‘Selling out’ is dead stock lingo in my book. See, I’ve been getting a few questions about integrity versus cash, art versus commerce, good versus evil, the usual narrative arcs that turn up when the worthy and just of this world start banging on about creativity, talent and other such myths. Seems like a synch-worthy artist is a sacrificial lamb to some areas of the music press, holding their righteous sword of pop truth aloft, swinging at those that dare to challenge the sanctity of their most precious commodity, musical expression. Yawn. But one man’s sell out is another man’s bread and butter and while some relish the thought that artists exist in a psychedelic bubble of scandalous self indulgence, each on a creative rampage leaving a trail of rock ‘n’ roll clichés and tired pitfalls in their wake, the truth is I can’t afford a pair of shoelaces, let alone the bibles that hold these standards so dear.
With the value of music slipping faster than Jacko’s feet in a Pepsi ad, creative survival has become a paramount concern to artists. Where the struggle to hit musical nirvana, tattooed into pops forearm forever, the starry eyed genius scrabbles around for change to replace his guitar strings. Labels lose their artist focus along with the huge advances; another Roller is spared its date with the swimming pool. Acts flicker on and off the radar in matter of months as the next label offensive is launched to stave off financial cardiac arrest. There’s no option but to roll with the punches and as the industry is knocked sideways, sideline screams of ‘Sell out!’ fade into round two. But what sounds like the final death rattle of integrity for the music industry to some, is a window of opportunity to others. In a business that’s looking more like the Wild West than coke’n’cars glory of its former years, a hilarious, lawless mess with everything to play for. Art and commerce have always been an intriguing blend. Jeff Koons’ latest work costs more to produce than he can actually sell it for and the KLF burnt a million quid, whether a purge of guilt or just a daft idea, you do whatever it takes to make sense of your place in the world.
I know what makes me happy and I know what keeps me awake at night and for all of those self-appointed bastions of culture and their concerns about artist integrity, there’s only one voice that should ever ring true. That little tune I made in the front room on dodgy headphones has now gone all around the world and zapped back to me through the telly. Like magic. It means I can continue, which is all I ever wanted to do, integrity intact, unlike the pitch on a shampoo ad which I declined. I‘m mostly bald see, and not being a fan of irony, really couldn’t get along with the idea. Precious slaphead.
With the value of music slipping faster than Jacko’s feet in a Pepsi ad, creative survival has become a paramount concern to artists. Where the struggle to hit musical nirvana, tattooed into pops forearm forever, the starry eyed genius scrabbles around for change to replace his guitar strings. Labels lose their artist focus along with the huge advances; another Roller is spared its date with the swimming pool. Acts flicker on and off the radar in matter of months as the next label offensive is launched to stave off financial cardiac arrest. There’s no option but to roll with the punches and as the industry is knocked sideways, sideline screams of ‘Sell out!’ fade into round two. But what sounds like the final death rattle of integrity for the music industry to some, is a window of opportunity to others. In a business that’s looking more like the Wild West than coke’n’cars glory of its former years, a hilarious, lawless mess with everything to play for. Art and commerce have always been an intriguing blend. Jeff Koons’ latest work costs more to produce than he can actually sell it for and the KLF burnt a million quid, whether a purge of guilt or just a daft idea, you do whatever it takes to make sense of your place in the world.
I know what makes me happy and I know what keeps me awake at night and for all of those self-appointed bastions of culture and their concerns about artist integrity, there’s only one voice that should ever ring true. That little tune I made in the front room on dodgy headphones has now gone all around the world and zapped back to me through the telly. Like magic. It means I can continue, which is all I ever wanted to do, integrity intact, unlike the pitch on a shampoo ad which I declined. I‘m mostly bald see, and not being a fan of irony, really couldn’t get along with the idea. Precious slaphead.
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