Entry 25: Pop Culture III

Time to look at some more pop music. In no particular order. There have been some big tracks flying about, and it's been a busy few months for popular music, with some pretty weird and wonderful new entries. But is it all still rubbish? Answers on a post card.

9. Adele: Skyfall (October 2012)

After a painfully long wait, eventually the James Bond series has come up with a new instalment, Skyfall, due out next month. As tradition dictates there must be a theme song to accompany each new film, and while there was quite a lot of interest, ultimately the honours were left with Adele. Considering she has been the biggest women in music (ahem) for the past two years, this can come as little surprise.  The cover art for this single is so dull you couldn’t be blamed for falling foul of the old adage about judging books by their covers; it is just the classic James Bond gun barrel motif, with Adele’s face awkwardly meshed into the spiral pattern. It makes Adele look like she got stuck in some gargantuan plughole, leering solemnly from underneath amongst a menagerie of limescale and pubes. Classy.

Of course the song genuinely is a rather classy affair, with a ponderously slow piano intro, followed by some gratifyingly dark strings and classical guitar, and a backbeat arriving just as the track begins to meander. Adele’s delivery cannot be faulted; smoky and strong, that echoes of the other Bond greats, like Shirley Bassey on Diamonds are Forever but in places sweeter like Nancy Sinatra’s You Only Live Twice. The lyrics are a little, ropey. But it is a James Bond theme, isn’t a bit of cheese part of the deal? As the song is rooted in the mythology of a philandering international spy with enough notches on his bedpost to play hangman, there are plenty of fairly obvious references to danger, death and violence, with Adele mentioning “the end”, as well as “the earth moving”, neither of which can be good. Adele also tells us, as you do, that she can hear her “heart burst again”; how often does that happen to you mate?  Strangely there is also some allusion to the fact Adele has something to “owe”, and it being “overdue”; presumably Adele’s not been returning her library books on time, the scamp.  Overall it’s an excellent song, if a little hammy, but as I said, it’s James Bond.  Adele is a real talent, and it’s great to see one of Britain’s best loved franchises teaming up with one of its latest and most accomplished singers; the result is a great success.  Though I doubt the librarian at her local community centre will agree.

10. The Script: Hall Of Fame ft. will.i.am (September 2012)

Does anyone actually like the Script? When they entered the scene with the soulful The Man Who Can’t Be Moved, with its catchy chorus and U2-esque guitar effects, things looked good for the young Irish band. But everything since has been a series of neatly packaged turgid rubbish, like squirrel poos on the Generation Game conveyor belt.  After their underwhelming follow up album, Science & Faith and the soap-box No.1 For the First Time, the band return with their third album, #3, and this lead single. When front man, Danny O’Donoghue, came to preen and wax-lyrical on our screens after joining the collection of leering boobs making up the judge panel in The Voice, he surely surrendered any indie-credibility his band might have had, and this collaboration with fellow judge and professional wearer-of-stupid-gloves will.i.am is O’Donoghue getting a pair of undies and waving them about at the end of a stick. will.i.am’s rap is so minimal it sounds a bit like he is providing his vocal contribution from inside a wardrobe in the bands recording studio; though I for one would much prefer it if he did spend a bit more time locked up in IKEA furniture.

It’s the subject matter of this song that is particularly onerous. While the song is hopeful, as opposed to the bands darker (and more interesting) material, it is a song that latches onto an idea common in music at the moment; that of every person being a champion and every person being the best. But Danny and co forget that the concept of fame, since fame is the elevation of one beyond his peers, awkwardly becomes meaningless if everyone is famous. It is just irritating that another band has penned a song telling us how much we need to be famous.  The chorus is undeniably uplifting though, taking the ethereal backing vocals that made First Time a success and adding a persistent bass line, along with some nice guitar work later on. But this success cannot cover over the irritating subject matter, or O’Donoghue’s fawning attempt to sound as much like Sting as physically possible. The song has its moments but ultimately it comes off as sort of mawkish, with two famous people telling us we should be famous too, which is nice of them. And then there is Danny’s cardigan; a horrifically long and grey-cheque affair of monstrously poor taste. If there was ever a Hall of Infamy, there would be a picture of that dreadful thing hanging as a centrepiece.

11. One Direction: Live While We're Young (October 2012)

Ah, One Direction. Most critics of this generation had a right good laugh lauding it over the 90’s scene, citing the cheapness of British music, the hollowness of the Britpop movement and the overall travesty that were the seemingly endless stream of crappy pre-designed boy bands, that seemed to pour out of the UK like a string of poo from a goldfish.  Yes it was all good fun for a bit, when the likes of The Killers, Radiohead, and Kings of Leon were doing well for themselves. See, 90s, we can do pop-music that is independent and hard-edged. And then, One Direction happened. And then, The Wanted. All those critics realised they had spoke too soon, and, actually, the noughties were no classier and no more accomplished than the 90s. Perhaps they learnt that there will always be crap music about. So, after becoming the biggest band on the planet One Direction return to the top 3 with Live While Were Young. And, oh, hey, things are getting serious.

Forget the puppy-love frolicking of That’s What Makes You Beautiful, the boys are talking about stone cold shagging on their latest effort. It seems the famous five forgot that their fan base, almost exclusively bellow the age of about fourteen, probably won’t get all this lust and boisterousness; most of them probably think cunnilingus is a Turkish airline. Just as mums come to trust One Direction as a fairly harmless group that their little darlings can quietly croon over, the boys come spouting such filth as Liam’s opener “Hey girl I’m waitin’ on ya’”. “Waitin’” for what you ask? Blind-faced Buggery, that’s what. This could be to One Direction what Boyfriend was to Justin Bieber; it isn’t quite as mature as Bieber’s song, but it is less annoying, and all five of the boys manage to resist mentioning fondue even once. Like Boyfriend though, this is to some extent a statement; the statement in question being ,‘sex’. This could finally dispel the rumours (or, alternatively, just lies) that two of the band members were having some sort of insipid gay romance, the whole ‘Larry Stylinson’ thing; by far one of the more stupid revelations in human history, second only perhaps to Hannibal’s defeat to the Romans at Zama in 202 BC. Though it’s a close one.

Anyway, whatever. This song is ‘adult’, as far as a glossy boy-band can ever be ‘adult’. There is a reason most boy bands falter when they start to reach their thirties, after all. The cover art is unnecessarily awkward, with the band opting for the ‘natural photo even though it’s still largely posed’ approach taken for the cover from their 2011 album Up All Night.  In the foreground Louis seems to be explaining some obscure aspect of plumbing to an emphatic Liam, whilst to the side Zayn and Harry are having a chat, presumably about how their hair is so much better than that of the other three. But poor old Niall is sat on his own, leaning away from the others and giving a rather unconvincing grin at something off camera. Pairing off, Niall; it’s a terrible thing, just try getting through the 2:00AM rush hour at Mission, fella. The track is typically catchy, to the point where it would take a Tory or a deaf person to not tap their foot along even a little bit. The use of guitars is surprisingly effective, and while it’s hardly Green Day, it does at least bring a little traction to a song that would otherwise fly away like a balloon with the knot untied.   

Another progression is lead vocals for the song being left to Zayn Malik, who held only a token effort in their prior material. Ultimately it is a choice that pays off; he sings better than the rest of them, and actually seems the most mature and likeable to boot.  He keeps repeating that the band are, “doing what they do”, that being, “just pretending that we’re cool”, which rings a little hollow after the mawkish smouldering exhibited on their prior efforts and virtually every calendar that has ever bore their name (there must have been a few). They clearly think that they are pretty hip (unlike the term, ‘hip’), and that is clear from their designer clothing and their general realisation that they are all hugely rich and successful. I dare say I would think I was pretty cool if I couldn’t pop into Nandos without being mobbed by screeching girls.  We are supposed to believe in this supposed ‘goofiness’, by the fact they dance in a deliberately depreciatively terrible fashion, and make some outlandish hand gestures and silly faces. Presumably the art director just said to the boys ‘okay lads, you’re going to have to pretend you aren’t cool’. In fact the time when the band looks genuinely awkward is when they are supposed to be having a good time and actually looking cool. Namely when they are making come-to-bed eyes at the camera and saying their lines with the sort of half-baked earnestness reserved for ITV tele-plays. 

Similarly when they are depicted actually ‘having a good time’, the whole thing is just terrible. When they dance and sing in unison it’s an exercise in the awkward, with so much flailing and pointing-at-the-self that it’s a miracle no one lost an eye amongst all the ruckus. The video is shot at some sort of mini cult-festival; it looks a bit like that Ewok Glastonbury in full swing at the end of Return of The Jedi. The boys show us they are having fun; they muck about in tents, dance with glow sticks, drive an off-road vehicle without seatbelts (safety first lads!), push some zorbs about, and fanny about with some queer little pedelo things. They also prove that of their members, only one is any good at five-a-side football. The boys also manage to wake up fully clothed and with their hair coiffed to perfection; it’s almost like they didn’t actually fall asleep at all and it was all staged! But obviously not. The video culminates in a pool party that violates every conceivable health and safety law ever envisaged, with Harry doing a back flip into a paddling pool (that’s what, like a foot in depth? His mum must have a time of it). The lads wind up larking about dripping wet and shirtless, which is a definite first considering the sexual tension in their video of What Makes You Beautiful was so constrained that they wound up rubbing foreheads with the girl, in a vague attempt to show intimacy whilst satisfying a PG13 audience.  I suppose it is good that the minds behind the band, Cowell’s SyCo, are letting the band’s music become more mature as they do themselves; in contrast to the forced celibacy of American acts like the Jonas Brothers. But it still feels a little insincere. After all since Harry Styles was having it off with Caroline Flack we knew the boys were ‘active’. They didn’t need to literally tell us.

The shift into more adult material also brings with it some pretty risqué assumptions, not least that Zayn appears to be pressuring a girl to sleep with him (“Hey girl, it’s now or never.../Don’t over-think,  just let it go”) and then firmly warns her “Don’t let the pictures leave your phone”. That kid is fucked up.  There are similarly disconcerting vibes in the main chorus (“I know we only met but let’s pretend it’s love.../ Tonight let’s get some.”) One Direction’s relationship advice; dupe a girl into sleeping with you by faking you love her, and then shag ‘er. Thanks boys.  Overall the song is cheap and chatty but undeniably catchy. It’s one of those songs that are so dumb they aren’t even worth disliking. Is this good music? Not at all. Should it be on your ipod? Not if you have even a smote of self-respect. But this is the sort of song the radio was made for, after all. 

 12. Psy: Gangnam Style (October 2012) 

The internet is a strange place. So strange in fact that songs like this can peak charts around the world because of it. Korean pop music (or K-pop), similar to J-pop is a particular sort of pop music, with cheap throbbing techno-beats and lots of anime boob-jiggling. Until last month K-pop was the remit only of fairly committed message board nerds and, well, Koreans. But Psy has finally brought the burgeoning genre to the masses in the west, in typically unsubtle style. This song is actually one of the better pop tracks to come to the top of the charts, even though all of the lyrics, bar the chorus, is in Korean.  But this is actually one of the best pop songs to top the charts in some time. This is not really down to its musical merits; its hardly Beethoven. What is really great about this song is the god damn music video. An exercise in sheer Far-east insanity, the video that accompanies this song is easily one of the greatest achievements of human society. The video opens with Psy lying on a beach lounger in a playground, his head lolling too-and-fro like a chunky asian see-saw as a child practices pop-and-lock in the foreground. This cuts to Psy walking down a stable riding an invisible horse.  The first two scenes and already the video is the weirdest shit to ever hit MTV. This prelude is followed by models getting sprayed in yoghurt,  some slow-mo Jacuzzi weirdness, a coach full of seniors, and some proliferating from a toilet stall. But the golden thread tying together this series of freaky tableau is the dance. 

Whilst definitely one of the more idiotic gestures to have ever been born from pop music (there have been a few), the Gangnam Style dance comprises a sort of invisible straddling accompanied by a spinning of the lasso and a kind of awkward one-two step.  And yet in one fell swoop Psy has muscled both The Macarena and Beyoncé’s seminal Single Ladies dance from top spot as most replicated dance in history. It really is quite a treat seeing an entire dance floor dominated by much invisible straddling and waving of the invisible lasso. It looks like everyone has contracted and is violently trying to dispel an aggressive bout of rheumatism.

But there is actually a surprisingly gratifying method behind the haze of Korean madness. The song is actually a jab at the more pretentious elements of middle class Korea; the Gangnam district being a trendy suburb of Seoul crammed with arty posey types, similar to Chelsea or Beverley Hills. When Psy says the immortal line “Oppa Gangnam Style” dressed in a tuxedo suit complete with bow tie and shades, whilst riding a carousel, he is poking a bit of fun at the ‘gangnam style’ exuded by the socialites of the Gangnam district. It is nice to have a bubblegum pop track with a bit of relevance behind it as well. All in all Gangnam Style is a blissfully unhinged and daft song which brings some much needed fun into the music industry, among the severity of trash acts like Chris Brown and anything by David Guetta. A sizzling live performer to boot, Psy deserves our gratitude at least for being the first portly Asian man to best Beyoncé in a dance-off.

Entry 24: TV Review: The X Factor (13/10/12)

There is always wheat and chaff. For every George Orwell you have a John Grisham. For every Picasso you have an Andy Warhol. And for every legitimate, enthusiastic grass-roots singer-songwriter, there is a triumphant X-Factor contestant, storming the charts like a smug cavalrymen, blowing their little brass horn with an undeserved sense of accomplishment. The X Factor has far surpassed what could be expected of a talent show, and has become a worldwide phenomenon. It’s   like a scheme cooked up by some megalomaniac super villain, a hugely successful ‘talent’ show that rakes in cash and turns your brain into a grey puddle of warm soup. You would think the people who made it and run it, namely the immortal Simon Cowell and his company SyCo, aren’t actually music fans at all. And they aren’t. But they are fans of making lots of money. Hey, who isn’t?

From what started off as a warmed-over replacement for small-budget shitfest, Pop Idol, The X Factor has expanded, growing exponentially year on year, like MRSA, resulting in what is now the flagship of ITV’s weekend primetime. The X Factor may be eight years old but as was clear as I tuned in over a typical weekend, the premise has not changed at all since its first run in 2004. At its core X Factor is over-egged, mass-televised karaoke, with millions of viewers tuning in every week (peaking at 9.7 million in September) to watch a legion of tittering gimps sing pop songs off key.  In fact the only thing that could further the aesthetic of a karaoke would be to have some beery forty year old men to one side of the stage, throwing darts and making uncouth remarks about Nicole Sherzinger’s rack. 

In its current carnation the show has managed to somehow actually become less tasteful than ever before. The live shows have become televised concerts. As the show opens, green lasers swipe and strafe erratically through the crowd and huge quartz spotlights shine with the intensity of a thousand Hiroshima bombs.  Even the stage floor itself pulsates and swipes with colours like a Beatles LSD trip. The whole spectacle is almost gleeful in its execution; like it relishes being utterly terrible.  Series stalwart, the irrepressible Dermot O’Leary, was introduced in the live finals via his own dance routine. O’Leary is actually a fairly likeable presenter, even if he can’t dance for toffee, and provides at least some personality among the kaleidoscope of corporate bombast. The celebrity judge panel however, not so much. The judges change year on year, and the current panel is headed up by Gary Barlow, who glimmers with all the enthusiasm of a washed out old dish rag. Barlow has surrendered any street-cred Take That could possibly have held (which was probably, none at all) to be a judge, and he takes it very seriously, attempting to fill the smugness vacuum left by the departure of Simon Cowell. He cannot much rival the insensitivity or ingenuity of Cowell; however his Yorkshire monotone and pointed sarcasm make him the most likeable of the panel. Alongside him is series veteran Louis Walsh, who seems impossibly grey. His dark eyes give him the appearance of a doubtful mallard, and he rarely seems to mean anything he says or say anything he means. He comes across weak tonight, and seems keen to avoid any controversy, even though that is his job. 

Then there is Tulisa Contostavlos. When your crowning achievement to date is singing in N-Dubz, you are hardly the go to person for credible career advice, and Tulisa battles it out with Kelly Rowland for most useless judge of talent. A doily would dispense better advice than Tulisa; although a doily would produce a far less captivating sex tape. Swings and roundabouts. Rounding off the fantastic foursome is Nicole Sherzinger, singing sensation behind The Pussycat Dolls. Sherzinger makes for pretty good tele; she has a certain shrewdness about her. Still, to call it a panel of judges is stretching the jurisdiction of what can be called a ‘judge’ to fairly disastrous limits. None of them seem to particularly care about the sad saps stood on the stage before them, and they possess between them almost no independent will at all. After a performance the judges take it in turns to dispense some of the most sickeningly saccharine praise you will ever hear. Nicole Sherzinger in particular seems to enjoy pretending she is about to say something bad, before then saying something positive; a technique that grew tedious about seven years ago. Should any of the judges pluck up the courage to make some fairly forgiving criticisms, the studio audience go all Roman Coliseum on them, booing and jeering loudly over the top. Similarly should any praise be in order (it usually is) the crowd scream with the sort of blood-curdling intensity usually reserved for roller coasters and Barry Manilow concerts. What exact pheromone is being pumped into the auditorium is not clear, all we know is that it is being pumped continuously and in huge quantities. What on earth they do with them after the show is over is a mystery to me. You can imagine the risk to national security involved with releasing several hundred pumped-up pop fans into the quiet streets of London. All shook up after a spirited performance by their favourite boy band, the apocalyptic contingent of hormonal women and pre-teen fan girls could tear apart half of Ealing in a flurry of boiling oestrogen.  

The acts are introduced one by one via a horribly edited VT, full of ‘swoosh’ sound effects, and weird close-ups, often with some sort of fan or air conditioner in the foreground, like the whole thing was shot in Louis Walsh’s creepy sex dungeon. You could say there was a spectrum of talent on offer here, and I suppose it is, it’s just a very short spectrum, comprising only terrible, derivative, and only just bearable. This was made abundantly clear when the finalists released their mawkish cover of Emeli Sande’s Read All About It, sounding sort of like the DJ Earworm mix from 2008, except terrible. There is of course some talent on show. This is mostly found with the girls. Gazelle-necked  Melanie Masson gave a convincing rendition of Paloma Faith’s  Never Tear Us Apart, and the cheerily spherical Lucy Spraggan impresses as well, though that is more down to her instrumentalism and her song writing than her vocals; a rarity on a show like this. Ella Henderson is the bookie’s choice to win, and rightly so; she is the only contestant in the contest who doesn’t sound like somebody else. She must also be the only thing of note to have ever come out of Grimsby. Beyond these few there isn’t much to say. 

MK1 seem to actually mock the urban scene rather than emulate it. You have your obligatory boy bands too. Union J sounds like some sort of effeminate droid, whereas District 3 sounds like something from Apartheid era Johannesburg. They are almost offensively good looking, with trendy haircuts that seem to quiff and stick up at the same time and a well practised smoulder. Both bands display a staunch dedication to teeth whitener.  None of them seem to have as much as a glimmer of talent or edge about them; clean-cut pre-teen fodder, made not as much for LPs as for calendars and tumblr feeds. They are all very nice to look at but not interesting to listen to. Not like that stopped One Direction (but enough has been said of them).  Smoggy James Arthur tries to be all angst but comes across as someone angry not at the pain of existence but at the cost of orthodontic correction. Rylan does a good job at performing a continuing self-parody, making himself the first (and only person) to ever make a hash of a song like Gangnam Style. But Jahmene Douglas takes the biscuit for sheer weirdness, firstly for his voice, which resembles Shirley Bassey singing into an oscillating desk fan, and secondly for his appearance; he has one of the weirdest head/face combinations I have ever seen, like a pint-sized reimagining of Gerald from Hey Arnold! mixed with a bruised butternut squash.  

 In the final on Sunday it was cookie-cutter District 3 and scarf fetishist Melanie Masson that were in the ‘sing-off’; that’s what they actually call it. It was the lads who came out on top, which was hardly surprising. We didn’t have any booboos this time. Last week saw Gary Barlow storm off stage after Rylan survived the chop at the expense of Carolynne Poole. It served as a good point to understand Gary Barlow’s m otivations; storming off on live T.V over one warmed-over act succeeding over another, whilst practically shrugging and opening a bag of Doritos when he was recently caught practising tax evasion. But as ever X Factor reminds and reinstates the current cult of instant stardom; and no wonder it grows year on year, it offers youngsters the tantalising chance to get famous without working for it. Bands did become famous before reality T.V. The real starting point for the grass-roots talent has been and forever will be pub and club circuits, which, ironically, is where most of the X Factor contestants will end up anyways, playing a couple of shows at Powerhouse and then calling it a day. It is still fairly compulsive viewing; not because it has singers you can root for, and not because it is a showcase for new music, but because nowhere else will you see such a towering, glittering display of stupidity and futility. If you want to see talented singer- songwriters, watch Later..., or go and see some up-and-comers on the pub scene. If you want to see some grasping hacks try and get something for nothing, tune in next saturday. I'll see you there.