(Originally published April 26, 2009)
2007, Age 34. “Love Is A Losing Game,” by Amy Winehouse. Acoustic version of song from Back to Black.
Why can’t white bands sing any more? When did matching pitch with one’s voice become this esoteric skill that was lost to descendants of Europeans? Has singing itself become so passé that bands can’t be bothered to attempt it – even the lead singers?
I was listening to a music podcast the other day where the topic of conversation was favorite singers who can’t sing. I imagine a sports show where the anchors discuss their favorite quarterbacks who can’t pass or their favorite swimmers who can’t swim. And yet here was this group of thirty-something music writers (I picture them wearing horn-rimmed glasses and Lucky Charms t-shirts) huddled around a microphone talking about this phenomenon as if it were normal. The strange thing about it was, indeed, how many relatively successful contemporary bands they were able to name who cannot carry a tune.
Mind you, I cannot remember the names of any of these bands, I simply must take the word of these arbiters of hipster taste that these are successful, popular bands in some milieu. I do not listen to any of these groups. I don’t say this to be a music snob or anything, it’s just that one of my prerequisites to listening to vocalists is that they possess the ability to sing. I routinely get irritated listening to these shows as they slag off one of my favorite bands or singers knowing that their sole reason for doing so has to do with the singer’s musicianship.
I remember listening to one critic have a go at Amy Winehouse’s Back To Black record when it came out. I could just hear the condescension in his voice: “Sure she can sing, if that’s why you buy records.” Yes, yes it is, as a matter of fact. It is at least a major factor. When I read those end of the year “Best of” lists it is evident that there is a bias against good singers. I thought Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings 100 Days, 100 Nights was one of the very best records of 2007, but it made almost no showing on anyone’s “best of” lists, I am convinced, because Sharon Jones has a set of pipes that make you want to screw in church when you listen to her. End of the year lists are instead dominated by skinny white-boy bands with ambient angst that are backed either by guitars that sound like they’re being played through 10-watt amps or else an ironic combination cello and steel drum.
One of the especially ridiculous things about these critics is that they seem to recognize great singers of the past: Aretha, Otis, Etta. But let someone carry on in that great tradition now and suddenly it’s cliché or too “done.” As a consequence the zines and radio shows are filled with praise for tone-deaf, whiny mumblings from bed-headed, hipster douche bags.
I blame two things, or more properly one person and a musical genre: Bob Dylan and Punk.
Let me say from the outset that I accept Bob Dylan’s artistic genius. I didn’t always, but I’m a convert. Big fan. Highway 61 Revisited? Love it. Blonde on Blonde? Like it lots. So none of you angsty superfans need to get up in my grill with your collectors’ editions of The Basement Tapes: I get it.
Dylan made it fashionable for pop music to “say something,” and he really did have a lot to say. Of course, this presupposes that pop music hadn’t really been saying much till then, but that’s just not true; it’s just that it was using the music to do the “saying” more than the words. R&B and blues singers had, for decades before white singer-songwriters burst onto the scene, used phrasing and melodic ornamentation to give a presence to their lyrics. Black songwriters used innuendo and double-entendre to shade the meaning of their words. Singers would tease, spit, bark, coo and coax each phrase. It seems that all the white teenagers who started making rock and roll in the fifties never really realized what all those Big Joe Turner and Howlin’ Wolf songs they were singing were really about:
There is no reason they should get them: they were just teenagers. But as the decade turned, their understanding of that music doesn’t seem to have especially deepened. Instead, they began looking for songwriters who could express all that pent-up anger these young adults were feeling.
White artists of the sixties made explicit in the lyrics those themes that were more subtly expressed by black artists of the forties and fifties. Of course, black music was changing at the same time. Social issues were no longer the sole province of so-called “folk” singers like Odetta or Ledbelly: Sam Cooke was singing “A Change Is Gonna Come” and James Brown was black and proud. Yet black music of the sixties was still mostly driven by exploring relationships between men and women. Black music had always taken a decidedly more adult viewpoint. Black records were marketed to adults with jobs and bills, not teenagers with college funds and time on their hands.
I’d like to think that Dylan has never viewed his vocal inabilities as an asset. Certainly he is well-versed in the recordings of many able vocalists. I will also admit that there is an immediacy to his singing that is in itself expressive. It is almost as if there is such an urgency in his songs that he simply has to be the one to sing them. That’s not quite the same thing as a general scorn for good singing though. Also to his credit is the fact that Dylan’s singing seems to have noticeably improved over the years. I don’t know if he ever did something so pedantic as hire a vocal coach, but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he occasionally uses phrases like “vocal folds” and “facial mask.”
The problem in the world of pop music is that so many artists of lesser brilliance than Dylan and with much less to say have used their vocal inabilities to mask their artistic sterility. Where musicians previously used technical virtuosity to hide their lack of imagination, today’s artists feel that creative impotence is best disguised by technical incompetence. Maybe I’m being too hard on Mr. Zimmerman, but I think he bears a fair share of the blame. Too many of today’s tuneless navel-gazers cite him as a primary influence. The rest of them cite punk.
I’m probably not the first to note that many bands of punk’s first wave did have a general scorn for good singing and for musicianship in general. That was the point wasn’t it? “Learn three chords and ruin the neighborhood” or however that went. The punk ethos was supposed to be something about capturing the raw nature of early rock and roll. This does seem to fly in the face of convincing aural evidence to the contrary: no one is going to mistake “That’s Alright Mama” for “Anarchy in the U.K.” Even the axiom regarding punk’s cacophony seems to be truer of some punk bands than others, most notably the British. The Ramones sound downright melodic at times (e.g., “Do You Wanna Dance?”) compared to their counterparts across the pond. Although a fair amount of lip service was given to musical ineptitude, it is evident while listening to Blondie or Patti Smith that they are not devoid of pop sensibility. Yet punk’s second, third and fourth waves – which split into myriad subgenres with mystifying names like “terrorcore” and “oi!” – relished bad singing more and more.
The burgeoning grunge scene of the 90s and the whole alternative movement seemed to be built on vacillating instances of nasal-toned whining and screaming. Even though I was in college during the early 90s, I couldn’t bring myself to listen most of what was on college radio. Perhaps the lyrics were insightful and ironic and all, but I could not get through the terrible singing. I remember the first time I heard someone refer to Kurt Cobain as a “musical genius.” “That guy who just sort-of moans tunelessly? And then screams a bit? The one in the flannel?” (On a side note: I was, unfortunately, influenced by so-called “grunge fashion” in the early 90s, as flannel shirts were seemingly the only casual wear available in stores.)
That leaves us where we are today. I actually think many of today’s rock writers are too scared to note the poor musicianship of the bands they hear. They have been fooled into believing that great artists would never bother learning to sing. It’s a classic case of the emperor’s new rock band and the joke is on the independent music press. They have become so reactionary against the “American Idol” phenomenon that they have lost any sense of taste they may have had.
Well I say, “Critics be damned!” Go ahead and put on those records by good singers that you want to hear. Put on some Aretha, some Otis, some Etta, some Ray, some Gladys, some Chaka, some Curtis, some Solomon, and some Wilson. And while you’re at it, go ahead and put on Angie Stone and Jill Scott and John Legend and Sharon Jones. And if there is enough time, save room for those white people still dedicated to the art of song. There may not be many of them, but they’re worth listening to.
2007, Age 34. “Love Is A Losing Game,” by Amy Winehouse. Acoustic version of song from Back to Black.
Why can’t white bands sing any more? When did matching pitch with one’s voice become this esoteric skill that was lost to descendants of Europeans? Has singing itself become so passé that bands can’t be bothered to attempt it – even the lead singers?
I was listening to a music podcast the other day where the topic of conversation was favorite singers who can’t sing. I imagine a sports show where the anchors discuss their favorite quarterbacks who can’t pass or their favorite swimmers who can’t swim. And yet here was this group of thirty-something music writers (I picture them wearing horn-rimmed glasses and Lucky Charms t-shirts) huddled around a microphone talking about this phenomenon as if it were normal. The strange thing about it was, indeed, how many relatively successful contemporary bands they were able to name who cannot carry a tune.
Mind you, I cannot remember the names of any of these bands, I simply must take the word of these arbiters of hipster taste that these are successful, popular bands in some milieu. I do not listen to any of these groups. I don’t say this to be a music snob or anything, it’s just that one of my prerequisites to listening to vocalists is that they possess the ability to sing. I routinely get irritated listening to these shows as they slag off one of my favorite bands or singers knowing that their sole reason for doing so has to do with the singer’s musicianship.
I remember listening to one critic have a go at Amy Winehouse’s Back To Black record when it came out. I could just hear the condescension in his voice: “Sure she can sing, if that’s why you buy records.” Yes, yes it is, as a matter of fact. It is at least a major factor. When I read those end of the year “Best of” lists it is evident that there is a bias against good singers. I thought Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings 100 Days, 100 Nights was one of the very best records of 2007, but it made almost no showing on anyone’s “best of” lists, I am convinced, because Sharon Jones has a set of pipes that make you want to screw in church when you listen to her. End of the year lists are instead dominated by skinny white-boy bands with ambient angst that are backed either by guitars that sound like they’re being played through 10-watt amps or else an ironic combination cello and steel drum.
One of the especially ridiculous things about these critics is that they seem to recognize great singers of the past: Aretha, Otis, Etta. But let someone carry on in that great tradition now and suddenly it’s cliché or too “done.” As a consequence the zines and radio shows are filled with praise for tone-deaf, whiny mumblings from bed-headed, hipster douche bags.
I blame two things, or more properly one person and a musical genre: Bob Dylan and Punk.
Let me say from the outset that I accept Bob Dylan’s artistic genius. I didn’t always, but I’m a convert. Big fan. Highway 61 Revisited? Love it. Blonde on Blonde? Like it lots. So none of you angsty superfans need to get up in my grill with your collectors’ editions of The Basement Tapes: I get it.
Dylan made it fashionable for pop music to “say something,” and he really did have a lot to say. Of course, this presupposes that pop music hadn’t really been saying much till then, but that’s just not true; it’s just that it was using the music to do the “saying” more than the words. R&B and blues singers had, for decades before white singer-songwriters burst onto the scene, used phrasing and melodic ornamentation to give a presence to their lyrics. Black songwriters used innuendo and double-entendre to shade the meaning of their words. Singers would tease, spit, bark, coo and coax each phrase. It seems that all the white teenagers who started making rock and roll in the fifties never really realized what all those Big Joe Turner and Howlin’ Wolf songs they were singing were really about:
“I had a little red rooster too lazy to crow for days,
I had a little red rooster too lazy to crow for days,
Keep everything in the barnyard upset in every way.”
There is no reason they should get them: they were just teenagers. But as the decade turned, their understanding of that music doesn’t seem to have especially deepened. Instead, they began looking for songwriters who could express all that pent-up anger these young adults were feeling.
White artists of the sixties made explicit in the lyrics those themes that were more subtly expressed by black artists of the forties and fifties. Of course, black music was changing at the same time. Social issues were no longer the sole province of so-called “folk” singers like Odetta or Ledbelly: Sam Cooke was singing “A Change Is Gonna Come” and James Brown was black and proud. Yet black music of the sixties was still mostly driven by exploring relationships between men and women. Black music had always taken a decidedly more adult viewpoint. Black records were marketed to adults with jobs and bills, not teenagers with college funds and time on their hands.
I’d like to think that Dylan has never viewed his vocal inabilities as an asset. Certainly he is well-versed in the recordings of many able vocalists. I will also admit that there is an immediacy to his singing that is in itself expressive. It is almost as if there is such an urgency in his songs that he simply has to be the one to sing them. That’s not quite the same thing as a general scorn for good singing though. Also to his credit is the fact that Dylan’s singing seems to have noticeably improved over the years. I don’t know if he ever did something so pedantic as hire a vocal coach, but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he occasionally uses phrases like “vocal folds” and “facial mask.”
The problem in the world of pop music is that so many artists of lesser brilliance than Dylan and with much less to say have used their vocal inabilities to mask their artistic sterility. Where musicians previously used technical virtuosity to hide their lack of imagination, today’s artists feel that creative impotence is best disguised by technical incompetence. Maybe I’m being too hard on Mr. Zimmerman, but I think he bears a fair share of the blame. Too many of today’s tuneless navel-gazers cite him as a primary influence. The rest of them cite punk.
I’m probably not the first to note that many bands of punk’s first wave did have a general scorn for good singing and for musicianship in general. That was the point wasn’t it? “Learn three chords and ruin the neighborhood” or however that went. The punk ethos was supposed to be something about capturing the raw nature of early rock and roll. This does seem to fly in the face of convincing aural evidence to the contrary: no one is going to mistake “That’s Alright Mama” for “Anarchy in the U.K.” Even the axiom regarding punk’s cacophony seems to be truer of some punk bands than others, most notably the British. The Ramones sound downright melodic at times (e.g., “Do You Wanna Dance?”) compared to their counterparts across the pond. Although a fair amount of lip service was given to musical ineptitude, it is evident while listening to Blondie or Patti Smith that they are not devoid of pop sensibility. Yet punk’s second, third and fourth waves – which split into myriad subgenres with mystifying names like “terrorcore” and “oi!” – relished bad singing more and more.
The burgeoning grunge scene of the 90s and the whole alternative movement seemed to be built on vacillating instances of nasal-toned whining and screaming. Even though I was in college during the early 90s, I couldn’t bring myself to listen most of what was on college radio. Perhaps the lyrics were insightful and ironic and all, but I could not get through the terrible singing. I remember the first time I heard someone refer to Kurt Cobain as a “musical genius.” “That guy who just sort-of moans tunelessly? And then screams a bit? The one in the flannel?” (On a side note: I was, unfortunately, influenced by so-called “grunge fashion” in the early 90s, as flannel shirts were seemingly the only casual wear available in stores.)
That leaves us where we are today. I actually think many of today’s rock writers are too scared to note the poor musicianship of the bands they hear. They have been fooled into believing that great artists would never bother learning to sing. It’s a classic case of the emperor’s new rock band and the joke is on the independent music press. They have become so reactionary against the “American Idol” phenomenon that they have lost any sense of taste they may have had.
Well I say, “Critics be damned!” Go ahead and put on those records by good singers that you want to hear. Put on some Aretha, some Otis, some Etta, some Ray, some Gladys, some Chaka, some Curtis, some Solomon, and some Wilson. And while you’re at it, go ahead and put on Angie Stone and Jill Scott and John Legend and Sharon Jones. And if there is enough time, save room for those white people still dedicated to the art of song. There may not be many of them, but they’re worth listening to.
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