Music Industry Part II

I wrote this last night, but my computer crashed at 1:30 in the morning, so I gave up:

The State of the Music Industry. Part Two.

OK, I have to admit that the state of the record business has me down a bit. Part of it is the fact that sales are in the toilet, but part of it is the sheer volume of garbage that is committed to CD these days. Dressed in my reviewer’s hat I receive a number of promotional CDs. Some of them show up periodically in my mailbox, and others stack up at my editors’ offices, until they get dumped on a hapless reviewer. Currently I am buried under promos, so I decided that this weekend I will get caught up and at least do a preliminary sorting of the good, the bad and the ugly.

Now, for those who read my hyper-critical rants against the likes of Steven Spielberg or Jeff Koons, this may come as a surprise, but I really try to like each and every disc that comes across my desk. Something has to really fall flat to get my ire up.

Generally I put things into four piles: definite review, possible review, no review, and see if the hazardous waste folks will accept this turkey for incineration. Sometimes a good disc will end up in the no review pile, if, for instance, it is already over-exposed, or lends itself to more passive enjoyment or just has too specific an audience for me to write about (or is totally outside my bailiwick).

One of the criteria for review is that I have to be able to honestly give a CD at least three out of four stars. There are too many good releases out there for me to give ink to the mediocre and below. Now, if a title is not only bad but offensive, I might consider it for a good panning, just to warn people away. Another way to earn a panning is to pester me or my editor too often (one call is enough, unless invited. If you call me and do not know anything about the disc besides what you are reading verbatim, you are perilously close to a panning). I am only human, and since my other hat involves being on the other side of the phone line, I have to do my part to teach my fellow publicists good manners.

Another of the review criteria is that CDs must have some distribution beyond buying direct from the artist (with the exception of a really outstanding up and coming local musician). My local readers are in a fairly large area, from Fremont to Richmond, from San Mateo County to Tracy, in the Central Valley. If a title can be found in two shops in this area (preferably not in the same immediate area), I will consider it fair game.

Going through this pile of CDs I found a number of titles that were really quite good, particularly Boz Scaggs’s album of standards. There were some that almost made it (solo CD by Ray Benson of Asleep at the Wheel). There were some that were honest efforts, but were simply not my thing (a collection of “Songs of Soul and Inspiration” by black women, entitled Church – more on that later in the context of why an all-male sacramental priesthood is necessary. I don’t think I have riled feminists up enough recently). Then there is the ugly: stuff that makes me wonder “why?”

We have a vanity project from some psychologist that quite simply stunk. There is a vanity project from a friend of the local, overrated Linda Tillery, which is not bad as far as a CD gift to friends goes, but nowhere approaches professional standards. We have a Duetto with a couple of tenors that makes Andrea Boccelli sound hard-hitting (I actually have a lot of respect for Boccelli, as a pop singer). The list goes on. After two hours of just quickly sampling this stuff, I am grumpy, my ears are fatigued, and I am ready for some peace and quiet. Fortunately the neighbor’s dog is either dead or asleep. It is just me, the hum of the computer, and the occasional car.

This Duetto, though, deserves a little special panning. The tenors, a Marcello Avarez of Argentina and Salvatore Licitra of Italy have fine voices. In an operatic setting, they can do wonders. However this record is all schmaltz, and not in the Viennese sense, which can actually work. I was trying to figure out why I hated this record so much, since I normally like the operatic pop repertoire (I think I own recordings of every note Mario Lanza ever sung into a microphone). It hit me with a barrage of synth strings: the genre has turned Precious. What particularly galls me is that this is marketed as “Classics.”

Think of the poor 14 year old boy who for some reason gets a bug to better himself. He decides to buy a classical record, so he goes to the local Wal*Mart to find something to buy. Since Sony has tremendous marketing clout and budget to booot, our 14 year old is confronted with a veritable tower of specially priced Duetto CDs. So he brings it home and slaps it on the CD player (sorry, I am vinyl nut, I still use old terminology. Sue me) and thinks, “this is supposed to be high culture?” He rightfully worries that his friends will think he is developing a certain delicacy. Sheesh, that experiment is over! Back to Eminem, who at least struts like he has a pair.

Preciosity is the worst thing to infect music. It is what repulses sensible ears from the dainty chamber music of Brahms. Art music is in its nature highly nuanced and subtle. It does not need to be precious. Let the arrangements be strong and vibrant, a virile music for real ears. Precious music should be called as such and by no other moniker. The folks who like this stuff will think of precious as a complementary word: just like all that gold! It is already a movement: in painting we have Thomas Kinkade, in theater we have Andrew Lloyd Weber, in literature, Maya Angelou. The New Preciousness. The aesthetic of ornate and delicate ugly stuff made of glass. All it needs is an official title. Carmel-by-the-Sea could be its capital.

Think of the cross-promotions! Go to your Kinkade gallery to register to win a weekend at Ye Olde Gnomish Laire at Carmel-by-the-Sea, and a special performance by Alvarez and Licitra during the “cocktail” hour (we actually serve White Zinfandel). Then, when you go home you will get a copy of Maya Angelou’s poetry, autographed by Oprah. A Precious Weekend!

Fine. To each his own, but do not dare call this stuff classical. Western Civilization is made of sterner stuff. We roast music like this and eat it as a snack between Die Valkyrie and Siegfried. If we want delicate we will take Debussy or Ravel on his better days. But generally we will stick with Bach, Mozart, Verdi. You want extreme emotions, we’ve got I Pagliacci and Pierrot Lunaire! You want romance? May I interest you in the Pines of Rome? But you take this wash of fake strings and send them to Carmel!

I was planning on being in bed an hour ago, but started ranting.