This year's latest musical curiosity is Rebecca Black's ubiquitous week-end jam, "Friday." The song is camp in the purest sense (typically, I've yet to see a single remotely funny parody...), and its awkward video, clunky lyrics, and homemade-quality production have met with endless laughter around the internet. Infamously, the whole thing was created by Ark Music Factory, a company that has since garnered a lot of negative press for its business model, which involves creating quick and catchy songs and videos for young girls who want to be pop stars (and whose parents are willing to pay for it). I am not one of their detractors, mostly because I wish OCR had come up with that idea years ago. Actually, the idea of a music factory is not so different from the paint-by-numbers approach Scott and I attempted with Seabird Station. Furthermore, Ark Music has unintentionally provided all of us with the benefit of a fascinating view behind the curtain of the pop music machine.
The greatest failure/triumph of "Friday" is that it doesn't manage to hide its artifice the way most Top-40 songs do. We might like to believe that everyone is an "artist," but there has been a fine tradition for many years of manufacturing popular music via a formula. Essentially, record companies work very hard to marry a potential hit song with a performer who is attractive, talented, and interesting enough to make it a smash. There's certainly no shame in it: they did it in the '80s, in the '60s, and they're still doing it today. It's definitely no secret - back in 2000, ABC even made a reality show (Making The Band) about the whole process - but most songs are designed to make us forget about it for three minutes.
However, "Friday" differs from most songs in two important ways. First of all, major labels have a lot more money available to pour into these endeavors. Rebecca Black's song was obviously made on the cheap, and to be fair, Ark Music simply cannot afford the caliber of producers who turn similarly-vacuous tunes by Ke$ha or The Black Eyed Peas into enjoyable radio anthems. The low-rent production values of both the song and video give "Friday" an amateur sheen that has us questioning from first time we see it whether it might be a (intentional) parody video. The second major distinction is that Rebecca Black chose the project, and not the other way around. Whereas the major labels hand-select the perfect person to perform a certain tune, Ark Music Factory simply creates songs for paying customers, irrespective of their charisma or star-power. Because Rebecca Black doesn't fit the look or persona of a typical pop idol, she calls our attention to the manufactured nature of the project. Thanks to these two factors, the otherwise forgettable, generic "Friday" unravels before our eyes, inadvertently highlighting the elements of its own formula, revealing the artifice normally hidden from the listening public.
One element of the song that has received particular derision is its lyrics. By now, everyone has their stanza of choice, with my personal favorite being this bizarre portion of the second verse:
"Fun, fun, think about fun
You know what it is
I got this, you got this
My friend is by my right, ay
I got this, you got this
Now you know it"
The lyrics range from obvious to bizarre, and the flat-out stupidity of the words is one of the song's primary appeals. However, the presence of strange, nonsensical lyrics in popular songs is hardly a new occurrence. The difference is, "Friday" makes us think about what we usually don't notice. In fact, many of history's greatest pop hooks are literally gibberish. I'm thinking of the na-na-nas in "Land of 1000 Dances," "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye," and Hey Jude," but there are countless other examples. These songs are not really about anything at all. In truth, it usually doesn't matter very much what any song is about, as long as it seems to be about something. The greatest performers excel at conveying a certain feeling or message without necessarily the words to back it up. Sing the phonebook over sad music and you'll end up with a sad song. This is why foreign-language tunes can sometimes become a hit. It also explains how The Police's "Every Breath You Take" can become popular at weddings despite quite clearly being about a stalker. Lyrics hardly matter in a pop tune. It sounds like a love song, and that's what's most important. The na-na-nas in "Land of 1000 Dances" sound like fun, while those in "Hey Jude" sound epic and nostalgic. If the performers had sung words in place of the gibberish, I don't think it would have made the mood of either song any clearer.
Those who embrace this as a fact of life are ultimately the most successful pop performers and songwriters. Paul McCartney's lyrics have never made any sense, and even in his most personal songs, they tend to be simplistic at best. Check out "Here Today," McCartney's tribute song to John Lennon after his death. We know who wrote it and what it's about, so it feels very heartfelt and moving. But upon closer inspection, the lyrics, like "what about the night we cried, because there wasn't any reason left to keep it all inside," are just non-specific enough to apply to almost anyone. This generic quality of Paul's words (go back to "The Long And Winding Road," "Live And Let Die," or "Band on The Run" and tell me what any of them are about) is precisely what makes McCartney a brilliant pop songster. The open-endedness allows each listener to insert his/her own personal meaning into the general emotion of the song. Thus, "Here Today" can be about John Lennon as easily as it can be about Kurt Cobain, James Dean, or any relative or friend we miss dearly. An overly personal song might be harder to relate to, which makes it more difficult for you or me to enjoy it.
Even when generic lyrics give way to nonsensical ones, the feel of the song still succeeds in carrying the emotion. Some of the best pop songs lie somewhere in between generic and gibberish. A few personal favorites are "I Want It That Way," "Mrs. Robinson," and "Billie Jean." None of the words make any sense, but we love the songs just the same. The Backstreet Boys' tune feels like it's about heartache, Michael Jackson's sounds moody and defiant, and in the end, that's good enough. Who cares about lyrics, anyway? And in defense of "Friday," most other weekday songs don't fare much better under lyrical scrutiny. Inspiring gems like "Wish it was Sunday, 'cause that's my fun day, my 'I don't have to run' day" pop up in "Manic Monday," written by no less a genius than Prince. The Bay City Rollers chime in with the equally insipid "I-I-I-I just can't wait, I-I-I-I got a date" from their hit "Saturday Night." These songs don't earn the same criticism as "Friday" because they make us forget about the words, successfully obscuring their own formulas. In the case of the Bay City Rollers tune, the purpose is merely to convey a sense of fun normally associated with Saturday nights. This is no different than "Friday," except that Rebecca Black simply doesn't quite succeed in making us believe it.
I often think we should appraise pop performers the same way we do "auteur" film directors. Although the form and content of movies by contemporaries Howard Hawks, John Ford, and Leo McCarey are quite similar, each brings his own distinct flavor to the formula that allows for the potential of enjoying one more than another. Accordingly, we might love Frankie Avalon and Shelly Fabares but feel nothing for Fabian or Connie Francis. Therefore, it is very apt that Rebecca Black has been called "The Ed Wood of tween pop," a statement that compares her to another unlikely auteur, and one whose work also draws particular attention to the artifice of his chosen form.
The cracks that show in "Friday" give us a fascinating glimpse into the instruction manual for how to manufacture a hit song. I'm taking notes. While this one seems to put the parts together slightly incorrectly, it reminds us generally of the strange craftsmanship that goes into what we hear on the radio every day. "Friday" fits nicely into the long line of popular songs with laughable lyrics, except that it has the audacity to admit it. Perhaps Rebecca Black represents a self-aware pop star for the new generation. "Even a person who doesn't like it, it's gonna be stuck in their head. So, that's the point of it, it's a catchy song," Rebecca Black said in response to criticism of "Friday." Indeed.
Before you go, please enjoy this blurry-but-great Nessie & Her Beard performance of a song that is relevant because, although it very well might have great lyrics, I'll never know because they're in Italian. Happy Friday.
The Official Blog of Orchestral Colour Records
Mar 21, 2011
Sex on Wax
Pop music, for all of its boundless depth and breadth, is generally about one thing: love. And as much as you might love your cat, your grandma, your vibrator, your liberty, your deity, or your own body, singing about any of these isn't likely to land you a hit record. For whatever reason, the least common denominator of mass communication seems to be romantic love. For most people romantic love has a great deal to do with gender and sexuality, so it makes perfect sense that if a man sings a love song originally performed by a woman he switches the pronouns around. Or does it? What exactly is the motivation here? Maybe it's out of consideration for the singer's identity, as it would be far too strange to hear a straight man professing his love for a him. Homophobia aside, he simply wouldn't be able to deliver the song with appropriate passion.
Well, no, that doesn't seem quite accurate. Here we have two famously gay men interpreting Dionne Warwick, with all of the pronouns feminized. It's absolutely dreadful, but not lacking in vocal passion.
Luther Vandross & Elton John - Anyone Who Had a Heart
What it does lack is recognition of the singers' real-life identities and desires. We have to conclude then that the motivation for changing the lyrics is the comfort of the audience, not the performers, and at this point homophobia seems difficult to rule out. This shouldn't come as any big surprise; if the masses are heterosexist then any media crafted for them will reflect that for the sake of sales. A more nefarious version of the story describes mass media as a tool of a powerful ideological minority imposing their homophobia on an otherwise indifferent public. Either way, this phenomenon has a historical point of origin. That is, this pronoun-switching business wasn't always the industry standard.
Here are just a few of many many examples of songs from the early 20th century that don't quite fit into the hetero-sexualizing paradigm described above.
1904 - J. W. Myers - Come Take a Trip in my Airship
I've only ever heard this song performed by men; Billy Murray and Dan W. Quinn both recorded it in 1905. All three versions describe falling in love with a male sailor who takes the narrator on aeronautical voyages through the heavens.
1905 - Franklyn Wallace - How'd You Like to Spoon with Me?
1907 - Ada Jones - My Irish Rosie
In one of Jones' many Irish-themed tunes, she coaxes a young lass to come spoon with her.
1919 - Campbell & Burr - My Sugar-Coated Chocolate Boy
I'm sad that I couldn't find an easy way to share this recording with you online. While there are dozens and dozens of "coon songs" in which white men singers impersonate black women characters to extremely pejorative effect, this is possibly the first anti-racist song cut to wax. Albert Campbell and Henry Burr sing, with no affectation whatsoever, from the perspective of a black mother consoling her son. Lyrics by J. F. Mahoney:
This trend continued into the jazz age, even with prominent performers like Hanshaw and lyricists like Gus Kahn.
1927 - Irving Kaufman - The Man I Love
A literally gay (cheerful!) foxtrot version of this normally melancholic masterpiece from the brothers Gershwin .
193? - Wilmoth Houdini - I Need a Man
Houdini sings as both himself and a female suitor in this red hot calypso. With this example in particular we can hear how singers were able to portray multiple dramatic roles in music without being tied down by their own identities or even their voices.
All of these hypotheses have potential partial truth to them, but instead of considering how society has changed its relationship with queerness, we might consider how we have changed our relationship with pop music. Billy Murray exemplifies the old ways of the music industry: he recorded a version of practically every hit song for dozens of record labels from 1902 through the '30s. In the same way that you might select between competing brands of toilet paper today, a turn-of-the-century record store might offer up to a dozen different versions of the same song (and quite possibly half of them would feature Murray). The singer's own persona was displaced by that of the song, and as such the vocalist played a more flexible, histrionic part in the creation of music; consider the "trouser roles" in opera and traditionally all-male casts in English and Japanese theater. The commodification of singers as product-personalities, starting with the superstardom Al Jolson and disseminated by radio, movies, and later television, took the focus away from songs (and songwriters, bandleaders, and instrumentalists) and placed it squarely on the faces of this new generation of singers. Suddenly the personal lives of these celebrities became important consumer information, and we can imagine that record labels began to feel responsible for grooming their stars for the public eye. Rumors of sexual impropriety could sink even a well-established career, so any sexual ambiguity in song lyrics (not to mention the singers themselves) was necessarily censored.
At OCR we don't take kindly to censorship or heterosexism, and we value the integrity of art as it was originally conceived. If you still need to get that bad taste from Luther and Elton out of your ears, here's a more faithful cover from our very own Tomi.
Well, no, that doesn't seem quite accurate. Here we have two famously gay men interpreting Dionne Warwick, with all of the pronouns feminized. It's absolutely dreadful, but not lacking in vocal passion.
Luther Vandross & Elton John - Anyone Who Had a Heart
What it does lack is recognition of the singers' real-life identities and desires. We have to conclude then that the motivation for changing the lyrics is the comfort of the audience, not the performers, and at this point homophobia seems difficult to rule out. This shouldn't come as any big surprise; if the masses are heterosexist then any media crafted for them will reflect that for the sake of sales. A more nefarious version of the story describes mass media as a tool of a powerful ideological minority imposing their homophobia on an otherwise indifferent public. Either way, this phenomenon has a historical point of origin. That is, this pronoun-switching business wasn't always the industry standard.
Here are just a few of many many examples of songs from the early 20th century that don't quite fit into the hetero-sexualizing paradigm described above.
1904 - J. W. Myers - Come Take a Trip in my Airship
I've only ever heard this song performed by men; Billy Murray and Dan W. Quinn both recorded it in 1905. All three versions describe falling in love with a male sailor who takes the narrator on aeronautical voyages through the heavens.
1905 - Franklyn Wallace - How'd You Like to Spoon with Me?
"In all my life I've never kissed a man,
I've never winked my eye.
But now at last I'm going to break the ice,
So how'd you like to try?"
1907 - Ada Jones - My Irish Rosie
In one of Jones' many Irish-themed tunes, she coaxes a young lass to come spoon with her.
1919 - Campbell & Burr - My Sugar-Coated Chocolate Boy
I'm sad that I couldn't find an easy way to share this recording with you online. While there are dozens and dozens of "coon songs" in which white men singers impersonate black women characters to extremely pejorative effect, this is possibly the first anti-racist song cut to wax. Albert Campbell and Henry Burr sing, with no affectation whatsoever, from the perspective of a black mother consoling her son. Lyrics by J. F. Mahoney:
"Honey, don't cry if they don't play with you.1927 - Annette Hanshaw - If You See Sally
It breaks my heart to see you pine, baby mine, baby mine.
You know the good Lord loves the darkies, too.
He draws no color line."
This trend continued into the jazz age, even with prominent performers like Hanshaw and lyricists like Gus Kahn.
1927 - Irving Kaufman - The Man I Love
A literally gay (cheerful!) foxtrot version of this normally melancholic masterpiece from the brothers Gershwin .
193? - Wilmoth Houdini - I Need a Man
Houdini sings as both himself and a female suitor in this red hot calypso. With this example in particular we can hear how singers were able to portray multiple dramatic roles in music without being tied down by their own identities or even their voices.
"I need a man, I need a man,What in the world is going on here? Do all of these songs have gay subtexts? Was the world a far more tolerant place prior to WWII? Or was homosexuality just so taboo that any queer reading of these songs would have been inconceivable?
But I don't want no good-looking man.
I need a man, that'll work and support me,
A man I can understand.
I need a man that'll love and caress me,
But not a second hand man."
All of these hypotheses have potential partial truth to them, but instead of considering how society has changed its relationship with queerness, we might consider how we have changed our relationship with pop music. Billy Murray exemplifies the old ways of the music industry: he recorded a version of practically every hit song for dozens of record labels from 1902 through the '30s. In the same way that you might select between competing brands of toilet paper today, a turn-of-the-century record store might offer up to a dozen different versions of the same song (and quite possibly half of them would feature Murray). The singer's own persona was displaced by that of the song, and as such the vocalist played a more flexible, histrionic part in the creation of music; consider the "trouser roles" in opera and traditionally all-male casts in English and Japanese theater. The commodification of singers as product-personalities, starting with the superstardom Al Jolson and disseminated by radio, movies, and later television, took the focus away from songs (and songwriters, bandleaders, and instrumentalists) and placed it squarely on the faces of this new generation of singers. Suddenly the personal lives of these celebrities became important consumer information, and we can imagine that record labels began to feel responsible for grooming their stars for the public eye. Rumors of sexual impropriety could sink even a well-established career, so any sexual ambiguity in song lyrics (not to mention the singers themselves) was necessarily censored.
At OCR we don't take kindly to censorship or heterosexism, and we value the integrity of art as it was originally conceived. If you still need to get that bad taste from Luther and Elton out of your ears, here's a more faithful cover from our very own Tomi.
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