Back in the 1950s, when rock n’ roll was new, and it was still hated by most of the musical establishment, some in the music industry decided that the public would be better served if “real musicians” gave awards to musicians who made “real music”. So they gave us the grammys, hoping they would inspire society to listen to something better than Little Richard or Chuck Berry. If that was the goal, the grammys have been a miserable failure. In the early years, they were dominated by “serious musicians” like Henry Mancini, but the grammys have long since given up their original purpose. Before we’re inundated with the media hype surrounding another batch of grammys, let’s take a look at how fixed, or broken, the music industry is.
The first grammys were handed out in 1959. Just for the sake of argument, let’s suppose that the industry hadn’t had an axe to grind when it handed out those first awards, and they had wanted to honor the best new artists, according to the public’s actual tastes at the time. Perhaps they might have chosen to nominate Bobby Darin, the Champs, Connie Francis, the Kingston Trio, Ritchie Valens or the Teddy Bears as the best new artists of 1958, since they all had their first hits that year. Better Better yet, let’s suppose that the grammys had started in 1958, and they had to choose the best new artist(s) of 1957. Among others, they could have chosen Buddy Holly, the Coasters, the Everly Brothers, Jerry Lee Lewis, Jimmie Rodgers, Johnny Mathis, Paul Anka or Rick Nelson. This was the horrible mess the Grammys were supposed to fix.
Now it’s 2005, so think really hard and try to imagine who the nominees might be for the best new artist of 2004, without looking it up. Are you drawing a blank? I’m absolutely clueless about it. Even if I had to select the best new artist to emerge in the last 15 years, I wouldn’t be able to think of anyone who seems significant to me. The last new artist I actually like is Enya, and she’s hardly new anymore. Someone will try to dismiss my opinion by claiming that my taste in music is very conservative, and that’s true. I hear boom boxes blasting everyone to deafness every day, but I never, never hear anyone whistling a new tune in an elevator anymore. It’s not just because of wardrobe malfunctions that the Super Bowl has to feature someone as old as Paul McCartney.
Generally speaking, I am much more fond of older and quieter music than today’s contemporary music, and it’s worth pausing for a moment to explain why. When I was in college, one of the first things I discovered was that the students who partied the hardest and drank the most were the most unhappy and had the least amount to celebrate. Similarly, when someone’s music can be heard two or three blocks away, they seem to always be listening to something which is destructive, antisocial and/or obscene. It’s a safe bet they’re not listening to Lawrence Welk. When I listen to music, I listen for melody, harmony, chord changes, vocal qualities and lyrics, if there are any. The way music is presented is every bit as important as its lyrical content. For instance, back in the 1970s, I ventured into a disco. It was a very trendy place to be then, but I hated it. Due to the volume, it was impossible to speak to anyone. As I tried to imagine what use such a place might be, it occurred to me that aside from dancing, it was still possible to have physical or sexual contact with people in spite of the noise level, and I decided that discos must serve primarily as a prelude for one night stands. So I never went back, and I couldn’t wait for the 1970s to end.
Since then, unfortunately, things have gotten progressively worse. Though I can’t stand watching it, I’ve seen bits and pieces of “American Idol”. Aside from the fact that all of these “idols” sound virtually identical to me, the most obvious thing about it is that the entire show consists of people singing songs which are 30 or 40 years old. To get an idea of how ridiculous that is, or what bad shape the music industry is in, one has to try to imagine the Beatles in 1964 auditioning by singing songs from the 1920s. The worst music the Beatles ever recorded were cover versions of other people’s music. I hate “American Idol”. My loathing for it goes beyond my ability to describe it. OK, I did halfway enjoy watching Gladys Knight as a judge. But it’s only people like her and Smokey Robinson I can enjoy, not the contestants. Way back in 1960, there was a popular song called “Sixteen Reasons”, which was sung by a woman named Connie Stevens. The “sixteen reasons why I love you” included things like “your freckled nose” and “your crazy clothes”. Way back then, I used to think what a dumb song it was. I promised myself that if I grew up to be a songwriter, I could think of far deeper reasons to love someone than their freckles or what they were wearing on a particular day. I used to see Connie Stevens on “The Tonight Show”, and I just couldn’t imagine why anyone would care who she was. But that was then. I heard that same song replayed on the radio a few weeks ago, and I wish they would have played it five times. The record has improved over the years, because I now realize it actually has a tune, and there are no obscene lyrics in it. As I listened to it, I thought that if Connie Stevens herself (who must be pushing 70 by now) materialized in the room, I would be inclined to give her a hug, not because she was ever great, but thank heavens, she was never awful.
I’m writing this on February 4, 2005. Yesterday was the 46th anniversary of “the day the music died”. But music didn’t really die when Buddy Holly did. In fact, it flourished for quite a few years after that. Today is also the 22nd anniversary of the untimely death of Karen Carpenter. Karen had a rare and wonderful gift, perhaps the most feminine voice which ever reached vinyl. Tragically, it turns out that she also had a “gift” for self-destruction–not just the run of the mill tendency toward self-destruction, but an unusual and very negative type of self-destruction. Honestly, I would rather have a relative become a drug addict than an anorexic, because I can’t even conceive of a moment’s pleasure in anorexia. But my point here is that Karen Carpenter has become a metaphor for the entire music industry–something rare and beautiful which has methodically destroyed itself.
When I originally posted this on February 4, 2005, I had no idea that the greatest number of upcoming grammys in 2005 would be won by the late Ray Charles, which only proves my point that the music industry ought to be more concerned about producing good new music and less concerned about Napster, which I never had the slightest desire to use. The music industry’s profits aren’t decreasing because people are stealing songs on the internet, but because the music industry is mass-producing dreadful junk.
Some will argue that even if popular music has become a vast wasteland, there are other forms of music. Believe it or not, the first music I really liked as a child was country music, so it might be natural to suppose that I could get interested in contemporary country music. Once in a while, I’ll hear something contemporary that I like, but it’s rare, and even when it happens, the disc jockeys never mention the song title or the artist anymore. If they don’t think it’s good enough to promote it, why should I buy it?
I enjoy classical music from time to time, but the world just isn’t mass-producing new Mozarts these days. Unfortunately, classical music isn’t very accessible to the average listener. If one wants to hear something new (at least to the listener), it has to be heard from the beginning to be understood and appreciated. It’s easy to turn on a concerto in the middle, but does anyone know when one is going to start?
So how about modern jazz? Well, it’s not really terrible, but a steady diet of it begins to sound really dreary, and after about 20 minutes I would much rather hear the Drifters sing “On Broadway” again. So I turn back to the oldies station, and I try to forget that I’m really a little bit tired of that, too.
One other point is worth making about the recorded music industry. There would be much more live music around us, if it weren’t for the din of pre-recorded music everywhere. I grew up in Albuquerque, where there used to be a chain of restaurants called Furs Cafeteria. Aside from being able to order any type of food I wanted at Furs, one of the great joys of going there was to be able to sit and listen to a live pianist who played standards and requests. Since my childhood, the number of places with live music has decreased significantly, because pre-recorded music makes live music expensive and unnecessary. As a result, there are fewer and fewer opportunities for good musicians to become great musicians, and the music industry flounders in a sespool of mediocrity because of it.
Someone might suggest that even if most of what’s on the radio is boring, there must still be good music in churches. But even there, I feel disappointed. Traditional hymns with deep theological lyrics and multiple verses, which used to be sung occasionally to the accompaniment of pianos and organs, have been replaced by ear-piercing, one-verse choruses with much less theology and less meaningful lyrics. Worse than that, most church services include the same half-dozen songs every week. Once a set of drums is brought into a church, every other instrument has to be amplified to coincide with the drums, and the result is that the church is by far the loudest part of my week, except for the unavoidable boom box encounters. Worse than that, most churches also have loud pre-recorded music blaring from the loudspeakers, before and after services, which prevents anyone in their congregation from speaking to each other or getting acquainted. I have argued with pastors about this for 25 years, to no avail. They say, “God likes all kinds of music, even if you don’t.” But they don’t play all kinds of music, they play one kind of music, as loudly and repetitiously as possible. Admittedly, part of my frustration is that I’m tired of the loudness of our culture, and that loudness always prevails over quieter things. But I’m also irritated by how determined Christians are to abandon the traditions of their forefathers. In the church my family attends, they rarely sing Christmas carols, even in December. And singing the same songs every week is a bit like saying the rosary 32 times in a row. I can’t imagine that God could enjoy the same lack of variety in prayers or music every Sunday. In the 1980s, I attended a church where they used to sing, “I am a wounded soldier” every Sunday morning. Am I supposed to feel obligated to come in wounded every week? Some things just aren’t appropriate every Sunday.
Maybe I’m just getting old. Perhaps there’s a natural progression from “turn it up” to “turn it off, please.” “If I had a hammer”, I would know what to do with all of the world’s boom boxes. “Where have all the flowers gone, and when will they ever learn?”
