Sex+Design Magazine

The Inevitable Demise of the Pop Superstar

Braincookies by Xifer Fortier

I recently browsed through Here Come the Regulars: How to Run a Record Label With No Money by Ian Anderson. No, not THAT Ian Anderson (godfather of hobbit-rock). THIS Ian Anderson owned an indie record label in 2003. He was 18. The book was published in 2009. To be honest, I didn’t get very far — it was in the bathroom, and my house-mate returned it to the public library later that afternoon. It’s informative enough, mostly about ways the modern recording artist can maintain a commercial identity without a lot of major-label money.

Anderson goes ass-over-tit wrong almost immediately, however – somewhere around page 2 – when he suggests that major labels still look to indie acts for the next Nirvana. He states this without a hint of awareness that he is writing from a 2003 mindset and is thus dangling an imaginary dinosaur dick in the faces of otherwise promising, aspiring musicians.

Later in the same page, he says something obvious but poignant: He acknowledges that the blueprint of modern super-stardom was defined and epitomized once and for all time by the Beatles.

A few weeks back, I went to see Paul McCartney (the cute one) perform to 40,000 fans at AT&T Park in San Francisco. Total bucket-list moment. A few friends and I threw our hands up and our heads back and paid for good seats. $250 each. Beatles don’t do comps. The show was amazing. In the 3 hours between note one and the final chords of the encore, I swear I grew a skirt. Pom-poms sprung from my hands where there hadn’t been pom-poms before.

It was sold out and the entire crowd was of one mind and heart. Somewhere between the singing along and the open weeping, I had a moment to recognize that in 2010, one kinda has to be a Beatle to pull that off. The guy who defined the medium and it’s bigger-than-life stature is among the few who can live up to the unsustainable business model — who can pay a staff of hundreds, finance the infrastructure, sell 40,000 tickets, park 20,000 cars, check 30,000 I.D.s, sell 150,000 Coors Lights (at $9 each) and 20,000 orders of plastic nachos and have everyone go home happy.

The superstar of the latter 20th Century is vanishing before our eyes. More will not be farmed from the indie world. We will try to manufacture a few in our lifetimes. They will not transcend. We will not remember them fondly a decade down the road. None will be as timeless as the volume that begins with Elvis, peaks with the Beatles and ends … where? No matter what I say I’ll get hate mail. Guns and Roses? Nirvana?

Its not important where or with whom the buck stops. We’re not speaking (directly) about a lapse in artistry. We’re discussing the phenomenon of the artist whose music spans generations, who “sells” untold millions of “records” to their fans who then flock to see them perform high-production concerts in arenas, stadiums and ball-parks. Their concerts sell out early because 40,000 people in every major market in the world will pay $50 to $1500 to see them in person.

Most of these artists are over 60. Some are dying off. Others have teamed up. Aerosmith AND Sammy Hagar. The Eagles AND Fleetwood Mac. The younger ones are canceling tours. The Jonas Brothers, Christina Aguilera, Limp Bizkit, Rihanna, and the American Idol summer tours are all canceled or scaled back and those are just the ones you don’t care about. The Lilith Fair considered changing its name to “Vagapalooza” as a marketing ploy but wound up canceling outright. U2, John Mayer and Mastodon? Also canceled.

To be fair, U2 would have pulled it off if Bono hadn’t hurt himself.

More pertinently, I include Mastodon — an example of a band that plays in smaller places AS IF it has packed an arena, which makes sense artistically and fiscally. The new rockstar plays smaller joints. A week after Paul, I saw Tool play to a mere 10,000 people in Sacramento and if they can keep that up for a while, they’re way ahead of the curve.

Acts that can pack a 5,000 seater? They’ve got a good thing going. In my estimation, the band that can sell-out a 3000 seater (to we Bay Areans, that’s the Warfield, the Fox and the Paramount) in every major market has reached an enviable pinnacle of success. If you can make it happen in the 500 – 1500 seater (somewhere between the Independent and the Fillmore), good on you too.

A focus on smaller venues and a more reasonable level of celebrity has become the primary feature of live music’s evolution. It paints the artist in a more human and accessible light. It encourages more intimate and personal performances. It respects real financial issues — the fickle economy and the tendency on the part of the music industry to eat itself. It panders to certain cultural realities, to wit: we as a music-consuming people have grown too cynical to all like the same thing for very long, UNLESS its the Beatles or some other aging Rock and Roll Hall of Fame-caliber performer.

The Hall of Fame itself will become superfluous. It is only a matter of time before we run out of rock-stars to put in there. Madonna’s in. Talking Heads. The Police. They’re the YOUNG ones. The Ramones and REM. Prince and U2. Who then? Metallica? In there already.

Radiohead? Sure, someday. Coldplay? Do we have to? If there is justice, Motorhead, Ween, Beck, and the Flaming Lips will all be welcomed before we seal the Hall shut.

My friend, Nick, foresees Lady Gaga landing in the Hall. None of us know it now, he avers with a hint of 30-grit scorn, but she will matter and we will someday see her astride that Cleveland steamer with Paul Simon and Patty Smith. Honestly? Lady Gaga, taking her rightful berth next to Aretha Franklin, Bob Dylan, Iggy Pop, Michael Jackson and AC/DC? Maybe my glasses are dirty, but I’m not seeing the longevity. I’m not seeing the deep catalog. I’m not foreseeing ground-breaking innovations or palpable cultural impact. I’m certainly not seeing a 3-hour multi-decade-spanning set performed by Lady Gaga at a baseball park in 2055.

I’d cheer her on every step of the way if I thought it was remotely possible. I’d make a documentary about her rise from over-hyped and disposable through her over-exposed years, and the dark period of excess and legal troubles (Amy Wine-who?). It might culminate in the unprecedented come-back, complete with sassy make-over and career-defining masterpiece. It could end with the super-slo-mo, teary-eyed fist pump that punctuates every unlikely triumph, and like “A Hard Day’s Night,” it would be a comedy, a drama, and a love story.

Read More Braincookies:

The Gay 90′s – Why Rock Radio Sucks

Caribou and the Art? Behind Math Rock

Braincookies, Main, Music, Nightlife