The future of pop music

'Amo Noite e Dia' by Oba Oba Samba House

The other day I was thinking of three album titles that are likely not to appear on iTunes anytime soon: 'Chris Brown sings Rihanna', 'Jay-Z: the Reggae Album', and 'Niki Minaj: Worship Live at the Pentecostal Worship Center, Los Angeles', and wondering why this is so. Music is so niche-nuanced these days; mention the name of an artist and you already know what you're getting.

It wasn't always this way. There was a time when pop music was genuinely popular; that is, you didn't have 'hip-hop' charts, 'urban', 'smooth jazz', 'country', 'electro', 'kwaito', and a zillion other categories. No, there was a time when 'pop' embraced everything. The Beatles, for example, wrote reggae songs, Ray Charles sang country; and Aretha sang gospel and latin as well as soul. And everyone heard it all. In those bygone days, listening to the radio meant the whole family was catered for -- the kids, the teens, the mums-and-dads and even the grannies could expect to hear their current favourite songs being played by familiar corny-joke DJs.

But not, it seems, any more. What brought about this narrowing of focus, this fragmentation of music into many parts? Well, of course there are a lot more people in the world now -- seven billion or so, and they all like what they like; and there's a heck of a lot more music too. But I suspect the biggest instigator of the change is technology. When radio was the big thing, the unifying force that it was, it was partly because there wasn't anything else. If you wanted portable music, music on the go, it had to be from a transistor radio. There were no Walkmans, iPods, iPads or even beatboxes. Now it appears that half the world walks around with wires sprouting from their ears. I even saw a hoodie advertised recently that comes with earphones built-in -- 'fully washable', according to the blurb.

Yet I've seen, I think, a glimmer of change, and that's why I think bands like Oba Oba Samba House are the future of pop. 'Amo Noite e Dia' begins with that ubiquitous 4/4 House thump, but a short way through suddenly becomes a samba song. The words are in Portuguese (the title means 'I love [you] night and day'), but the band (they're from Brazil) sing convincingly in English too (check out their reworking of Kings of Leon's Use Somebody). I like the way they're bilingual and eclectic -- Portuguese bleeds into English and Rock sits side-by-side with House, Samba, and boy-band vocals. Oh, and perhaps most embracingly of all, they also manage to include the tradiditional Brazilian tiny guitar (cavaquinho) in their instrumentation and sound. Their albums bang like a mixtape, and I love it. Everything is back in the mix again. They are, to me, a miniature musical representation of the sprawling Internet, the way everything is available, all jumbled up, all up for grabs. And, as they should be, they're fun. Their sound should be chaotic, anarchic, but it's not; what they do shouldn't work, but it does; somehow what should be an unmanageable collision of languages and styles finds a sense of order. They are truly a band for the Internet age. So, welcome to updated radio. Oba Oba Samba House are the sound of our future.

Clickety-Clicks

Clickety-Clicks

That was the day I clicked with the girl from Clicks. I didn’t recognise her at first. No, that’s wrong; I did recognise her, but I didn’t know where from; she wasn’t wearing her pharmacist’s uniform. And without her uniform...
   She was dressed casually, not fussily, presumably for comfort rather than to impress. Her jeans were faded and worn from use—not bought that way—and her top was a bright mass-produced one you could buy at any common clothing chain like Identity or Jet or Mr Price. Her blue shoes were stylish though.
   She smiled at me, a good start. I started; stared; then smiled back.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. I was still trying to work out where she was from.
“Nothing... you’re the pharmacist from Clicks?”
“Yes, and you’re one of my customers. How’s the migraine?”
“Oh, it’s gone now, thanks. You helped.”
“That’s my job.” She smiled again.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
   It was at this point that nothing happened. No, that’s wrong; plenty was happening, but we were
feeling it, not talking, not moving, just looking at each other and feeling.
“Look, why don’t...” We spoke together; realised what we’d done; looked again at each other; and
laughed.
“You first,” I said.
“No, you,” she said.
“Well,” I started again, “what are you doing now? From here?”
“Just girlie things.”
“Shopping, you mean.”
“Uh-huh. Do you want to buy me something?”
“Uh, like what?”
“What girls like. Shoes, jeans, an engagement ring...” I tried to ignore the last item.
“Underwear?” I said.
“That’s what men like. You’re always thinking of undressed women.”
“Me? No, I was joking.”
“You weren’t, but it’s OK. I like a man to be a man.”
“Let’s keep talking,” I said.
“OK.”
   We went where we could talk. We went to a café and got a drink. No, that’s obviously wrong. We got two drinks: hers was a juice; mine was an appletiser.
   Then we talked. And laughed. And talked. And laughed. And got some other drinks. And discovered
we liked similar music, had read similar books, and wanted exactly the same thing.
   What was that thing? Well, let’s just say that we spent a lot of time together that day. We looked at
shoes and jeans and yes, we stopped by the window of a jewellers where we looked at the rings and laughed and then held hands and went to another shop where I bought her a CD and she bought me a book. We hugged. We kissed. We felt we belonged together. We still do. Because we click. We’re tighter than her pair of faded jeans and the childproof-cap on my bottle of migraine pills from Clicks.

© Kenneth Rowley 2013. 

Ms Sweetness

She was like the smell of grass, sweetened by a shower; like the sight of lightning striking distant hills; like the poetry of birdsong in the morning's half-light. Her form floated on the breeze, glistened on the dew, glamoured the old into the new. And I loved her, I loved her; I still do. Time... Time... Time... The only real is what we feel. The only lotion, emotion. Emotion can hurt, emotion can heal. She was the sweetness after rain, the healing after pain. With the memories come the feelings: again and again and again.

© Kenneth Rowley 2013

Clickety-Clicks

Clickety-Clicks

THAT WAS THE DAY I clicked with the girl from Clicks. I didn’t recognise her at first. No, that’s wrong; I did recognise her, but I didn’t know where from; she wasn’t wearing her pharmacist’s uniform. And without her uniform... 

   She was dressed casually, not fussily, presumably for comfort rather than to impress. Her jeans were faded and worn from use—not bought that way—and her top was a bright mass-produced one you could buy at any common clothing chain like Identity or Jet or Mr Price. Her blue shoes were stylish though.

   She smiled at me, a good start. I started; stared; then smiled back.

   “What’s wrong?” she asked. I was still trying to work out where she was from.

   “Nothing... you’re the pharmacist from Clicks?”

   “Yes, and you’re one of my customers. How’s the migraine?”

   “Oh, it’s gone now, thanks. You helped.”

   “That’s my job.” She smiled again.

   “Yes, I suppose so.” 

   It was at this point that nothing happened. No, that’s wrong; plenty was happening, but we were feeling it, not talking, not moving, just looking at each other and feeling.

   “Look, why don’t...” We spoke together; realised what we’d done; looked again at each other; and laughed.

   “You first,” I said.

   “No, you,” she said.

   “Well,” I started again, “what are you doing now? From here?” 

   “Just girlie things.”

   “Shopping, you mean.”

   “Uh-huh. Do you want to buy me something?”

   “Uh, like what?”

   “What girls like. Shoes, jeans, an engagement ring...” I tried to ignore the last item.

   “Underwear?” I said.

   “That’s what men like. You’re always thinking of undressed women.” 

   “Me? No, I was joking.”

   “You weren’t, but it’s OK. I like a man to be a man.”

   “Let’s keep talking,” I said.

   “OK.”

   We went where we could talk. We went to a café and got a drink. No, that’s obviously wrong. We got two drinks: hers was a juice; mine was an appletiser. 

   Then we talked. And laughed. And talked. And laughed. And got some other drinks. And discovered we liked similar music, had read similar books, and wanted exactly the same thing.

   What was that thing? Well, let’s just say that we spent a lot of time together that day. We looked at shoes and jeans and yes, we stopped by the window of a jewellers where we looked at the rings and laughed and then held hands and went to another shop where I bought her a CD and she bought me a book. We hugged. We kissed. We felt we belonged together. We still do. Because we click. We’re tighter than her pair of faded jeans and the childproof-cap on my bottle of migraine pills from Clicks.

© Kenneth Rowley, 456 words, 27th February 2013. [from 'Short Short Stories']

Peppermint 3 has arrived!

Finally, Peppermint 3 OS has arrived... it's what I'm using right now and so far, so good. It's built upon Lubuntu and Mint and looks and feels great (I'm not a fan of the new Ubuntu desktop at all). I've installed it on an old 256 RAM machine, but everything is working at the moment and I particularly like the fact that this Peppermint is not overloaded with programs I won't use. Since the early days of the Mac I've really enjoyed customising what I'm using and Peppermint 3 gives me that option from the get-go.

After 3 days, Peppermint 3 is still working really well. I had the usual odd window behaviour as with Peppermints 1, 2 and Ice, but that was easily fixed.

the bottom line

the bottom line

She'd washed her panties,
hung them out to dry;
he was looking at them.
'Male & female energies
need each other,' he said.
'Yes,' she agreed, following his gaze,
'that's the bottom line.'

© Kenneth Rowley 2012

The Death of Rootedness

The Death of Rootedness

The death of Donna Summer reveals the problems we're facing: the loss of rootedness and context. You see, without Donna Summer, there'd be no house music, no club dance scene, no Channel O, but most people who listen extensively (many exclusively) to these musics and inhabit these contexts have never heard of her. We have as a species shifted (a seismic shift, equivalent to the Industrial Revolution) from nationalism towards a global village, one unified worldwide culture, that contains a bit of everything, a genuine mash-up, but in so doing we have disconnected our ties to the particular histories that allowed this social world to come into being.

And, of course, it's not just the dance scene. During the late seventies (think Eagles' Hotel California, think Fleetwood Mac's Rumours), rock music was also changed forever because of Donna Summer. When Brian Eno arrived in Berlin to join David Bowie for his Low and Heroes albums, he had a copy of Summer's I Feel Love and was telling everyone, "This is the future". He was correct, and Bowie (who was a new convert to the electronica of Neu!, Can, and Kraftwerk) agreed. That nascent sound is all over Bowie's Berlin albums and the changes that followed were tidal.

Music is central to the new global village and our lives; it will continue to be, but without rootedness we can justifiably be apprehensive. I recently saw some youtube comments on a piece of classical music: "Oh, this music is just for the old people, and they'll be dying out soon." Our sense of history is dying, and with it goes our sense of proportion and rightness. Everything is now up for grabs.

Mudberry!

Swaziland is making huge strides to compete with giants like Apple, Google, Samsung and Microsoft by going local. Welcome Mudberry (TM). As you can see from our picture, it's already a big hit on the local African market.

Proud Mudberry User

Hey you!

Hey you! Are you having fun, or is the fun having you? You're tired of the old, are you fond of the new? When it's late at night and you turn out the light, is it still alright, do you still remember what to do? Oh I miss those times, I really do. Hey, you! Do you still long for a fu-wong, yearn for a mouth full of taste? Delight is too precious to waste. Call me. I want to eat some more tofu with you. I really really do.

posted from Bloggeroid

catching the plague

catching the plague

What is love? You meet someone, you dream someone, you sleep someone and then your heart is in your mouth, full of the burgeoning dawn. Your doom is already muscle-thighed and moving: she loves me, she loves me not, will she or won’t she? You can no longer sleep at night, your pulse is racing with the rush of the new. You get a kick out of her; does she get a kick out of you?

  Being in love is a recognised human condition, a measure of the state we’re in. It involves a lot of hugging and wave after wave of adrenaline. It rages like a fever. When Olivia, in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, realises that she is falling in love, she exclaims, ‘How now! Even so, can one so quickly catch the plague?’ And when Dr Faustus, in Marlowe’s play of the same name, kisses Helen of Troy, he immediately realises that he is lost: ‘Ah, her lips suck forth my soul: see where it flies!’

  There is no surviving an outbreak of love. Once infected, you’re gone.

  But where is love? The poet Roger McGough wrote that ‘the act of love lies somewhere between the belly and the mind’. Most would probably place it in the heart, but I think it’s more a sparkle in the eyes, or the surprise of a smile, or the warm, moist, open-mouthed invitation of a kiss. Faces spark the whole thing off. At least they do for me. Some men are butt-men or leg-men or breast-men. Some others drink so much that they settle for whoever they can get. But me, I check faces, peer through the trapdoors of the soul.

  I dream dreams; I see visions. But there’s a difference between dreaming a dream and dating one. Being in love is living on the edge, balancing on the very brink of chaos: does she love me? Of course she does.

  Whoosh! There’s a flow and a flux, an energy rush. Love is coming: get on the runaway train; board the bus; fly the plane. Romance is always just around the corner. There’s always a heart looking for you. Life is a dating agency.

  When I was just a young boy, I didn’t understand this love thing. If I saw a couple kissing it was more a 'Look mummy, they’re eating each other.’ But when I became a man I put away my childish things, sighed moodily and gave myself up to passion.

  In our modern age, phone numbers are the digits of love. You’ve got it bad girl—that’s the fifth call you’ve made today...

  But that’s the whole point of love: communication. No man is an island. We’re people people. We need each other. Loneliness burns down the wires and drives people into Internet chat rooms or onto porn sites. Loneliness opens the dark dungeons of the human psyche.

  There is no antidote for love, and only the dangerously depressed will ever look for a vaccine to prevent it. No, love’s a hot-wiring of the spirit, an intoxicating home run, a favourite shirt in the wardrobe of our days.

© Kenneth Rowley, 2003-2012

   

She's my (prose poem for Valentine 2012)

She's my familiar pleasure, my discovered treasure, my depth-plumbed measure of what it means to be a man. Long-limbed, lithe and lively, she is lovely to let me stir the cream with the cocoa. We share what we know, grow to be sure of what we can, plan and cook and hatch fast and slow in the slack lane of love. Ambassador me, envoy she, we meet in the shadow-lanes behind the cafes of passion. The steam erupts from our thousand cups. And we never order lonely plates of chips.

posted from Bloggeroid