8Sided Blog

the scene celebrates itself

How to Disappear Defiantly

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Kellar and his Perplexing Cabinet Mysteries. - Strobridge & Co. - 1894 - via Library of Congress

This post was originally intended for the actual friends I share on Facebook, not necessarily the ‘added friends’ who I don’t know in real life. Over the decades, I’ve made many worldwide acquaintances; sadly, my only link to some is as a Facebook connection. This screed is about deleting my Facebook account, which means forever severing connections with some people I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. This is not a happy post.

I dislike writing these things. I’ve written about this topic before—”fool me once”—and I hope this is the last time. Before disappearing, I could have put this in a Facebook post, but I know the algorithms there will prevent my connections from seeing it. To Facebook (Meta), free speech is a grift. Any dissent is throttled to obscurity. I thought I’d be better off linking to a blog post, though I know the algorithm hates links, too. I’m banking on it hating dissent even more than the link post that possibly sent you here.

The worst thing about these posts is I fear I sound self-righteous and smug. I also know that I’m privileged even to consider quitting Facebook—for some of you, the platform is a sole lifeline to family members or mandatory for your job. I get it. I don’t mean anything here as judgment. If anything, and like most posts on this blog, I’m working through some stuff and trying to figure out where I stand. I write to think, not the other way around, and I only hope some find these ramblings useful.

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In a new piece on Brian Eno in The Guardian, Bette Adriaanse, Brian’s collaborator on the book What Art Does, says, “We’d just met and he said, ‘If we want a new world, we have to start making it right now, and whatever we are doing, we have to make it as though we are in that new world.’ And that just kept singing in my brain.”

I’ve written about a version of this quote that Brian likes bandying about and how it sings in my brain, too. However, Bette’s twist on it suits the present moment with an uncannily tight fit. “We have to start making it right now, and whatever we are doing, we have to make it as though we are in that new world.” The alarm is a piercing scream: we have to start RIGHT NOW. Terrible people rule the discourse, and our best protection against this psychic barrage is to act, within our daily lives, as if we’re reaching toward the world we want.

For me, that’s a world free of cruelty and suffering and without the proliferation of injustice that goes hand-in-hand with those things. Increasingly over the past decade—after many failed battles with what can most charitably be described as ‘bad vibes’—I’ve learned to work harder to base decisions on this metric. It influences what and how I eat, the information I ingest, where I shop, and how I treat or think of others. I’m not great at it, but I’m always aware and trying. And part of this is admitting I’ll always fail. For example, Orlando is a city where you can’t quite live without a car (I’ve tried), and you’ve got to get gas for that car. I’m unaware of any automobile or oil companies that aren’t on the spectrum of doing evil deeds to maximize profit.

Still, there are areas of our lives where we can refuse to participate with companies whose cruelty outweighs any benefits. I do my best to identify these and act accordingly. These are small efforts in a big world, but they make me feel better—I’m working on my new world. And then there’s the contagion factor, where perhaps I can inspire someone else to think twice about eating meat or frequenting sites that traffic in clickbait ‘outrage of the day.’ But, primarily, I’m working on myself. I want to be a better human, and, among other things, that means denying terrible people of my attention and engagement.

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Sometimes, I’ll tell people I’m still a punk rock kid, and part of that is my distrust (I’m being charitable again) of large corporations. I grew up in one of those tiny towns that got swallowed up by Walmart. I also spent my teenage years shouting along to songs like the Minutemen’s “Shit From an Old Notebook” and “The Product.” Never trust a corporation. And suddenly, here comes Facebook (Meta), one of the biggest corporations ever, swallowing us up omnivorously as if we’re those tiny towns of the late ’80s.

Like many of you, I’ve kept a Facebook account for a simple reason: I have friends there, and Facebook is how those friends keep in touch. However, time is a flat circle, and I’ve debated the existence of that account before. There’s been this, and this, and this, and it was obvious a while ago that Facebook was not working toward making the world a better place. I decided I wouldn’t engage on Facebook; I only occasionally posted what I was up to (mainly links to my online writing and podcast work) and maintained ‘business’ pages like the one for the online magazine The Tonearm. That felt like the minimum I could do, but it also often felt too much.

I kept floating along because I was already engaging with other untrustworthy corporations—for starters, the desktop computer I’m typing this on, the cell phone plan I have, and the health insurance I require. Perhaps I’m justifying. But the cruelty and suffering that will dramatically increase over the next four years is an awful reality. If I can disengage with any organization kowtowing to the terrible people fueling this misery, then sooner is the preferred alternative to later.

Meta groveled at an impressive, alarming, and unsurprising speed. I won’t go into it here, but Casey Newton has a comprehensive and disturbing round-up of the depths of Meta’s servile prostration—so far!—in his Platformer newsletter. (If you click on only one link to read from this too-long blog post, please make it that one.) Cruelty (in this case, under the gaslit guise of ‘free speech,‘ but without the accountability that exercising that speech entails in the normal world) is now embedded as Facebook policy, and suffering is sure to follow. It’s terrible people all the way down, and I can’t take it anymore. I’m out.

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I’m thankful that Lawrence, my partner in The Tonearm, agrees. The online magazine’s social media distribution includes Facebook, Instagram, and Threads. Those pages are linked to my Facebook account, so if I go, they go. Lawrence, as disgusted by all of this as I am, wholeheartedly supports my decision to the degree that it’s become ‘our’ decision.

The Tonearm’s online profile might diminish, but that’s favorable to compromising our principles. That said, I’d love for you to support us in this decision by subscribing to The Tonearm’s email newsletter. That newsletter will be our main outreach point outside the site. Our Mastodon and Bluesky accounts will also continue to churn out fun posts.

I’d also like to keep in touch with you. Whether you’re an old or new friend, it stinks that Facebook might be our only connection to each other, and now I’m pulling the plug. By all means, please email me, even if just a quick “hello, here’s my contact info” message. I’m also goofing around on Mastodon and Bluesky if that’s your thing. (As Mastodon is a fully decentralized system that can’t get taken over by terrible people, I encourage you to explore that one further.)

Our continued friendship should not rely on a corporate platform mandated by the power-mad aspirations of terrible people. Please reach out.

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One final zinger: The terrible person in charge of Meta says that people like me are ‘virtue-signaling.’ Maybe you agree. If ‘virtue-signaling’ is publicly exercising a personal moral code by leaving a platform that allows (and algorithmically encourages) the dehumanization of oppressed people, then I suppose that’s what I’m doing. I imagine the opposite of that is flaunting a watch that costs $900,000. I know which one’s celebrated in the world I want to live in.

Here’s how to delete your Facebook account.

Pour Out a Little Coffee

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Today, the final musicREDEF newsletter with Matty Karas as ‘curator’ was sent out. I’ve read this newsletter for several years — it’s been a morning coffee companion — and though the curated links to breaking and notable music stories are the main draw for most, Matty’s commentary always brought the newsletter to the forefront of my inbox. Matty’s voice, his humor, his often on-target opinions, his moving eulogies, his constant frustration over things like the under-representation of women in the music industry and frequent gun-related fatalities of young rap artists — it often felt like I was having a conversation with Matty. So, when he dropped the news of his departure yesterday, it was like a good friend had just told me he was moving out of town for good.

Matty was also an early booster of this blog you’re reading, which is another personal bond I have with musicREDEF. A short news item about Matty in Variety mentions that “if you were lucky enough to have him link or retweet one of your articles — and you never had to send him anything because there was a 95% chance he’d already read it — you knew you were doing something right.” I don’t think I ever sent Matty one of my blog posts, but he picked up on them multiple times. And as I started getting serious about writing on here (before it seems I got unserious, but more on that someday), getting linked in musicREDEF was a boon to my ambition and ego.

Well, maybe a little too much ego stroke as I found myself thinking, “Will Matty be into this? Will I get a link?” whenever I embarked on a particularly meaty post. That overthinking wasn’t healthy and contributed to a bit of burnout, but that’s not Matty’s fault. And, honestly, I’m thankful that I went through that period of striving for musicREDEF linkbait. I ended up learning a lot about why I write, why I do this blog, and how I’m the only audience I should be satisfying. But, yes, as the Variety quote stated, it helped me feel like I was doing something right.

I know I’m hardly alone in already missing the prospect of Matty’s latest thoughts on what the hell is going on in this thing we call the music industry. I’ll also miss the prompts — musicREDEF gave me lots to think about, and more than a few blog posts were inspired by those curated links. But I can’t imagine Matty will become silent. Instead, I anticipate he’ll find other avenues, perhaps even his own (blog it, Matty!), for deciphering the madness of this industry and its artists. And, as he and REDEF boss Jason Hirschhorn are presently choosing a worthy replacement to curate musicREDEF, we may soon end up with daily double-shots of indispensable commentary.

Thanks, Matty, and best of luck. Onward. 🚀

Punching the Disinfo Machine

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This Spotify dust-up is fascinating, isn’t it? I spent much of the last 48 hours talking with people about it, explaining what’s going on, and mildly debating it (though please remember that I don’t argue on the internet). People have questions and there’s still a lot to understand about a situation that’s starting to feel like a runaway train. I thought it would be fun and helpful to do a self-Q&A to clear up some things and offer an opinion on why I believe this is a meaningful moment.


• Why pick on Spotify? There are awful content and disinformation podcasts distributed by Apple, Amazon, and more. Is it hypocritical to leave Spotify but remain with the others?

It’s hard not to argue that under late capitalism any large corporation will end up going down a dark path (just ask the folks who eventually removed “Don’t be evil” as their unofficial motto). Thus sole reliance on any corporation, especially for one’s artistic output, is something to avoid whenever possible. There’s also the messy perception of shared endorsement when the platform one relies on does nasty things.

While disinformation is undesirable on any platform (and the climate change denial stuff concerns me just as much as the pandemic stuff) there is a difference in how Spotify participates in its distribution. Spotify’s relationship with Joe Rogan’s podcast involves a layer that’s more complex than other negligent platforms that host disinformation podcasts.

Spotify paid Joe Rogan over 100 million dollars for exclusive rights to the podcast. That’s a lot. And artists and subscribers aren’t entirely wrong in feeling like they help pay for that by utilizing the platform. And, by paying this much for a single property, it’s in Spotify’s interest to relentlessly promote that property. In my experience, Rogan’s podcast is the top podcast recommendation on the Spotify dashboard a lot more often than it isn’t. I’ve never listened to a podcast through Spotify in my life but, almost without fail, there it is. Recommended for me and, I’m sure, recommended for you as well.

Those are the things that Neil Young et al. find most disturbing, which differ from, say, how Apple hosts toxic podcasts on its platform. This doesn’t excuse Apple or anyone else — pretty much every platform is guilty to some degree. Which I think is another reason why we’re picking on Spotify: there’s a sense of helplessness in the sea of disinformation and targeting Spotify feels slightly hopeful. It’s a message delivered to a company financially invested in the disinformation and a tangible loss (in invested money or share price) might make other platforms think twice.

Admittedly, this sounds quixotic. But I don’t think that’s a reason not to strive for a world we’d like to live in.

• Why are Neil Young and Joni Mitchell the ones pulling music off Spotify and not any current top artists?

The particulars of major label artist deals are varied and tricky and often put the artist at a disadvantage in distribution decisions with their catalog. (I released three albums through a major in the late ’90s and there is no way that I’m able to pull those off Spotify.) No matter how big newer artists are (and I’m talking ones who came up in the last 20 years) they are most likely still locked into contracts that last multiple releases and decades. So, it’s not surprising that ‘legacy’ artists are ones able to do this as they’ve gone through at least a few renegotiations, theoretically able to get better terms and more control each time.

But — many legacy artists also have their hands tied, thanks to those huge payout publishing acquisition deals that have been happening. Neil Young may have negotiated the final say over where his songs can appear in his recent deal (and Warner Bros is an accomodating partner) but it’s possible Bob Dylan or Bruce Springsteen didn’t. We don’t know. Related: this tweet from David Crosby.

• What about Taylor Swift? She kept her music off Spotify before. Wasn’t the whole point of leaving Big Machine Records to gain control of her music rights?

As for Taylor Swift, we can only guess at why she won’t (or will she) do anything. She did sign a new deal with Universal Music Group after her fights with Spotify and Apple, so her amount of control may have changed (and I assume she was aided in those fights by a label that was apparently sympathetic with her wishes, which would be ironic). Yes, her owning her masters was publicly a big part of the Universal deal, but I bet that ownership comes over time (10 years after the release date on a recording, for example) rather than right away — but different than the perpetuity of her Big Machine terms so better for her in the long run.

Plus, the fact that Swift has an antagonistic relationship with her former label which controls most of her recordings probably means she couldn’t remove everything even if Universal agreed.

• OK, if the artists can’t remove music from Spotify shouldn’t they at least all speak out?

Yes, a lot of these artists that don’t have control over their recordings could and probably should speak out — and some are! But there’s the danger everyone doing the “thoughts and prayers” thing could become performative overkill and fade with no real bite like tweeting a black box did. In my opinion, if an artist really wants to make an impact, don’t mention Spotify at all in posts, on the artist’s website, and in public (unless to occasionally remind listeners not to go there) — send fans to other platforms. Bandcamp’s a great choice.

• I can’t help but think that Neil Young and Joni Mitchell won’t have enough impact. Only older music fans care about them, not the demographic that Spotify wants to reach.

Hey, I’m a Gen X’er who likes Neil Young — I was converted after seeing him out-feedback Sonic Youth in the early ’90s. But, okay, Neil and Joni may mainly appeal to the ‘olds.’ You know what, though? Large and important parts of the music industry are still being run by the olds (including the journalistic side). The impact may be subtler and greater than you might think.

• Where do you think this is going?

My hope is that we’re another step closer to a split in the music industry and how music is consumed. That wouldn’t be anything new — until streaming came along, the independent label and artist ecosystem existed separately from the corporate one with some overlap. The introduction of streaming brought the promise that those sides could live peacefully under one roof (or platform). We’re starting to see the problems and ethical conflicts brought about by that notion. Here’s something from 2019 I wrote on this topic and, surprise, Neil Young plays a role in that post, too.

A Certain Smoothness

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Everybody’s Languishing → Adam Grant’s article in The New York Times on “languishing” seems to have connected with a lot of people. Grant defines languishing as “a sense of stagnation and emptiness. It feels as if you’re muddling through your days, looking at your life through a foggy windshield.” Jason Kottke spoke for all of us when he commented, “Yeeeeeep. Yep. Yep. 1000% how I’ve been feeling today and on and off for months now.” 

We expected unnerving feelings at the beginning of the pandemic. There were warnings to not give in to frustration and sadness, not to kick ourselves if lockdown’s supposed extra at-home time didn’t result in our replication of Newton’s Year of Wonders. Many of us, of course, were hit hard emotionally. But now that there’s light at the end of the tunnel — thanks in part to vaccines, actual leadership, the economy surviving — we should all be Snoopy-dancing, right? Instead, some of us are languishing.

I recently looked back on my journal from a year ago, a reminder of how I felt in the early days of COVID-times. Unsurprisingly, I was despondent in uncertainty, but I was getting things done. I sent an episode of my email newsletter out every week for like eight (or more) straight weeks. I was blogging all the time. And I was continuing to make small moves on the professional side with my music publishing and consulting gigs.

But, man, these last couple of months have been TOUGH. I’m appreciative and thankful to get through the past year — for one thing, I and all of my loved ones are fully vaccinated — but motivation is in the outhouse. I’m no longer consistent with my newsletter, and it feels like I haven’t blogged here in ages. I’m getting professional work done, but my pace is slower than Béla Tarr’s camera trolly. 

That’s why Grant’s article resonates. It’s reassurance — Grant’s nail-on-the-head description of ‘languishing’ confirms that it’s not just me. Whew. And, magically, naming this condition is a great help. Says Grant, “Psychologists find that one of the best strategies for managing emotions is to name them … it could help to defog our vision, giving us a clearer window into what had been a blurry experience.” See also: Steven Pressfield’s technique of naming “the Resistance.”

The article contains tactical advice for dealing with the anguish of languishing. Grant suggests adding small challenges in your day as completing these tasks is a mood enhancer. I assume scheduling challenges in the morning is a good move, to get on the good foot. I’m guilty of usually mulling about for the first few hours of the day, coffee in hand, stressing out about the day ahead more and more as the minutes pass. How about I take that coffee to my desk and write a little something for the blog? That’s a small challenge that always feels fantastic upon completion. This tactic also reinforces that elusive and necessary daily writing practice. And Grant is correct — the day adopts a certain smoothness when the morning begins with a decent word count. 

We’ll see how it goes. As usual, I’ve got plans (lots of ’em), and I want to do them. I’m ready to stomp this ‘languishing’ sensation into the dirt and enjoy the eventual fruits of our post-pandemic season.

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Unwitting Idol → In a story that someone is undoubtedly going to option for a movie, Vladislav Ivanov found himself contractually obligated to compete in a Chinese boy band competition show. Initially hired as a translator, the Russian’s good looks inspired the offer to “try a new life” and join the high-stakes contest. Ivanov quickly realized that ‘member of a boy band’ was not one of his aspirations. Unfortunately, he was held to song-and-dance servitude under threat of a fine if he broke his agreement. The only way out was if the audience voted him off the show:

Using the stage name Lelush, Ivanov told viewers “don’t love me, you’ll get no results”, and repeatedly pleaded with people not to vote for him. His first song was a half-hearted Russian rap, in stark contrast to the high-pop of his competitors. “Please don’t make me go to the finals, I’m tired,” he said in a later episode.

As you may have guessed, this behavior only endeared the beleaguered Ivanov to his ‘fans’ who repeatedly voted to keep him in the competition. Some suspect Ivanov’s resistance was a calculated maneuver, like the reality show contestant who assumes the villain role because people want to see what villains will do next. But a friend verifies Ivanov’s reluctance is real: “He sent me a SOS message saying he couldn’t stand it.” Luckily for Ivanov (but not the rest of us, tbh), his pleading was finally answered. The viewers relented and voted him off the show in the presumably tense final competition.

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Gaze Craze → I had a feeling that the kids are alright, but this clinches it. Following the curious sea-shanty trend, Gen Z’ers are now resurfacing the classics of shoegaze on TikTok. Videos of whippersnappers vibing to My Bloody Valentine, Cocteau Twins, and other favorites from before they were born fill my heart with warm fuzzies. Vice looks at this mini-phenomenon and concludes that this moment — the pandemic come-down moment! — is ripe for a shoegaze revival:

16-year-old Jude Atkins says they got into shoegaze “about a year ago”… “The atmosphere of shoegaze really fits with the bleak, post-COVID, world we’re in. Everyone’s trapped inside and shoegaze has a very dreamy quality to it,” says Atkins. 

The Vice piece also features an observation from music critic Mark Richardson that shoegaze’s sonic gender blurring, often (sonically) equal parts masculine and feminine, appeals to a generation that strongly values inclusion. He mentions the mixed-gender membership of bands like Slowdive and Lush, but I’m thinking more of the vocals on Loveless — it’s known that some of the songs’ ‘female’ voices are actually an electronically processed Kevin Shields.

The shoegaze sound has always nudged from the periphery — one can hear hints of its influence in music that’s surprisingly mainstream — but the true test of a revival is when new musicians take up the mantle. Well, apparently, this is happening. Spotify reported twice as many recordings classified as ‘shoegaze’ released in 2019 than in 1996. Granted, part of the increase is due to the ease of releasing music now vs. the required manufacturing expenses of the ’90s, but still.

Personally, I won’t believe we’re in the throes of a full-on shoegaze revival until everyone starts listening to Black Tambourine again, especially this song:

You Could Be a Rapscallion

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Can’t Get You Out Of My Head → I’m looking forward to seeing Can’t Get You Out Of My Head, the latest documentary epic from Adam Curtis. He’s expanding on his favorite topic: how those in power unscrupulously maintain their positions in a world that’s increasingly outside of their control. The ideas in Curtis’s docs are heavy and frightening, but his style is endearing. That style includes a dizzying montage of images usually sourced from discarded video newsfeeds, big text in an Arial font, his hypnotic “as I slowly count to ten …”-like narration, and a slew of impeccable music selections.  

Most likely, that music is why Can’t Get You Out Of My Head is presently geo-locked and only accessible to UK viewers via BBC iPlayer. Without getting too deep in the music rights weeds, the United Kingdom has a unique set-up where much of the music registered through its collective management organizations (CMOs) is pre-cleared for synchronization on national television. In other words, if a song is available through the UK CMOs, then a BBC television program can use the music without negotiating a license — the fee is already set. This means songs can get placed in British television programs quickly and without fuss. And if you believe what Adam Curtis says in this interview, he was still choosing final songs as recently as two weeks ago. But the downside of this type of license is it’s only valid for the UK — these rights don’t extend to other countries, and that’s why you can’t see this (and most other BBC shows) on iPlayer if you’re not in Ol’ Blighty.1If that’s the case, your new friend’s initials might be VPN. 

I’m sure the producers and music supervisors are presently working on the appropriate licenses for international audiences. Clearing music for global viewing isn’t quick and easy and could take months. But my money is on Can’t Get You Out Of My Head appearing on Amazon Prime eventually, as that’s where a number of Curtis’s previous documentaries are sitting. Or, you could be a rapscallion and keep an eye on YouTube. 

In the meantime, check out this New Yorker profile on Adam Curtis. Sections of the piece describe his process, which is perplexing and fascinating. Curtis regularly watches hours of random footage on fast forward until: 

When something catches Curtis’s eye, he slows the film down and makes a note. “VVVVVVVVG shots—beam plays over sleeping children,” Curtis wrote, of a BBC documentary about psychiatric therapies from 1970, in a viewing note that he shared with me. The number of “V” s indicates how good Curtis thinks the footage is. (I counted twenty-three “V” s before one “G.”) He then organizes his impressions into broad categories: whether something helps tell the story, or illustrates an idea, or reflects broader themes about the history of the world. “It’s messy,” Curtis said. “But I have a very good memory.”

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Cop Rock → Speaking of music rights and takedowns and whatnot, check out this bizarre story about a cop in Beverly Hills attempting to use Instagram’s copyright protections to stop a livestreamed recording. As an activist was filming an interaction, the officer inexplicably pulls out his phone and starts loudly playing Sublime’s “Santeria.” 

Based on what’s visible in the video, [the officer] seems to be banking on Instagram’s copyright algorithm detecting the music, and either ending the live stream outright or muting it. Or, even if the algorithm does not detect the song immediately, someone — for example, a disgruntled police officer—could simply wait until a user posts an archive of the live video on their page, then file a complaint with Instagram that it contains copyrighted material.

Though Instagram has strict music policies, the rules have loosened. Most music labels and publishers have deals in place with Facebook/Instagram to allow music. And clips with this music is generally okay when the “recorded audio [is not] the primary purpose of the video” (quoting Instagram).

But some songs still pose potential problems and takedowns, such as those recorded by The Beatles. And that’s not lost on the Beverly Hills police force. In a separate incident, the same activist questioned an officer who pulled out his phone and treated live viewers to “In My Life.”

So far, the videos are still online despite the policemen’s efforts. But these strange tactics are another reminder that we’ve already fallen into some bizarro-tech Black Mirror timeline.

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Shea Betts – Enna → NYC musician/librarian Shea Betts visits us again with a dose of aural contemplation on his tranquil new album, Enna. I recently reviewed Sea / Sky, his debut release, and its overdriven, ‘natural-wonder’ ambient music style. While that album conveyed a windy skyline meeting rough seas, Enna captures an extended episode of pleasance and stillness. And with the cover art foliage and titles like “First Light,” “Bloom,” and “Sunday,” one gets the feeling that spring is in the air. 

The album’s method resembles languid chords played on organ or harmonium, realized through warm, synthesized textures that sit somewhere between the two. Shifting movements in the mid-range are often accented with sparkling overtones (most prominently on “First Light” and “August“), barely hinting at melody but still feeling familiar and song-like. 

These days I’m drawn to music that I best describe as “reassuring,” something that I can put on as I sit back and clear the attic. Enna fits the bill. And the songs are relatively short — we usually expect a single track in this drone-ish style to take up a side of an LP — but the spaces left in-between songs suggest a moment to breathe and reflect. I’m not sure if this was Betts’ intention and that he meant Enna as a sort of sonic balm, but its tones indeed do wonders for a restless psyche. 

Infect the Mainstream

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Spotify Song Purge → There’s something fishy going on in streaming-land, according to entertainment lawyer Wallace Collins:

It appears that on January 1, 2021, Spotify enacted a massive, global takedown of music from thousands of independent artists. Upon information and belief, some 750,000 songs were removed, the vast majority of which appear to have used Distrokid for distribution. This appears to be targeted at any independent artist who used a third party playlist or independent marketing service to promote their music – or any third party advertising outside of the Spotify platform … in the case of my particular clients, we are talking about legitimate third party advertising and promotional services as opposed to “bots” or other artificial means of generating increased streams.

It’s worth noting that Spotify has a financial stake in Distrokid, which was also named by the platform as one of its ‘preferred distributors.’ If Collins’s info is accurate, then this is an embarrassing moment for Distrokid. Hypebot spoke to a source within Spotify who claims the purge wasn’t as dramatic and didn’t favor Distrokid.

I also wonder, outside of Collins’s clients (who surely make up only a tiny percentage of that 750k), if these removals are mostly due to bootlegs and identical track schemes. Spotify has received recent bad press about podcasts filled with unlicensed songs and the proliferation of ‘white noise scammers.’ Knowledge of these issues has floated around for a while, but a featured article in Variety might be the thing to inspire this sudden action.

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The Toxic Music Svengali → Phil Spector’s death is renewing uncomfortable — but necessary — conversations about the artist’s separation from the art. Generally, it’s okay to appreciate the beautiful art of horrible people. But the artist doesn’t get a pass when the art is brilliant and influential. BBC News’s flubbing of Spector’s obituary headline illustrates the outrage of not understanding this nuance. Laura Snapes addresses this eloquently today in The Guardian:

Spector is known as the innovator of the “wall of sound” recording technique and countless moments of pop sublimity. They are inextricable from his everyday barbarism, waving guns around and holding them to musicians’ heads to enforce his will. The combination created a pernicious infamy: if the songs are so majestic, then the behaviour must be justifiable. Where Spector’s famous “boom-cha-boom-cha” drum sound on Be My Baby (played by Hal Blaine) instantly summons a pristine moment in pop history, Spector’s living legacy is that of music industry abuse going unchecked because the art is perceived as worth it – or worse, considered “proof” of wild and untameable genius.

The whole piece is worth reading, addressing a history of behind-the-scenes producers (all men) using aloofness and supposed genius to excuse terrible behavior. As Snapes notes, “Not all producers are violent predators, but the role offers ample cover for anyone who chooses to exploit it.”

It’s fine to continue enjoying the cavernous qualities of Spector’s production, but not without remembering (and discussing) the man’s cruelty. One simple part in punishment for abuse and awful deeds is linking the work to the context of the monster who had a hand in creating it. That doesn’t necessarily make the work any less brilliant, but can serve to instruct others of their responsibilities as artists and mentors. 

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Hyperpop Redux → A tip of the hat to Joe Muggs for turning me on to this educational video about the emergent genre of hyperpop. I previously gave hyperpop some ink in my examination of genres here on the blog, and I remain fascinated. In a clickbaity way, the video title asks if hyperpop is “the future of pop.” The short answer is “no,” but hyperpop is undoubtedly influencing the future of popular music. I believe Simon Reynolds once pointed out that one can look to the extremes in genres for oncoming trends that will infect the mainstream. 100 Gecs might not become pop, but dialing back their excesses creates a blueprint for an edgier top 40. And, as you sample recent work of some of the artists named in the video, you’ll hear moves away from some of hyperpop’s defining characteristics. It’s a genre in flux, which is evidence of its potential longevity and influence. 

Dream Songs

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Here’s a bit of fun to close out this Xmas weekend. This video, by British comedian (and accomplished Bowie impressionist) Adam Buxton, imagines the recording session for “Warszawa,” a track from David Bowie’s 1977 album Low. Buxton’s video isn’t new, and you’ve probably seen it before. But this is one of those rare things that gives me a chuckle and brightens my mood every time I watch it. I’m probably responsible for at least one hundred of its 600k+ views.

Adam Buxton also interviewed Brian Eno on the former’s excellent podcast. A good sport, Eno refers to this video as “one of the funniest things I’ve seen on the internet” but, “unfortunately, I keep meeting people who think it’s a real depiction of how things were between us in the studio.” Don’t make the same mistake, dear reader. 

The interview, in two parts, is casual and fun. Here it is on SoundCloud:

I also ran across Tony Barrell’s history of Brian Eno’s solo song “The True Wheel,” from 1974’s Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy. (I love in-depth articles that break down the origins of individual songs and recordings.) It turns out that the song is a reenactment of a mescaline-fueled dream. Even some of the exact lyrics appeared to Eno in his fevered slumber:

[Brian] had a surreal dream about a bunch of girls, which included his friend Randi, serenading some sailors who had just come into port. The men weren’t exactly regular sailors: “They were sort of astronauts,” he clarified later, “but with all the psychological aspects of sailors.” […] The girls in the dream were singing: “We are the 801 / We are the central shaft.” When he returned to the real world, Eno jotted the phrases down and realised he had something interesting (to use one of his favourite words). It sounded meaningful, though he didn’t understand it, and it used the first-person plural. “I woke up absolutely jubilant, because this was the first bit of lyric I’d written in this new style.”

Barrell touches on other songs and lyrics written while asleep, including when Paul McCartney famously had a dream that bestowed “Yesterday.” Have you ever had a song, or anything, given to you in a dream? 

When I was in my early 20s, I dreamed that I was in the passenger seat of a car that was speeding precariously down a dirt road. It was night, and I could only see the road and the surrounding forest in headlights, kind of like in a David Lynch movie. I was frightened and looked over to the driver’s side to see who was at the wheel. It was Lou Reed. 

Lou noticed that I was scared, so he looked at me reassuringly (while still driving) and sang a song to calm my nerves. The song went, “You’re so evil, oh Macbeth … you’re so wicked, oh Macbeth …” 

I woke up and hit smartly hit ‘record’ on the boombox next to my bed. I sang the fresh song and then fell back to sleep. In the morning, I looked at the boombox and wondered if that really happened. I hit ‘play,’ and there’s half-asleep me singing the lyrics and melody for this dream song. It wasn’t bad. A few years later, the first band I joined in Orlando played the song (with me singing). I have a recording of it somewhere in that box of 4-track tapes I mentioned in the previous post.

From the clandestine processes in the studio to the shadowy visions in our heads, music (and music-making) remains a delightful mystery.

Update: Adam Buxton has released a delightful follow-up to his video above to commemorate David Bowie’s 74th birthday, almost five years after his death. Check out the “Ashes to Ashes” Clown Suit Story.

Hitting Me Sideways

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Mapping the Creator Economy → Online tools are aplenty. It’s impossible to keep up. To the rescue: Hugo Amsellem is doing his best to track various ”companies are building stand-alone tools to help creators create more and better content.” His article is an invaluable, bookmark-able resource, listing over 150 apps and sites that can help you monetize, build an audience, and manage your content business. Hugo wasn’t thinking of record labels and recording artists when he put this together, but there is a lot here for the music-minded. Side note: If you’re an artist manager, or want to be one, familiarizing yourself with all of these tools (and trying them out) is now part of your job. The most valuable managers will learn the differences between tools and platforms, knowing the ones that are the best fit for each represented artist. You do the research and make recommendations. It’s your artist’s job to use them and create.1And if you’re an artist without a manager, don’t stress or spend too much time on tools. Just quickly sample what’s available and trust your first impressions when choosing.

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Unendurable Line → Here’s a brilliant short film that illustrates the “thresholds hidden in everyday life” and “how things change from A to B when a parameter exceeds a certain value.” The examples are seemingly mundane, but tension is amplified by charting the distance to the threshold, accompanied by dramatic choral music. It’s brilliant, and more of these videos from Design Ah! (a Japanese educational show that explores different types of creative thinking for viewers of all ages) are available here. (h/t Kottke)

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Body Meπa – The Work Is Slow → Body Meπa named themselves after an Ornette Coleman album (though Coleman’s lacks the crafty pi sign). They create an occasionally-at-odds-with-itself rumble that isn’t too far off (at least conceptually) from what Coleman was transmitting on that album. Music critic Sasha Frere-Jones, Grey McMurray, Melvin Gibbs, and Greg Fox handle a standard guitar-guitar-bass-drums line-up but, in righteous post-punk fashion, Body Meπa sonically exiles standards. The Work Is Slow is Body Meπa’s new album, comprised of mesmerizing riffage, cometary improvisations, and a sharp rhythm section guiding the reins. There’s no nonsense to the production (in the stereo field, Sasha is credited with “right guitar” while Grey wields the one leaning to the left), but the variety of squeals, squalls, and cyclical melodic phrasings bends the album away from simplicity. And you kinda want to see just what is happening to these guitars. A good intro track is “Money Tree” with its opening eterna-looped guitar and double bass action (I think — which would be a call-back to Sasha’s dual-bassed former band Ui), calmly landing in Tortoise territory. Body Meπa’s album has earned many listens in my lockdown space, a noble achievement in a time when new music temptations are relentlessly hitting me sideways. As for the title The Work Is Slow, Sasha had this to say in an installment of his essential email newsletter: “I use ‘the work’ as a way of describing a daily practice of spiritual health and emotional sobriety, but you may have another discipline that fits the bill.” A limited number of bumper stickers with the phrase are available.

Infamous Bathrooms

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Listening After Months in Lockdown → In The Quietus, Daniel Dylan Wray (who claims to listen to five new albums a day) feels that 2020 deadened music’s healing power for him. As the months (and pandemic) dragged on, music only added to the deluge of information (“Pressing play sometimes felt like opening up Twitter …”), and silence was often preferable. Though Daniel still experienced euphoric music moments, a lot of music (or the act of listening to it) felt “draped in sadness.”

Daniel has a theory. His 2020 listening experiences are happening in a singular space — the same place where he’s locked down, living monotonous days, working from home, endlessly worrying. He’s not bonding with music in grungy nightclubs or record shops, or discovering new tunes with friends, or equating albums to time spent on road trips or in unfamiliar cities. Daniel explains:

The process of discovering and experiencing music is intrinsically linked to a sense of place. We all have indelible memories – from the profound to the prosaic – attached to where we were during a musical epiphany or awakening. This year that process has been hacked down to nothing more than sitting in front of a computer screen at home. … Music is a multi-sensory experience, from the sweat and pulse of a club to the stench of stagnant gig venue carpets, and from rifling through fusty charity shop records to perfectly programmed light shows that dazzle the eye as music tickles the ear and chugging smoke machines engulf you. 2020 has robbed music of these other senses.

He has a point. I do equate many of my favorite songs and albums with events, people, or places. And I don’t go out as much as I used to (even before COVID-times), which might be why I don’t have too many current songs with strong memetic connective tissue. 

Music critic Ann Powers writes about similar feelings in her moving new essay Diary of a Fugue Year. Like Daniel, she refers to music as another layer of information to digest. But she also finds that her mindset toward music has transformed after months of lockdown, flavoring the act of listening with a strange intimacy: 

Music makes me yearn for what feels lost: a whisper pushing breath onto my neck, a voice singing loud into a crowd yelling back at it. In my solitude, though, recordings become a lifeline. Spending time with music has never felt more private, a way of both sheltering from and mediating the noise from outside. At the same time, the sound always takes me somewhere; it’s often the only way I hear a stranger’s voice on any given day. See what I’m getting at? Nothing’s got just one meaning. In a year crowded with contradictions, music’s way of enhancing emotion can feel clarifying, or it can overwhelm. Like every other form of information, music is reaching people through static-filled channels, distorted, muffled, feeding back.

We know many new practices will linger after the pandemic: working from home, live-streamed concerts, and telemedicine, to name a few. We might also listen differently, our ears heightened to receive the emotion of the moment. At home, songs will continue to sound much more personal than before COVID-times. And in the wild, music discovery becomes a visceral experience like few others. 

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CBGB Virtual Tour → Experience the grime, grit, and magnificence of CBGB & OMFUG just before shutting its doors in 2006. I was lucky to visit the club in 1991 (Monster Magnet were playing — this was during CMJ Music Marathon), but I could only handle about five minutes as the place was so hot, tiny, and packed. I had a better time next door at the Gallery, where I watched Jad Fair stomp his feet and sing songs a cappella.1He mic’ed the floor so his foot stomps would be amplified. The bemused sound guy spent 10 minutes moving microphones around until Jad was satisfied with the sound of his stomps. This virtual tour is a trip, though. Don’t miss out on the infamous bathrooms. And Unsane were quite strategic with their band stickers, weren’t they? (h/t Joe Livingston)

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Matthew Cardinal – Asterisms → If calming those pandemic nerves is the aim, then Asterisms is the game. Matthew Cardinal, a member of the Edmonton band nêhiyawak (described in the press release as ‘moccasingaze’), pleasingly layers tones and washes of sound throughout his solo debut’s enchanting 43 minutes. There are some things to decipher here — the song titles are dates without years, and it’s not clear if “Dec 31st” and “Jan 8th” are yet to happen or already passed. Maybe these are the days the tracks were recorded, or when best to listen. And the album’s title either references typography or astronomy, both realms where the term “asterism” exists. This fuzziness reflects the music, lost somewhere between past and future, between rigid text-space and intangible star fields. There are hints of melodies that fade in and out of each other, and occasionally a Schulze-esque synth sound will bubble up from the haze. And with nearly half the tracks clocking in at under three minutes, these aren’t elongated, drifty drones, but the shorties also don’t come off as unfinished snapshots. There’s enough variety here to imbue a thoughtful motion to the album, as recalling past days in our lives reveals different colors and fading experiences. Most importantly, Asterisms is a comforting listen, and I happily give in to its spell. Matthew Cardinal has confidently earned his gold star among the busy field of 2020’s ambient exporters. (P.S. Here’s a kaleidoscopic video for “Dec 4th.”)

Wiki-Nature Wordplay

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Album Art From The Fall's Grotesque

Bandcamp’s Live Stream Platform → After some September trial runs with live online concerts from Mary Lattimore, Matmos, and Sarah Davachi, Bandcamp has announced a public launch of its live stream platform. This live stream feature is built from the foundation of a retail music site instead of a video networking tool adapted for music performance. And because the backend is Bandcamp — and pretty much every band has a Bandcamp presence — there’s a much lower barrier to entry than something like Dice. 

Livestreams will incorporate many of Bandcamp’s existing tools, such as fan messaging and merch sales. An added feature is a live chat window, which includes notifications when fans buy merch items. Bands can sell tickets to their live stream concerts, with Bandcamp taking 10% of the revenue (and no Ticketmaster-ish hidden fees). Until the first of April 2021, Bandcamp will waive this fee. 

I find the announcement exciting. It’s, at the same time, a natural next-step for Bandcamp and an outside-of-the-box move. All bets are on this live stream platform being a big hit, positioning Bandcamp as a contender in this field once the pandemic subsides. Live stream concerts aren’t going anywhere, folks. 

I’d love to see Bandcamp continue developing the platform to add things like geofencing, which would allow bands to do virtual ‘tours.’ And maybe an option to chain bands together under a single ticket for festivals and opening slots. I also want to see the bands step things up — to use this in surprising and unusual ways, rather than simply livestreaming some musicians playing in a living room. 

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The Fall in 1980 → The beginning of this article on The Quietus posits that your favorite album by The Fall is the first one you’ve heard. They’ve got a kazillion albums, so I can see how difficult it is to choose a favorite objectively. The first one I heard was This Nation’s Saving Grace, rescued from a cut-out bin while I was in college. Yeah, it’s my favorite. But, man, I do like a lot of other Fall albums, too.

Angus Batey, the writer of this Quietus piece, is fascinated by Fall singer Mark E. Smith’s lyrics. I’d say that’s the case with all listeners of this often challenging band. But Batey alludes to connections and references I hadn’t realized, portraying Smith’s oeuvre as a self-contained musical wiki of sorts. The Fall exercised intricate and interconnected world-building through the band’s presentation, lyrics, and identifiable sound. What’s remarkable is that Smith latched on to this, nearly formed, at such a young age. Early Fall was more ramshackle, but it’s still The Fall we recognize years later. The essential bits were always in place.

Here’s Batey on the wiki-nature of Smith’s wordplay:

Where to begin? And at what point would you believe you’d finished figuring out what the hell was going on? Perhaps it’s better not to start, and just delight in how [Mark E.] Smith uses his brilliant band like a stage conjuror uses the cape and top hat – as a diversion and a distraction, cloaking the deception. It’s little wonder contemporary critics baffled by Grotesque thought Smith was hiding something. In many ways they were right. […] Anyone trying to critique and catalogue and contextualise this stuff as it came out was doomed to fail. It’s too deep, too densely packed, too rich in allusion and scope and too well-read and learned in its reference points, even in an era with so much more information so easily locatable as is the case in 21st-century internet-enabled present. Back in 1980, nobody really had a chance.

If you’re not familiar with The Fall, then I’m not sure if this article will pique your curiosity or drive you away. But The Fall were that kind of band, really. If it’s curiosity, then I’d start with This Nation’s Saving Grace — though, as it’s my first Fall album, I’m biased.

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Steve Jansen – “The Extinct Suite” (video) → I randomly happened across this video for a song by Steve Jansen, ex-Japan drummer and otherwise storied musician and producer. The tune hails from 2017’s ambient solo album of the same name. “The Extinct Suite” — the only track on the album — is 56-minutes long, but we are treated to a nearly 5-minute excerpt for the video. This video is remarkable, created by German photographer and animator Anna Malina. Her Tumblr blog shows some of the original prints and their assembly for this dark, visual feast. I was intensely into photography while in college — my second nostalgic college reference in this post — but got bored after a few years. If I had the vision to stretch the medium’s possibilities as Malina does, I bet I would have kept at it.