8Sided Blog

the scene celebrates itself

The Punk Rock Dream

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I’m watching this Minutemen concert video from 1985 (“And when reality appears digital,” Mike Watt soothsays at 18:57) and thinking about the punk rock dream. American independent music was at its height, disadvantaged, compared to its British counterpart, by the sheer size of the country. For the first time, bands like these were finding nationwide renown without a major label attached. (A quick pause to recommend Michael Azerrad’s essential book Our Band Could Be Your Life if you’d like to learn more about these scenes.) But the dream — yes, the punk rock dream — was autonomy. Self-releasing, self-distributing, self-promoting, self-administrating, self-booking. Some, like Ian MacKaye’s still inspirational Dischord outfit, came closer than anyone had before.

Fast forward a few years after that Minutemen concert. I was nineteen years old and wanted more than anything to start a record label. But those were ancient times, and I had no idea how to manufacture vinyl or find a distributor and doubted it was possible from my lonely North Louisiana dorm room anyway. So I dreamed — came up with names, imagined the types of bands I’d sign, scribbled fake logos, studied the discographies (and personalities) of labels like SST, Alternative Tentacles, and Factory.

What a time. Here I am (guitar) at nineteen, playing something resembling punk rock with my friends (photo by David):

“Home Taping Is Killing Music” was a strange ’80s PR campaign by the British Phonographic Industry, a trade organization representing major labels and distributors. We read that slogan to mean “the music industry” as taping our friends’ records made more music, not less. The punks agreed. Alternative Tentacles released Dead Kennedys’ In God We Trust Inc. on a one-sided cassette — the b-side was blank. The cassette displayed the familiar tape-and-crossbones icon (now appropriated by The Pirate Bay) and the phrase, “Home taping is killing record industry profits!” Below that: “We left this side blank so you can help.”

The major labels were the target of our ire, but, in reality, our problem was with the corporate gatekeepers. Sure, we had our gatekeepers — the fanzines, the college radio DJs, the cool punk rock clubs. Not all gatekeepers are bad, but those corporate gatekeepers insisted on shoving their agenda-culture down our throats. 

Because of this attitude, some celebrated when Napster supposedly (but not really) brought down the music industry. That era offered a glimpse of the power of self-distribution, aided by the internet revolution. As bandwidth got faster and tools more sophisticated and egalitarian, predictions about ‘the end of the major label’ were common (guilty as charged). “No more gatekeepers!” was the rallying cry — that emerging teenage bands would soon have the same chances at an audience as an established superstar. 

The result: not only are the corporate labels flourishing, but new gatekeepers have covertly replaced the old ones. Sure, the power to self-everything is here, but most choose to sieve their independence through an algorithmic filter. We’re gaming the gatekeepers just like old times, but now it’s about massaging the algorithm to get us on the right playlists, to amplify strategically placed hashtags, and to get the targets just right in that boosted Facebook post. 

There’s so much frustration with this newfound reliance on social media and low-paying streaming services. But do things have to be this way? 

Back in my dorm room, I was frustrated that I couldn’t figure out how to do what all the punk-inspired DIY’ers wanted: to navigate this music thing without any interference (or interaction) from ‘the man.’ That was the punk rock dream. And now we can have it but only if we really want it. The dream’s not easy, and algorithms, and the promise of shortcuts, are seductive.

If I’ve personally advised you on label or recording artist stuff, you’ve heard me mention ‘the punk rock dream.’ I talk about it a lot. I’ve been thinking about the concept since that dorm room. So, when I decided I needed a new tag-line for my blog, I decided on “A zine about sound, culture, and the punk rock dream.” Because, really, that’s what the blog and newsletter are all about. (The ‘zine’ part is a nod to how I got started with all of this.)

Revisiting my relationship with ‘the punk rock dream’ inspired me to start the process of moving my email newsletter off Substack. I’ve thought about this for several months and recent debates have strengthened a need for platform independence. The importance of self-publishing is probably best examined by talking through the changing definition of independent music.

The qualifications for ‘independent music’ once seemed cut-and-dry, apparent in Michael Azerrad’s book that I linked to above. Now things are fuzzier. How independent is the punkest of punk labels if they primarily promote through Zuckerberg’s platform, via a corporation so huge it would have given Jello Biafra an aneurysm back in the day? A band might self-release, but are they independent if Spotify and YouTube are the focus of their outreach? One could even go as far as to charge that a reliance on Apple products to make music is a dependence on the most giant of multi-national corporations. 

We can go all over the place with this until it’s just nitpicking and cutting hairs. But my definition of ‘independent,’ which I wrote about here, is summed up by a simple question: do you truly own the work you’re passionate about? 

That ownership includes all the decisions made about how an artist presents her work: how it’s distributed, how direct the access is to the audience, and the alignments that color the public perception of the work. The primary platform hosting this art — your preferred way for people to check out what you’ve made — plays a large part in determining ownership. The person who writes paragraphs of prose as a Facebook post doesn’t own that — Facebook can take it down at any time. It’s the same for a photographer using Instagram as her only portfolio. Or a video-maker hosting his achievements solely on YouTube. I don’t even think Bandcamp is immune, despite its reputation as a bastion of music independence. It’s all the same if you’re relying on it. How screwed would you be if it went away? Or if a corporation that doesn’t share your values acquired it?

I’m not saying you shouldn’t use these platforms. But position your art and the work you’re passionate about under the assumption that these platforms and — crucially — their policies are impermanent. These should be deployed as mere tools, not adopted as foundations. Let your work live somewhere you own, and make that place the primary destination for your audience. Everything else is a funnel. 

Sounds like the punk rock dream, right?

Self-publishing the newsletter is the way to go. I’ve done the research and am looking to apply something close to what Jared Newman is doing (without charging my readers, of course). There’s also some great advice from Ernie Smith of Tedium on self-publishing an email newsletter.

At the very beginning of Ringo Dreams of Lawn Care, I mentioned that the newsletter is an experiment until it isn’t. Changes are just another visit to the lab, mixing chemicals and seeing what happens. I’m constantly testing what independence means in the digital age and how the internet can facilitate — rather than stifle — that punk rock dream. Consider my newsletter and 8sided.blog a continuing report on my findings.

duck box update

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This morning we watched ten baby ducks jump out of the duck box. When I got up before sunrise I noticed the mama duck was out of her box and quacking repeatedly while looking up at the hole. I knew something was up so we were ready and waiting. Not long after, we started hearing a chorus of faint chirps coming from within the box. And then:

Since we were ready we were able to film the big reveal. Caroline flexed her Kitten School skills and edited the video for all to see (above). We wanted to be quiet and hidden to not scare the ducks so we watched from the screen porch — that’s why there’s an annoying screen grid through most of this. But that doesn’t dampen the cuteness in the least.

desolation center

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Loose observations:

  • I’ve loved all these bands since around the time these shows were happening in the distance and this film somehow made me love them all a little bit more.
  • Bruce Licher’s been on fire for such a long time with his screenprinting and design. I’d love to have one of those tickets in a small frame.
  • Funny that the SRL guys come off here as some pre-Jackass bros with explosives.
  • I didn’t expect that the Minutemen were the heart and soul of Desolation Center (the organization and this movie). I knew the final part about D. Boon was coming but it still hit me like a ton of bricks.
  • The ‘festivals are huge nowadays’ montage at the end seemed unnecessarily tacked-on, but, overall, this movie is a really important document of the crafty independent music scenius in the US that grew out of Reagan’s ’80s.

Desolation Center is streaming now via Kanopy and available as a digital rental in the usual places.

duck box

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Duck Box

Installing a duck box in our backyard (yes, we’re in front of a lake) is one of the best things we’ve done in a while. These wood ducks are amazingly prompt — this sight has greeted us at 7:45 every morning the past couple of weeks (give or take several minutes) as the female is escorted back after searching for breakfast. We expect to see duck babies dropping out of the box any day now. (Spycam view through the screen porch grid.)

3+1: James A. Reeves

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About a year ago, as the pandemic’s elongated reality started setting in, I discovered the blog of James A. Reeves. James was writing a few paragraphs a day under the tag ‘Notes from the End of a World.’ These posts relayed James’s feelings and reactions to a world on fire, embossed by his memories and unshakable present circumstances. Reading these entries became part of my daily routine — in isolation, I connected to this distant person feeling a lot of the same things as me, even if through a different nostalgic lens.

Also: James has excellent taste in music and ended each blog entry with a song recommendation, often linked by title to the theme of the day’s writing. 

James A. Reeves is an artist as well as a writer and, according to his About page, is interested in “the role of ritual and faith in the digital age.” He’s published two books (one of which — The Road To Somewhere — I just purchased as I want to read more of his writing) and is presently working on a novel about “a loud god.” On the art front, he’s recently collaborated with Candy Chang on a public installation titled Light the Barricades. It’s on display at The Mint Museum in Charlotte, North Carolina, through July 25. And James and Candy will have a new installation on the subject of loss, opening in September in the chapel at Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn.

James also takes night photos of roadside service stations. Here’s one of them, below, followed by a bit of 3+1:

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1: You blogged every day in 2020 but had no idea about the pandemic when you started this endeavor. Besides the topics, how do you think your posts and blogging would have differed if there was no COVID monster?

For eight years, I’ve kept a nightly journal, and last year I decided to make it public because I wanted to kill the mean little perfectionist in my head, the part that writes ninety-percent of an essay or story then leaves it to languish in some folder in the cloud. The good thing about writing in public is that it forces you to complete a thought, or at least make it semi-coherent. Otherwise, my notebooks are filled with scribbles like Remember that shade of red + storm chasers + nefarious forces.

I initially expected to write about nostalgia because I worry about how my perception is warping as I grow older, which carries the hazard of pining for simpler times that never existed. I often think about the poet Ovid who mourned a vanished “golden age of harmony and invention.” He wrote that in the year 8. And yet: there’s the very real sense the wheels are coming off, that the weather and algorithms are steadily rewiring the world until one day it will be unrecognizable. So I wanted to have a record of these in-between days when familiar routines and moments of beauty are constantly colliding with breaking news, attention hijacking, and the two-minute hates of social media. 

But writing about nostalgia felt incredibly unhelpful in the light of a pandemic. Throughout 2020, I became increasingly anxious about writing anything that resembled opinion-mongering or soothsaying. I’m mystified by how many people claim to understand how the world works, how other people think, or what will happen next. The smartest thing I ever heard was from an old man in New Orleans who told me, “Opinions kill motherfuckers and experience saves lives.” So last year, I ended up writing quite a bit about my experiences with grief and my desire for some faith. 

2: You mentioned in your email newsletter that you’re now writing fiction instead of the daily public life-journalling you were doing in 2020. Why the change? Is the shift in your practice changing your mindset or the way you’re settling into 2021? Will we get to see any of these writings, or are they only for you?

I’ve been rewriting the same novel about a loud god for six years, and it’s time to finish the thing. And after a year spent monitoring headlines, fiction feels like an increasingly liberating possibility that can sidestep this humiliating age of thought leaders, pundits, and charlatans because it allows us to imagine our way into complex questions without demanding an opinion. For example: I’m fascinated by the future of faith. As the world gets weirder, this will create a vacuum for new gods, cults, and dogma. So what do I make of my own craving for some otherworldly ethic or mythology? If I were to expand these ideas into an essay, it’d probably be an insufferable piece of writing. Others can pull it off, but last year I discovered I couldn’t. But if it’s a novel about, say, people who begin to hear the voice of God in discount superstores, then it becomes a canvas for these ideas to play around without becoming didactic.1Footnote from James: I realize it’s odd to champion fiction while our relationship to truth feels increasingly tenuous as more and more of us are caught in fractured realities powered by the mechanics of bad storytelling: hyperbole, dot-connecting, the high drama of us versus them, etc. And reckoning with this growing hunger for conspiracy seems like one of the biggest tasks of our time.

I rewired some bits from the novel into short stories (two of which were published here and here), and I hope this book goes into the world someday. But the odds of getting a novel published are tremendously long, which is a good reminder for me to do the work for its own sake, for the pleasure (and pain) it brings.

3: What is it about dimly lit gas stations photographed in the middle of the night?

A lone gas station in the night feels like church. Maybe it’s the lighting, which has the chiaroscuro of a Caravaggio, or the optics of some sci-fi temple. There are probably symbolic and limbic reasons that I don’t fully grasp: a sanctuary or crossroads, the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. It’s also the only situation where fluorescent lights are worth a damn.

+1: Something you love that more people should know about.

Two answers came to mind at the same time, and they’re connected. The first is the music of Bohren and Der Club of Gore. Their music is essential to my writing life. Particularly Midnight Radio, which is slow-motion doom jazz with a light-night neon aesthetic that points to the second thing: staying up late with the radio when I was a teenager in metro Detroit, listening to the Electrifying Mojo at the top of the dial. This was the early 1990s, after Mojo had been on the air for ages, quietly influencing the shape of music by playing everything from Funkadelic to Kraftwerk to Devo to Model 500 to some thirty-minute version of “Planet Rock” or “Flashlight” that only he seemed to have. Some say he laid the foundation for techno. The man lived as a myth, a ghost in the ether who would tell everyone listening to flash their headlights, and I remember driving down Woodward Avenue flashing my lights while passing cars did the same. It was beautiful, all these strangers drawn together by a voice in the dark.

Visit James A. Reeves (and read his 2020 journal) at AtlasMinor.com.

Too Drummy for Ambient

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Grooving to Amapiano → Prodded by Awesome Tapes From Africa, today I’m immersing myself in the South African genre of amapiano, defined as “a township-developed style that fuses elements from a number of different club-ready genres from across the decades.” This DJ mix by Teno Afrika is an overview of what amapiano is all about:

But Uwami, a fantastic new album by DJ Black Low, is really connecting me to this sound. Some of the production flourishes — especially the in-your-face percussive electronics — are especially provocative and attention-grabbing. I haven’t listened to a tune and remarked, “oh, shit!” to myself in a while. I did that a couple of times within the first few songs.

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ZZT Records in 1982 → This eight-minute ‘documentary’ on Zang Tumb Tuum (more commonly known as ZTT Records) is a fascinating time capsule. What a find! I’ve written about my ‘80s obsession with producer Trevor Horn, and ZTT is commonly known as his label. But, as the video shows, co-runners Jill Sinclair (also Horn’s wife) and music writer Paul Morley played a part, too. I love when professional units (labels, bands, companies) consist of distinctive personalities, each taking on a unique role. In ZTT’s case, Sinclair is the grounded business mind, Horn is the producer and resident nerd, and Morley is the prankster and creative spirit. Morley seems relegated to the background in this video, but he was crucial to the look and feel of ZTT. The Dada and futurist-influenced aesthetic and winking pseudo-corporate speak filling liner notes, label press releases, and manifestos were all Morley’s doing, no doubt. All of this conflicting but complementary energy created a classic record label that’s worthy of study and admiration. 

Also: I wonder if Rod Stewart was aware of what Horn said about him here when Horn was hired to produce a Rod Stewart album.

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Ausklang – Chronos → Soaring spaciousness abounds on Chronos, an album from the Berlin-based trio Ausklang. The band’s not quite moody enough for post-rock, a bit too drummy for ambient, and way too heady for indie-rock. They’re somewhere in the middle of all of that, probably closer to what I hesitate to call “soundtrack rock.” Ausklang are like a Popol Vuh for the drone-footage age, replacing the ecstatic mysticism with shoegazey optimism. 

The pieces are primarily improvised, the best bits edited together, and then overdubs added — a songwriting process pioneered by fellow German space cadets CAN. But while CAN gloriously sprawled and looped, Ausklang build and erupt. The title track, for instance, is a subdued slow-end jam that blasts itself into reverb-drenched guitar lines and cymbal crashes near the five-minute mark. And then there’s the gorgeous “Future Memories,” lulling the listener with a beatific guitar-then-piano melody before a Slowdive-like upward swell washes everything away.

The band performs a two-hour improvised ambient set every week at The Zionskirche, a 19th-century neo-romantic church. This aspect of Ausklang closes out Chronos via two beatless tracks that combine light drones, guitar atmospherics, and hopeful piano. Thus the album’s sequence mirrors the band’s dynamic sense — the tracklist progressively glides and thickens before floating down to a gentle landing. The album is so satisfying upon reaching the end, it’s tempting to replay Chronos from track one and fly again.

NFTs for the Rest of Us

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Since my last swipe at NFTs, the hype and debate have skyrocketed. Thankfully, some are looking into the ecological concerns (beyond the band-aid of buying offsets) where solutions would ultimately benefit all blockchain technology applications. And others are exploring how to use the malleable format of NFTs to create or enhance a new kind of art.  

Unfortunately, many see eight-figure sales of a digital collage, and their eyes become dollar signs out of a Looney Tunes cartoon. The overwhelming conversation around NFTs is driven by monster-sized auction results and incredulous “she got how much for what?” takes. This chatter drives the motivation of many artists getting into NFTs: it’s all about making loads of easy money.

Of course, I believe that deserving artists and musicians should be paid handsomely for their art. Duh. But if you’re looking at Beeple getting $69 million for his NFT (and a lot more is going on there) and thinking, “I need to get in on that,” you might want to examine why you’re creating art in the first place.

I’m an idealist, and I think that using the hope of an NFT payday to guide your artistic process is no different than letting a soft drink company change your song lyrics for an ad. That’s cool if you’re cool with it, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that your money-making scheme is anything else just because it’s attached to hip technology.

Seth Godin and Bob Lefsetz have written wise words on NFTs with varying levels of criticism (or realism). But I think that MusicREDEF’s Matty Karas has written the most useful critique so far on what NFTs mean for the music industry. I’m going to quote it almost in full because more people should read it:

Show me this works and I’ll believe NFTs really, truly work: Put an album up for sale as an NFT, straight up, with no bonus content, no scarcity, no exclusivity. A simple $9.99 token available anytime to anyone who wants it. Why would anyone do that?, you ask. For the same reason anyone would sell an MP3s on BANDCAMP or ITUNES, I’ll answer, with the bonus that everyone, from the artist to the songwriters to anyone else who needs to get paid, can get paid instantaneously, no waiting weeks or months, no need to ever wonder if the numbers are being reported accurately, no need to worry about someone pirating the music, and if someone wants to resell it at a discount (because that’s the only way you can resell something that’s readily available) or at a markup (because maybe one day you’ll put it out of print), the artist can get a cut of the resale either way. I get the fun of auctions and the allure of exclusivity and the dream of seven-figure transactions, and there’s a place for all of that of course … But if you’re telling me NFTs are important because they’re a way to authenticate ownership and control distribution and streamline payments, then show me they can do that without raising the price of an album from $9.99 to $9,999.99 and without creating one more experience your average fan can never have.

That’s the rub. There’s a ton of promise in NFTs and blockchain for artists and labels. The technology adds personalization and ownership to digital music and might be a path for fans to move away from the mess streaming’s gotten us into. But before that can happen, we’re going to have to stop looking at NFTs as a high-dollar fad, a get-rich-quick shortcut, or patronage from the crypto-affluent. It’s time to get into the bones of what the technology means for everyday fans, artists, and recording artists and steer the conversation toward the future.

Update → Via a recent post on David Gerard’s Attack of the 50 Foot Blockchain blog:

Put a large price tag on your NFT by buying it from yourself — then write a press release talking about your $100,000 sale, and you’re only out the transaction fee. Journalists who can’t be bothered checking things will write this up without verifying that the buyer is a separate person who exists. Just like the high-end art world!

Rachel Kerry’s “Cute” Hyperpop Experiment

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The late century’s run of prominent genre/culture movements (examples: hip-hop, techno, maybe even grunge) ended some time ago. But it was replaced by something more subtle and complex. The internet eliminates most cultural isolation, resulting in a wealth of music — both niche and mainstream — freely available to artists in their formative years. This abundance has affected how we listen. There’s no longer only one type of genre we’re into, and, in our art, disparate influences openly collide. That’s always been the case with music on the edges, and past pioneering artists often reached their notoriety through a novel ‘it sounds like X-meets-Y’ recipe. But what’s different is how this approach has finally infiltrated pop music. 

In the past twenty years, exciting and wild sounds increasingly come out of pop music, and sometimes even near the top of the charts. It’s not rare to run across a song that we’d categorize as ‘pop’ featuring elements not out of place on a previously obscure Warp Records release. I believe it was Simon Reynolds who said that one should look toward a genre’s extremes to glimpse where music is headed. That holds, but the rate at which something considered unique and experimental leaves its fingerprints on pop music is getting quicker and quicker.

I thought about this when I heard the Intern remix of Rachel Kerry‘s single, “ur so cute.” The original is a lot of fun, a catchy electronic pop song with a vocal hook that wouldn’t be out of place on a ’50s bubblegum chart-topper. There are subtle synthesized flourishes and voice tweaks that add to its charm and reveal its hyperpop leanings. But then I was given the remix by Intern. This treatment is frenzied and over-the-top, setting the tone in its first seconds with radical vocal manipulations and rhythmic tomfoolery. The adorable vocal hook is still here, but it’s partly serving as an anchor for all sorts of sonic craziness. And then there’s the ragtime piano WUT. This remix is more like a genre detonation than a collision.

Intrigued, I reached out to Rachel Kerry at her London home base to ask about this remix, what it feels like to have her song sonically mangled, and her views on the rise of experimentalism in pop music. 

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8sided: How did the remix come about? Were you specifically looking for this style of remix, or was the final result a total surprise?

Rachel Kerry: My favorite thing about this remix is that I wasn’t looking for it at all. I knew Murphy and Nick from music college and saw them post about their new project, Intern. The first single from their debut EP, “Helium Foil Giant Balloon,” was released around the same time as the original “ur so cute.” I remember listening to their track and thinking, “Hang on, I thought these guys studied classical saxophone; this is so cool!” It wasn’t long after that Murph sent a message saying they’d love to remix “ur so cute.” I immediately said yes. 

Though our sounds are different, Intern and I take our influences from similar places. We all love hyperpop, glitchy bubblegum pop, and strange dance music. I’ve taken that influence and gone in one direction sonically, and they’ve gone the opposite with their project. This means that the sound of the remix pretty much meets back in the middle at our original influences. 

8S: What was it like hearing the Intern remix of “ur so cute” for the first time? 

RK: My first reaction was to laugh, honestly. And I promise that’s a compliment. In this more experimental, hyperpop world, such a big part of it is being tongue-in-cheek, using humor, and accentuating novelty sounds. Just listen to that ragtime piano break; you can’t not smile at that.

What’s great about Intern’s interpretation is how they used everything that was already in the song to warp, stretch, distort, etc. Honestly, I couldn’t even begin to pick apart or understand everything they did, but what I can hear is that pretty much all of those crazy sounds in their version have been made by manipulating something from the original. 

8S: The remix is so different than your original. I wonder if you had any reservations when you heard it?

RK: The first time I heard their remix, no part of me had any reservations about the sound. The only thing that could be a little worrying is what my audience might think. This remix has definitely taken the song from 0 to 100 pretty quickly in terms of introducing more experimental sounds to my music. But the reception has been really positive. I think people are after something a little out there and exciting right now. 

8S: Was your original song ripe for this kind of remix?

RK: I purposefully wrote the song to be as simple as possible. It only has two chords and just a couple of different instrument sounds. I wanted it to sound innocent, you know? It’s cute, and it’s about loving your friend, and I thought a minimalist approach would tell that story best — the simplicity of the original leaves so much scope for a remix to go wherever it wants. 

8S: How does technology influence your own songwriting? 

RK: Technology influences my songwriting process a lot. While I have sat with a piano or guitar to write in the past, lately, I haven’t had access to those, so I write straight into Logic Pro. I start every song by sitting in front of an empty screen and going from there. So, technology is the front and center of my creative process at the moment, though I won’t say it’s how I’ll always write in the future. And I don’t think I’ll start manipulating my lead vocal any time soon. I want to write songs that people can sing from beginning to end, so it’s important to me for my lead lines to be accessible in that way. 

8S: If technology plays a significant role in songwriting, how does that change the idea of a ‘song?’ Songs become much more than notes on a page of sheet music then, right?

RK: I think songs are much more than notes on a page of sheet music anyway! Sure, you can play other people’s songs by reading the chords and the lyrics, but songs have always felt more than that to me. It’s the record that makes the song what it is: the voice, the arrangement, the production. 

There is this purist way to look at songwriting, where you consider something a good song if it can be stripped back to just a voice and a piano or guitar and still sound amazing. I think there is some truth in this way of defining what a good song is. But then you couldn’t play “Ponyboy” by SOPHIE on a piano, could you? And that’s an amazing song. 

The computer is an instrument, and it’s much more versatile than the piano and the guitar. SOPHIE even said (I’m paraphrasing), why would you limit yourself to playing an instrument when you could make anything on a computer? Though I wouldn’t go so far as never to try and write a song that can be considered outstanding in the classical sense, stripped to its bones, and still sounding like a hit. But, really, the songs that don’t do this are and always have been as much a song as those that do. A good song is a feeling, and you definitely can’t write that on sheet music. 

8S: I’m fascinated by the experimental production techniques sneaking into pop through hyperpop and PC music. Do you like the idea of experimental music and pop music coming together? Does it create something new, and do you think a more experimental pop sound has a place on the charts?

RK: I love pop music. Hearing a great pop song is so powerful. And adding experimental elements definitely elevates the music. I think the combination makes experimental sounds more accessible and adds an interesting nuance to the pop genre. There’s an excitement in the melding of these two styles that makes me want to explore it further. Whether that has a place in the charts or not, I don’t know. 

There’s an over-the-topness about PC Music and hyperpop, which might make it ‘a bit much’ for a commercial audience. I also think there’s already proof of its lack of place in the charts. If you look at Charli XCX, she was a charts artist at the start of her career, but when she began collaborating with more underground producers and started experimenting, she pretty much disappeared from the mainstream. But I think it would be cool if this type of music were getting played in the charts. I’d love to turn on the radio and hear 100 gecs. It would also mean I’d know where to find an audience for the music I make, which is one of the hardest things to do as a new artist. They’d just be right there — I’d be making mainstream music! 

8S: A lot of hyperpop — and “ur so cute” — has a sense of humor to it. Does that help make the music accessible?

RK: When I first heard hyperpop and PC Music, I remember thinking it sounded like ’90s Euro-pop times 1000. We all used to listen to “Barbie Girl,” right? But it feels like it’s not cool anymore. I think “Barbie Girl” still sounds really cool. A lot of the glitterbomb, bubblegum, and hyperpop sound uses these older songs as influences in a tongue-in-cheek way, and that’s brilliant. But I wonder whether the world has the sense of humor to push that into the mainstream.

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Rachel Kerry‘s “ur so cute,” its remix, and her other groovy releases are available on Bandcamp.