8Sided Blog

the scene celebrates itself

Commodifying Coziness and the Rise of Chill-Out Capitalism

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In the article Why Are So Many Brands Pivoting To Coziness?, Vox’s Rebecca Jennings reveals a curious marketing trend: brands displaying promises of comfort to attract millennials and Gen Z’ers. In youth-oriented magazine advertisements, we’re used to photos of adventurous consumers climbing mountains or traversing an exotic, unfamiliar city. Now you’re as likely to see a picture of someone sitting at home seated on a couch or maybe even — gasp! — reading a book. Combined with emerging products like weighted blankets and CBD shampoo, it’s evident that chill is ‘in.’

Media theorists point out that horror movies are popular during times of unease and distrust in society. Jennings has a similar reason for the rise of coziness: “Things are bad, and people are anxious about whatever ongoing horrors are metabolizing in geopolitics, the environment, and capitalism.” However, there’s an always-online twist to this movement. “The selling point is that this product will make you feel calm and safe, but the experience of using it is still supposed to look good enough for other people to see.”

Ambient music isn’t exactly mainstream, but it’s more in vogue — and pervasive — than it’s ever been. The flavors are varied, from dark drones to nature noises, from New Age throwbacks to chill-hop YouTube streams. If we’re defining ambient music as music that sits in the ambiance, politely ignored as we go about our lives, then all of those styles qualify. And, like brand-marketed coziness, the music is often pushed as an antidote for a hectic life. There’s something spacey and unobtrusive playing in the background as that person sits on the couch reading his book.

Streaming has enabled an even more utilitarian strain of ambient music, something that The Baffler’s Liz Pelly refers to as “emotional wallpaper” and “music that strategically requires no attention at all.” This music is made to fall into playlists that play on repeat as we study, or meditate, or slowly fall asleep. The primary purpose isn’t to calm our brains but to rack up Spotify plays as the playlists churn in repetition. Ambient music is perfect for this — we can only listen to the same pop hook so many times. An ambient drone might as well be endless.

Of course, music has always had calming and self-healing properties. That’s ancient history. And it’s untrue to say that ‘western’ music ignored this aspect, with blues and — of course — gospel as examples of genres containing elements of spiritual remedy. But the connection came as a surprise to many of ambient music’s forerunners. Take John Cage, whose life and direction changed after a conversation with Indian composer Gita Sarabhai in the 1940s. She pointed out that it’s okay for music to be meaningless, to exist solely to “sober and quiet the mind.” It makes sense to us. But this was a revelation for Cage, a stone thrown in the pond with ripples continuing outward.

What’s new is our era’s odd commoditization of relaxation music. Sure, the New Age genre was a small phenomenon in the late ’80s — those Windham Hill CDs flew off the shelves at the Camelot Music I worked at as a teenager. But playlists targeted to sleeping ‘listeners’ for money-making purposes is a bizarre twist. Consider the Sony-affiliated Sleep & Mindfulness Thunderstorms playlist, featuring 990 one-minute tracks containing sounds of rainstorms. Why a single minute each in length? Because Spotify will deliver a micropayment to a track that plays for at least 30 seconds.

But let’s get something straight. Personally, I love ambient music. I work to it. I relax to it. I sometimes sleep to it. And, if you can’t tell, I’m fascinated by it. That presents a quandary as I’m using the music in the same way as those studying to ChilledCow’s YouTube channel. What makes my cozy space so sacred?

Simon Reynolds’ recent Resident Advisor long-read about the state of ambient music is worth a look. He grapples with chill-out capitalism in his article, stating:

Still, there is something unnerving about the idea of ambient and New Age music uncoupled from any higher purposes and applied to the task of self-repair. Like power yoga or microdosing, it is taking an agent of change that was originally part of a culture of liberation and discovery, and putting it in service of the status quo. As David Toop, author of ambient bible Ocean Of Sound, wrote recently, “if ambient music only serves as an app to incentivise or a backdrop to productivity, networking and self-realisation, then it has no story of its own, no story worth hearing.”

Are we adding too much baggage to ambient music? Perhaps it’s just meant to be, like a soothing wallpaper hue or the bird sounds outside my window. Burdening this music with a special purpose or the responsibility of solace might be self-defeating. But, true enough, so is placing a profit incentive on our coziness.

This post was adapted from Ringo Dreams of Lawn Care, a weekly newsletter loosely about music-making, music-listening, and how technology changes the culture around those things. Click here to check out the latest issue and subscribe.

Vaughan Oliver’s Invitation to Decode

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Vaughan Oliver - Pixies Cover Art

My first job was at a record shop (Camelot Music, a staple of ’80s shopping malls), and I enjoyed a generous employee discount. That offered the freedom to purchase records based on the cover art — if the cover’s cool, the music’s gotta be cool, right? — and a lot of those records would be released on the seminal British label 4AD. The enticing cover art was by 23 Envelope, the design team of Vaughan Oliver and photographer Nigel Grierson.

Years ago, I wrote about the power of cover art in a tribute to Factory Records boss Tony Wilson. There was a cool record shop in the beach town where my grandmother lived. It was next to the grocery store, so, while visiting my grandmother, I’d pop in to look at records when she’d go for groceries. I was 12 or 13 years old and recall seeing those early New Order records — Movement and Everything’s Gone Green — sitting in the mysterious bin labeled ‘imports.’ These records were strange, not like anything that I’d seen, and it was impossible to resist their vibe. It would be a couple more years until I heard these records, but the sound, the feeling, wasn’t that far off from the cover art’s first impressions. The designer was Peter Saville, often mentioned in influence alongside Vaughan Oliver, and it was like he was transmitting signals to me across the Atlantic.

That’s what remarkable cover art — or design in general — does to us. It’s an invitation to decode, revealing (or hinting at) the intention of the creator. Or, as Oliver told an interviewer, “[An album] cover should work as an entrance door that invites you to cross it.”

Clan of Xymox - cover art by Vaughan Oliver

It’s not a stretch to believe there would be a lot fewer graphic designers in the world if not for Vaughan Oliver and Peter Saville. I can’t think of a single designer friend of a specific age range that wasn’t significantly inspired by the outputs of 4AD and Factory. But it wasn’t only budding designers who received inspiration. There are also a lot more independent labels because of these designs. Or a lot more labels that approached everything they did as a representative package.

Oliver understood that the appeal he added to 4AD was emotional, that fans of the label picked up on common threads and identified a community. Oliver stated, “This was kind of branding before branding—and I generally don’t use the word branding—but it was creating a vibe that made you trust in something.” He continued:

I was always a bit wary of putting an identity on the label itself, but I wanted individual identities for the bands that were consistent. Then, with time, you would see a thread start to appear. There was a unity, but without a corporate branding stamp on it. It was very fluid. Eventually, it became an emotional response that people had with the work. Thirty years later, I’m talking to students who call it “emotional branding”—how people become emotionally involved in what we were doing. I’ve got clients who ask, “How can we have that now?” I say, “We don’t have that now. It builds with time; it also builds with the quality of the product.”

It’s a challenge to create this emotional community without the tangible effects of a physical totem. It’s not impossible — many well-crafted artist websites successfully transmit intention to potential fans. But basing an artist’s vibe on the limitations of a social media platform’s template or a thumbnail in a streaming app is a losing battle. The Guardian’s Ben Beaumont-Thomas said it well: “[Vaughan Oliver’s cover] design tells you that you’re about to go on a journey. With streaming, you’re suddenly teleported in without a map.”

Unlike Oliver, I’m not afraid to use the term ‘branding’ as long as I get to define how I use it. And I define branding, in music, as the promise an artist makes to her audience. That’s the vibe of trust that Oliver refers to above, and it’s essential. An artist or label that gains that trust, that cultivates a community, that repeatedly transmits a signal, becomes a cultural curator. An expectation grows in the listener, and this expectation is a necessary tension. What’s next? Will this label fulfill my expectations? How will this artist continue to reward her community of fans?

That’s how we felt about 4AD. The cover art, the music, the ambiguity allowing us to fill in our own interpretations — these worked together to build our tribe. If, circa 1985, I saw you pick up a Cocteau Twins album in the record store I’d strike up a conversation. We’re in the same club.

I’m sure that Vaughan Oliver, 23 Envelope, and label founder Ivo Watts-Russell partly knew what they were doing. But I also think they stumbled into a lot of this. The point here is that it’s not that difficult. It’s all about developing intention. Understand who you want to reach, as narrowly as possible, and create only for them. Cohesively apply that aesthetic to everything you deliver to the world.

Vaughan Oliver passed away in the final days of 2019. As I commented on Twitter, it’s a triumph to be remembered for a distinctive contribution to culture and style; one that’s identifiably his own as well as freely lent to others. Oliver transitioned to education in his last decade, and that’s fitting. Many of us in the music industry were his students. He taught us all a lot, and, in a more ephemeral digital age, these lessons now serve a higher purpose.

🔗→ Lost worlds of sex and magic: Vaughan Oliver’s album sleeves for 4AD
🔗→ Sight, touch, hearing: an interview with Vaughan Oliver
🔗→ Vaughan Oliver (Interview Magazine)
🔗→ Cover Star: Vaughan Oliver interview
🔗→ interview with graphic designer vaughan oliver

Don’t Reveal Your Magic

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I often say that when I was in college, the bands I liked were the ones that seemed to know something I didn’t. The cool ones who referenced art, obscure film, and philosophy created sounds in a way that didn’t seem possible. This hidden knowledge — clues that there were things out there that I was not privy to, waiting for discovery — was a constant tension. The tension not only brought me to these bands, but, in a way, I remained in this tension as a ”fan.” The tension was a thrill, a tingle, a feeling of being a part of something even though I didn’t fully understand.

I relate this experience to bands and musicians that I’m working with today. Social media and the pressure to be unapologetically accessible to fans has removed some of the tension. All the cards are on the table, and the fans know exactly how the magic gets performed. But there’s still a place for mystique and intrigue. And for drawing in new fans who delight in the tension of an enigma.

We can extend this tension across other art forms – movies, painting, even literature. David Lynch’s third season of Twin Peaks is a great example. Left unexplained by both the medium and Lynch himself, the latest run of Twin Peaks wasn’t for everyone. Even some OG Twin Peaks fans I know gave up on it. But the show and art like it still attract die-hard viewers that revel in the tension of the impenetrable. It’s the same tingle I mentioned above – the feeling that these people know something you don’t, and the key to unlocking the secret is hidden deep within the work. Searching for that key is the tension, and it’s a tension that connects fans and tribes. It’s a tension that keeps us coming back.

Albums, Singles, and Setting Fan Expectations

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A reader emailed asking about albums vs. singles and whether it’s now an accepted strategy to release a single every couple of weeks. These singles could lead to an album (a collection of the singles) or maybe not. Perhaps in 2020, the reader posits, the steady stream of singles is the new album.

I often talk about branding as a shared expectation among fans. That’s important to keep in mind as I answer this question. The frequency, format, and timing of a release is part of the artist’s branding and plays a significant role in setting expectations.

If a single gets released every two weeks, then the act becomes a ‘singles’ band, probably lumped into the pop space. Any extended break in this routine creates disappointment. A frequent release schedule also requires constant engagement with fans. Without the month-long build-up of an album, the days before and after multiple singles need a repeating but unique promotional ebb and flow.

The frequent single is a by-product of social media — it exists to feed the newsfeed and keep the artist in the online spotlight. If the artist (or her team) isn’t on top of online engagement, then the creative effort of regularly releasing singles is wasted.

Albums also say something to an audience. While singles are an invitation to melody and hooks, albums promise distinctive instrumentation and production qualities. Of course, albums can have catchy choruses — and singles are allowed to blow us away with incredible production — but the format the artist relies upon implies a prejudice to the fan. One wouldn’t expect Radiohead to turn into a monthly singles-only band, but this branding wouldn’t be out of place for Taylor Swift.1This sentence seems outdated as I revisit it now in early 2021. The pandemic has turned Swift into quite an impressive album artist!

Albums are less exhaustive to promote. However, there should be a supernova of activity in the weeks leading up to the release date and the following period. Album strategies welcome preparation, a steady build in hype, and extended reminders of the project post-release.

The artist often takes a break from heavy promotion while in-between albums. Consistently released singles, on the other hand, are here and gone, but the artist remains focused and in the spotlight.

Albums can have a defined press strategy. Prominent press outlets — online and print — are biased toward albums. An artist promoting an album or on tour because of an album is more likely to get featured. Singles artists should concentrate on premieres with influential blogs. A good relationship with a blog or outlet for regular premiere appearances can break a singles artist.

As for outsourcing PR, an album artist can hire a publicist per project for a few months at a time. A singles artist, on the other hand, would hire a publicist on a retainer to work each release and the artist’s profile in general.

As you can see, your release format signals the type of artist you are. This decision helps target a fanbase, influences the music, and determines the strategy. That said, the beauty of digital formats is that they don’t have firm boundaries. You’re free to play with expectations. For example, you can release surprise singles with experimental ‘b-sides.’ Or an occasional series of singles eventually collected on a forthcoming album — except the album versions are entirely different. And EPs can be a lot of fun, too. EPs allow more frequency than albums but retain the accepted qualities of a long-player. Then there are cassettes. We’ll be talking about cassettes on the blog later.

These choices, including the bending of expectations, transmit branding messages to your fans. Thus, the album isn’t dead, nor is the bi-weekly single the way of the future. Look closely at who you are as an artist and the type of fans you aim to attract. The nature of your next release resides in that reflection.

🔗 previously → The Album, If You Want It

Foretelling a Future of Artist Autonomy

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In a guest column for Billboard, VC friend and SXSW 2019 roomie Brian Penick has some illuminating thoughts about the future of music tech. He’s bullish on the growth of the music industry and points out several ‘key indicators’ that have him excited.

His first indicator is how artificial intelligence will redefine how we approach the creative process:

Imagine, without any prior training, creating a song via AI software with a single click. Now imagine leveraging that song to create a worldwide audience or, even better, a YouTube star pushing that song out to their already-established following.

I’ve spoken to Brian about this, and I believe we agree that, rather than threatening musicians’ livelihoods, AI music — as described in the above quote — creates promotion paths for a personality-driven celebrity outside of the traditional music economy. Your feelings on this probably are in line with your general outlook on celebrity culture, but the activity is nothing new. ‘Stars’ and brands (California Raisins, anyone?) have been promoting themselves with manufactured music projects for ages. And yet culturally meaningful bands and musicians continue to make an impact.

What’s even more impressive is AI as a tool for emerging musicians to exploit. Consider the technology’s application as a fan-interactive tool (different versions for different sets of fans), a creative assistant pushing the artist out of her comfort zone, or a tool that is itself manipulated and pushed to its limits. The ‘recording studio as instrument’ innovation revealed new subsets and styles of genre. In the hands of skilled producers and artists, AI will do the same. Musicians — or those purporting to be — who use AI merely as a crutch will be identified and called out, much like DJs who use ghostwriting teams today.

Crystal Ball Into The Future by Garidy Sanders on Unsplash

Brian’s next indicator is blockchain as a tool to tighten and standardize metadata, and delves into how this affects the tricky calculation of venue royalty:

A 2016 study conducted by my former music recognition company, Soundstr, surveyed almost 3,000 songs in 12 businesses over 2 weeks and found that more than 80% of the music played in public establishments such as bars, night clubs and coffee shops was not properly accounted for. On a national scale, this leaves hundreds of millions of dollars or more on the table for songwriters and publishers, all because of a lack of metadata and tracking methods.

The tracking methods are more important here as metadata can sit within an audio recognition platform like Soundstr or Shazam. PRS and GEMA are currently experimenting with song tracking in venues (something I’ll write more about in the next couple of days). But PRS and GEMA are the only interested parties in their respective territories, those being the United Kingdom and Germany. In the US we’ve got ASCAP, BMI, SESAC, and GMR — four performance collection societies that don’t necessarily see eye-to-eye.

Proper venue tracking requires the installation of a passive microphone to do audio recognition. Will US venues have four separate receivers installed, one for each PRO? Will the four agree on one company to handle this and trust that the company won’t reveal tracking info to competitors? Will blockchain somehow make that last question moot?

As I wrote about previously, accurate tracking of song performance in public establishments is new and essential. This type of monitoring hasn’t been a possibility until recent technological developments. I agree it’s a significant growth area in music publishing. But the fractured nature of the US PRO system will require a complementary solution based on appliance and accord, not technology.

The last three indicators that Brian lists go hand-in-hand: innovations in direct-to-consumer delivery, artist brand empowerment, and on-brand investment as part of artist identity. These factors create a more independent artist as income reliance shifts away from third-party platforms. There’s also an increased measure of control. The artist develops and strengthens a brand identity that encourages fans to interact and support via the artist’s hub of engagement. This shift diminishes the necessity of social media platforms for fan outreach.

Utilizing a coherent brand to inspire investment opportunities is also a novel idea:

The real opportunity comes when celebrities realize that, while single or minimal recurring payouts from sponsorships, endorsements or licensing deals are good in some scenarios, the bigger returns come from investing. What better to invest in than products and services you associate and market with your brand?

Our age is entrepreneurial. Artists not only participate and (hopefully) make wise decisions with their earnings but these investments potentially tighten relationships with fans. Brian’s example of Beyoncé’s investment in the vegan lifestyle is an instructive illustration.

That reminds me of this brilliant New Yorker profile of Iggy Pop. Pop is undeniably an artist who does what he wants, an epitome of ‘independent.’1In attitude, vision, and identity, if not label affiliation. I wondered how he maintained his autonomy, and then I read this part of the article:

“The phone rings; I get offered work. And, you know, there’s always my Apple stock,” [Iggy Pop] said, and laughed. “I have taken pains to diversify outside of the music industry.”

This example has a different angle than Brian’s observation. But Pop would not have mentioned Apple if it didn’t fit his identity. More importantly, it reveals a savvy road to independence. And that’s ultimately what these five key indicators foretell — a future of autonomy for the artists who want it.

🔗→ Five Music Tech Investment Areas You Need to Know
🔗→ The Survival of Iggy Pop