clans and tribes as “The NME Reader”. “The Pitchfork Reader”. “The Blogger”. “The Quietus Collective”. “The ATP attendant”.

To put it succinctly, to that list we'll soon be adding “The Scenester”.

(Thunder, lightning, etc.)

How To Have A Long Career In Music

The Rolling Stones. Image found at clashmusic.com

Look, Jerry Garcia famously said that if you stick around for long enough, you become respectable. Well, this is what I reckon: I reckon that it's possible to identify seven different models for long musical careers. I've attempted to fit existing bands into these molds whilst, simultaneously, I've speculated as to where the careers of "relatively new" bands might go. Of course, it's not exhaustive. This isn't "the ultimate" list. Of course it's not definitive. What do I look like to you? A Pitchfork journalist? Jesus...

As is usually the case with this blog, there are a number of disclaimers to get out of the way first. Primarily, I feel the need to once more point out that my view is somewhat limited to Western musicians who dabble in that which can loosely be categorised as "rock and pop". Look, I'll be the first to decry my blinkered view of the world, but excuse me for only listening to that which I enjoy. Secondly, it must be noted that all perspectives are from today - the right here, right now. I look at the career of bands like The Beatles and The Rolling Stones with the benefit of hindsight, whereas careers such as those of Muse and Coldplay are still subject to change. To put it bluntly - all of this is purely speculative and in no way academic. OK? OK.

Allow me, then, to share my musings. Ladies and gentlemen, a loose selection of long term musical career models:

1. The Steady Formation of an Intimidating Back Catalogue of Almost Unwavering Quality - The CRITICAL DARLING MODEL.

(Image: contactmusic.com)

The ultimate example of this model would, I think, be Dylan. Frankly, it's incredible that an artist can still produce a startling trilogy of albums (Time Out Of Mind, Love & Theft, Modern Times) after fifty years or so of restless creativity. This model, though, is identifiable by virtue of the fact that even ignoring greatest hits collections, it remains easy for a newcomer to the artist's music to start listening. Out of Dylan's thirty four (thirty four!) studio albums, for instance, it's obvious that you'll start with Highway 61, Blood On The Tracks or Bringing It All Back Home and just take it from there.

More contemporary examples of this career model are everywhere. I'm not, you understand, proclaiming for any of the following to be "the new Dylan". Rather, I just feel that their ratios of length of career vs. quality of output are comparable. Also, it's still possible for newcomers to make that all important "headway". I speak of Sonic Youth (starting with Daydream Nation, Goo, Dirty), The Flaming Lips (Soft Bulletin, Yoshimi etc), Yo La Tengo (I Can Hear The Heart..., I Am Not Afraid of You... or even last year's Popular Songs) and Stereolab (Emperor Tomato Ketchup or any of the Switched On compilations).

The Super Furry Animals and The Animal Collective seem well on their way to fitting within this model and, having heard the marvellous Congratulations, I am hoping against hope that it's here where we will one day be able to place MGMT. I know it's only their second album, buy my GOD is it good.

2. The Rapid Formation of an Intimidating, Uncompromising Body Of Work in which Newcomers are Left to Flounder - The MARK E SMITH MODEL

(Image: n-spaces.net)

This one can be summed up pretty succintly with a simple question: Where in God's name are you supposed to begin with The Fall?! Producing, as they do, about an album a year; and with live shows which seem to disregard anything more than five years old, it's almost as if they're adverse to the idea of "the casual fan".

Similar things can be said of the work of Frank Zappa. Although one could, in theory, start with Hot Rats or a Mothers of Invention album, in practice anything from his canon is but the tip of an almighty iceberg of satirical music-hall burlesque and seemingly hundreds of exploratory live albums.

Put simply, these are artists whose very productivity is at once their greatest strength and their greatest weakness. It endears them to a few but alienates them from many, many more. In this category I'm afraid we'll one day be able to slot Ryan Adams, Bonnie "Prince" Billy and, should he ever get over his current crises of confidence, Sufjan Stevens.

3. The Mystery, the Seldom Releasing of Albums, the Legions of Followers, the Complete Creative Control - The TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE MODEL

(Image: crfranke.files.wordpress.com)

These are bands and musicians who seem to exist in their own little world - only sporadically releasing albums, yet still managing to retain always their status as one of the biggest bands on the planet. The reigns are long, the respect unwavering. People don't seem to lose interest in them whilst they're gone. Rather, they pine - they pine for their return, and tell themselves that there's a very good reason for their not being here - they're at work on their next masterpiece!

It might be a controversial move to place Radiohead in this category, but I honestly can never see their reign coming to an end. The same can be said of Tool, in many ways their metallic counterparts. Years in the wilderness and albums on which, you get the impression, they're allowed to do whatever they want with little to no major label interference. It may have taken them a while to get to where they are now - and it might be the case that they had to crawl through several rivers of shit to get there - but, once arrived, there's no leaving.

And it's in this model that I really hope that we'll be able to one day fit, with confidence, Elbow. Think about it. With all four of their albums the acclaim has been almost universal. With 2008's Leader's of the Free World, the acclaim seemed finally to translate into mass adoration with some gargantuan live shows and, of course, the winning of the Mercury Prize. Unless, for whatever reason, they just disappear, where can they go next but here?

4. The Repeated Failure to Recapture the Glory Days and Loss of Artistic Integrity Coupled with Being the Biggest Band in the World - the POISONED CHALICE MODEL

(image: u2tourfans.com)

From here, it looks as though the only escape from The Rolling Stones is death. Their glory days are long, long, long behind them. And yet, they continue to record, release and tour. Over and over and over - each subsequent record, release and tour a further tarnishing of the legacy.

The same can be said of U2. Who'd want to be in U2? They'll probably never stop being the biggest band in the world, but still, the pressure's on - each tour must be bigger than the last. Meanwhile, in attempting to capture exactly that which made people love them in the first place, each successive album becomes blander, less exciting, than that which it follows.

These are bands who will probably never be "cool" again, but will always be huge. Curiously, though, the bigger they get, the less serious it seems they are taken by their peers. But of course, if that many people like them, they can't be any good, right? Who'd be in U2...

This is exactly the path down which Oasis had been heading since about 1995 before they did the sensible thing and split up. I fear, though, that my beloved Coldplay and Muse will one day descend down this slippery slope.

5. The Sad Disbanding of Everybody's Favourites Out Of Whose Ashes Emerge Such Fruit, Such Joy - the EVERY CLOUD MODEL

(Image: garbonza.files.wordpress.com)

How did the world react when The Beatles decided to call it a day? If young girls everywhere burst into inconsolable tears at the initial disbanding of Take That, are we to infer that mass suicides occured when the original Fab Four parted ways? I hope not. Surely the prospect of fruitful careers from 3/4 of the band's lineup would, ultimately, have served to ease the pain.

Yes, these are beloved bands whose disbandment sparks no end of joyous side-projects and solo careers. For contemporary examples, look to At The Drive-In; who, upon disbanding, became Sparta and The Mars Volta and also paved the way for the impossibly prolific output of Omar Rodriguez-Lopez (whose repertoire is now sliding into Category 2). Similarly, I was most distraught when The Beta Band split in 2004. However, I'd've been considerably less so had I known that this would lead to the resurgence of Lone Pigeon, two excellent albums by The Aliens and the ever-exciting solo work of Steve Mason.

See also, The Smiths, out of which came Morrissey's intriguing solo career and a number of interesting Johnny Marr colloborations. You could also, I suppose, lump in Uncle Tupelo, from whom we get Son Volt, Wilco and every other Jeff Tweedy project. Finally, we have Spacemen 3 to thank for Spectrum, Sonic Boom and the almighty Spiritualized.

As far as this model's concerned, though, there always exists the possibility of reformation. In such circumstances, there's the danger of...

6. Post Solo-Work and Side-Projects, the Reformation of Initial Band for Nostalgia, Money etc. - the CASH COW MODEL.

What happened to The Pixies? They used to be cool. When they reformed circa 2004, I, like everyone, was so excited. And they were electric when I saw them. But, recently, Frank Black went on record in saying that they were now only in it for the money. Well, fair enough, a man's got to eat, and you could in some way justify this in saying that the more money they make, the more we get to hear from his solo output and from Kim Deal's The Breeders - in these two pursuits their hearts seem truly to lie. But, c'mon, how is anybody supposed to connect with their live shows now that we know that they're treating it as a day in the office?

Still, could be worse. At least they're not John Lydon.

In this slot I was afraid that the reunions of The Verve and Blur would represent moves into pasteurs greener. However, with The Verve having disappeared again (and with an incoming Richard Ashcroft solo album), I suppose they're safe. As for Blur, their performance of Tender at Glastonbury last year quenches any cynical notions I might ever have harboured. Concurrently, Graham Coxon has his solo career, Damon Albarn just headlined Coachella with Gorillaz, Alex has his cheese, Dave his constituency and clients... 

The Velvet Underground briefly flitted with this model in 1993. Now, however, John Cale appears to loathe Lou Reed once more. All, therefore, is right in the universe again.

As for future entries into this model, well - we'll all have to keep our eyes on Suede, won't we? Personally, I'll reserve all criticism until after I've had my spellbound live experience.

7. The Cult Fanbase, the Steady Production of New Material, the Fevrent Live Shows, the Notion that You'll Never Transcend This - the CRUSTY MODEL

(Image: raveandroll.files.wordpress.com)

There exists a large number of bands who just don't give up, ever. They might once have been cool, they might once have been huge, but those days are gone - long gone. Nevertheless, they plough on. Either this is because they're those restless creative types and they're simply incapable of doing anything else, or because they feel they owe a debt to whomever still "dares" call themselves a fan.

These bands are demonised by such fickle sources such as NME and Pitchfork, and a lot of them can be found on the Glastonbury line-up year after year. For me, it represents an ideal, of sorts. Imagine being in a state whereby you're readily able to recognise that people really do appreciate your work whilst retaining your right to privacy, your ability to walk down the street unmolested! Also, not featuring in any "tastemaker" publications, you'll be able to safely say that anybody who calls themselves a fan does so out of genuine love for your music rather than out of a fickle notion of "indie cool". In many ways, not being cool is a blessing.

Bands of this ilk seem to exist on three scales: Small, Medium and Large. On the small scale you can find such heroes as British Sea Power, Oceansize, I Am Kloot and The Electric Soft Parade. In the middle you'll find such luminaries as The Waterboys, The Coral, Doves and The Levellers. Finally, in the big league are your Stereophonics, your Snow Patrols, your Simple Minds...

Bands like Athlete, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and Starsailor - I really hope that they recognise their fan-bases and their apparent love for making music and plough on. I really, really hope that they do. The notion of still being able to count on them in ten years or so is genuinely endearing.