Pop
by
Maysa Hattab
Remember a time when
we all screamed as one for the latest uniformly clad super-group to hit
the charts? When we waved banners emblazoned with hearts and various monosyllabic
names, whose identity mystified our parents, and swayed in time to a ballad,
which while making millions, seemed to epitomise all that was great about
preteen romance. The videos--with the customary windswept beaches, and
a tanned, tapered specimen of preened loveliness--were wholesome enough,
but with a tantalising hint of the adult glamour and sophistication we
all thought we had. Staring moodily into the lens and crooning in tones
to make hearts melt, in the arms of some equally gorgeous creature fresh
from drama school, whose name would soon adorn every tabloid in the land.
The pulse of the latest dance craze, a low-key, sugared version of what
we would listen to in three or four years time, the soundtrack to your
school disco. What happened to all that?
Did the big-name record
companies suddenly stop churning out guaranteed hits? Of course not. We
grew up, apart from this world, to explore new frontiers within our incipient
adolescence--more make-up, less skirt, cigarettes, Alco pops--we’d done
it all, now it was time to move on. Instead of the packaged, conveyor-belt
tunes, gleaming dental work and exposed midriffs, gone were the clean-shaven,
fresh faced young things with wide eyes and bee-stung lips. Now we favoured
greasy locks, stubble, piercings, baggy clothing, guitars, and loud drums
giving life to the rasp and groan of our new icons over the microphone:
"Real Music." Suddenly we reverted to the tastes of our parents we had
so industriously shunned--punk, rock, metal. Finally, escape from the system,
authority, school, and the shackles of a controlling and controlled media--true
rebellion. We’d seen the light and emerged from it into a haze of pot smoke
and thick black eyeliner, or the ostentatious glitter of a vast diamond
crucifix from the neck of the latest rap star to make millions and spell
creatively. Pop was now a dirty word.
Soon enough, youth across
the nation split into many, often warring factions, each wearing their
choice of music flagrantly; a badge of honour, a status symbol. Suddenly,
being "cool" as defined by the likes of Britney Spears--the perfect American
High School scenario, complete with cheerleaders--had become uncool, a
virtue extolled to excess by MTV addicts. Of course, this became as irritating
in its own way soon enough, for the record companies and media finally
began to grasp this new concept--each faction was catered to by magazines,
television, music channels, and radio. Everywhere you look, someone is
sending subtle signals as to what your identity should be. So much for
the underground movement. The styles of the bleak demeanour of nu-metal,
or the brash, street-inspired glamour of rap have long since moved away
from the street corners and basements in which they were conceived. And
as we continue to aid the sale of records, we fuel this change--the fame,
fortune and falsity we shunned in pop had been, and would be now, of our
own making. And yet there are those who would dismiss the mainstream as
lowbrow, simply because it is mainstream, failing to realise, that any
amount of talent becomes secondary in the face of popularity. That music
is now an expression of self, a face we present to the world, and as much
a part of that as our clothes and possessions. If so, many of us--because
of this exclusivity, the fickle shifting from one genre to another as it
gains credibility--are in danger of becoming the shallow, one-dimensional
creatures we so despised.
Celebrity does have its
advantages, a way of connecting people otherwise divided by distance and
lifestyle to something huge, entertaining, memorable. The recent glut of
nostalgic television is a part of this; despite the unique paths that we
take, we might perhaps all fondly remember one thing. But are the products
of popstars worth less attention than Madonna, Limp Bizkit, Linkin Park,
Destiny’s Child, or N’Sync?
Perhaps it is merely prejudice
which prompts our selectiveness, another, perhaps more subtle version of
the status seeking which leads preteens in droves to the next big thing.
Our choices, including those in music, make us who we are, build our friendships,
more so perhaps, than in the past. We all want to belong, a tenet that
seems to have taken on an all-consuming power. But what is that worth when
you no longer have the freedom to enjoy music in your own way, in all its
diversity? Who says you can’t idolise Marilyn Manson, while knowing by
heart the lyrics of Eminem, but preferring to dance around your bedroom
to Kylie? Why is pop a dirty word? Because we have made it one.
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