I alluded to it fleetingly back in September, but I finally got ahold of Simon Reynold's latest book, "Retromania: Pop Culture's Addiction to Its Own Past," and am about halfway through it. In typical Reynolds fashion, it is a beautifully written albeit strenuously depressing rumination on the current state of our pop culture, wherein advances in technology have permanently altered the manner in which music is experienced. We now exist in a scenario in which all recorded music is virtually at our fingertips at every conceivable minute. That which was previously remote, inaccessible or lodged firmly in the past now coexists in a crowded hodgepodge of readily attainable -- and subsequently devalued -- media at the behest of attention-deficit-disordered consumers accustomed to perpetual convenience and immediate gratification. Put simply, the sheer amount of music currently available is not so much a bountiful feast as an overwhelming glut, potentially robbing the listener the opportunity for meaningful emotional resonance. It's a sad picture Simon paints.
For those like me -- slavish fans of specific bands or minutia- addled collectors -- the entire topography has changed. In an exchange in which the tactile is becoming essentially obsolete, the once-firmly established rhythm of the record release is vanishing. Time was when it was all about the wait. If you gleaned through the music press that a favorite artist of yours was soon to release something new, the vigil began in earnest. You'd anticipate the single or album to arrive in stores or -- in later years and for more popular bands -- the video to enter rotation on MTV. Maybe you'd score an advance copy of the album at a used record shop, invariably pawned by some notoriously desperate and underpaid music critic (I recall prizing a pristine copy of Sinead O’Connor’s I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got a full two weeks prior to its official release date this way). But there was still actual legwork (as in, the movement of your legs) involved, as opposed to sitting on your butt in front of a computer. Half the reason I’m as completely familiar with Manhattan as I am is from spending huge swathes of my youth combing through this island’s s former abundance of record and disc shops. That was part of the fun.
Nowadays, there is no patience for the wait and practically zero reason for the layperson (read: passive fan) to ever visit one of the comparatively few, remaining disc shops. Flat, sonically-compromised mp3s are leaked way in advance. Even in the official realm, you can hear snippets of unreleased tracks on iTunes and Amazon ... quick spoilers of an album the painstakingly selected song chronology of which the majority of consumers aren't likely to respect anymore. The whole process has been sliced and diced in the name of absolute convenience. How boring.
Personally speaking, I’d much rather visit a struggling, independent disc shop and give them my money instead of ordering something online. But that’s me. I guess I’m old fashioned that way.
Just as one fleeting example, I still vividly remember scouring my downtown circuit of NYC record shops in August of 1986, desperate to find a copy of "Adorations," the first single off of Killing Joke's yet-to-be-released Brighter Than A Thousand Suns. Just when I'd thought I'd have to wait another week for the import to arrive in shops, I happened upon it in the new releases bin at Venus Records, when it was still housed on West 8th Street just off 6th Avenue. I recall sitting on the stairs that led up to the shop afterwards and peering at the sleeve of the 12" and wondering what had happened to my band. They looked like they'd received a makeover from Spandau Ballet! Still, I hadn't heard a note off it. There had been no advance sneak peek for we fans. We dutifully waited.
Twenty-six years later (phwoar....let's let that sink in, shall we?), my beloved Killing Joke is still at it, with a new album about to drop out of the pipeline. I've already heard two complete tracks off of it, and -- if I want -- I can hear those afore-cited snippets of songs simply by clicking here. I have actually resisted to the urge to do that. I'd rather experience the whole album properly, so to speak.
That said, I cannot ignore the video for "In Cythera" (lovingly directed in signature style by Malicious Damage mainman Michael Coles, long absent from the Killing Joke fold). It was leaked on YouTube last week or so, then was taken down and then came back and then wasn't available in this region and blah blah blah. But, again, in this day and age, where there's the will, there's invariably a way. Here it is, for the moment, anyway, via the Stickam site.
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