in 2015 was the sale lists, streaming services and critics relative agreement. Andres Lokko calls for more friction in music cosiness, and consoles himself with the British grime, American trap and dirty techno.
As it is easy to do this time of year so I read summaries of the past twelve months and nominations for all future annual music award shows. I am waiting for me, ready with paper and notebook to write down the names of artists, albums and songs I should like to hear.
Something new and exciting to discover, that sounds like nothing I’ve heard before. Or at least a song with a capital L that turns up and down on my world in a few minutes.
But this year everything and everyone already super-established, they have already been as shown on the commercial radio rotation lists that they have been embraced by critics. In some cases even already immortalized stamps. Sales charts, streaming services and critics are relatively consistent. Sure it sounds pleasant? Cosy in any way? All forms of friction is gone!
No one can call critics of snobbish! Rock is popular, festive, fullspikat. We have finally achieved absolute consensus. Jippie! In a political context ** call you gladly similar ideas and methodology for populism in pop culture do not. Not right now.
But the culture – and thus cultural criticism – is whether it believes it or not is always a mirror up to contemporary life in general. What you choose to emphasize, how to do it and what not to talk about – the things that the spirit does not have room for.
But in 2015, no one could argue with the love of the maximum number of streams and the desire to predict The next commercial break. For then was it merely an outdated and boring eggs. Or something like that.
I have always expected that music journalism would slowly forced out of the so-called entertainment pages to samas with literature and theater in the cultural pages: more P1 than P3. Instead, the – apparently voluntarily – moved closer to business editors and Gold Egg Dividends.
The stage names may be replaced little by country. But all are equally talented, best in class. They go to the gym. All feature exquisite and bright white teeth. They are bullies from high school, not the bullied.
And they blend into any context, polite and well-mannered as they are. I often wonder why they became brokers instead? Equally at home as obvious on any cooking shows and live on morning TV in the early morning as a Lindex advertising.
Their hits – for it is important that they are just that – are usually written by older male billionaires, uh, know what the kids want. Not unlike the plot of the movie “Big” with Tom Hanks as a toy evolving 12-year-old in an adult master’s body.
Our acclaimed pop stars have gone on artistic schools, mom or dad has something kind of manager role and nourished once time own artistic dreams. The difference between the sports parents who trills children four years of age to become the world’s best tennis or popstjärneri have become blurred.
Music is an athletic performance and, of course, a career. It’s about stamina, endurance and costume changes. If deft dance steps, one million streams, best dressed Elle- or cafe galas and “the nominees in the category Teeth are …”. It is also an eminently skilled entrepreneur.
Is it any wonder to crave away sometimes, so tell me? I have done thorough research that is indeed the case here? No no, it’s clear that I have not. That’s coat, we’re talking about! A subject that is too important to ever turn into numbers.
The heart is the only measuring instrument good enough. Thus, my own heart. And, of course, yours. And pop music have truly been a magnificent solace for my soul in the past year. A year that, for me, has acted disproportionately on British grime, American trap and dirty techno with extra scratchy.
Incredible amounts of free jazz, awkward vocal druid rock from Birmingham neighborhood and deeply religious reggae from the beginning of time. And my inevitable companion of the poor dentalhygienens Name: Fat White Family and Sleaford Mods. None of them seems to have been at the dentist – still less the dental hygienist – in a long time, if ever. For now this feels like my first and most important criterion to even take on someone’s coat.
until Shane MacGowan, toothless singer of The Pogues, in a British TV documentary now and Christmas get their teeth fixed in what is described as “the Mount Everest of dentistry” is quite appealing. Yet I am happy to Shane for the first time in 40 years may be able to eat solid food.
But – be lover of order and pop music ask – is it good for the coat? Absolutely not. I spent a large part of 2015 to feel like a steampunk-figure in a costume film that will buy a horse on the market in the village and study the animal’s teeth before it will prutas. With the small difference that I happily pay considerably more for the yellow-brown tooth rows and few openings. I do not like pop music with the fine teeth. Something is askew with its priorities.
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