Bad Judgment - iTunes Pop Commentary (c. Sept. 30, 2009)

Less of a cream-filled cup and more of a real-time pulse, the iTunes chart is a tumultuous affair, with songs rising and falling at the whim of TV appearances, awards shows, and of course, that still-lumbering beast of the airwaves—radio. Speaking of radio, though it may give a solid picture of what the kids want, as for measuring what they’re willing to buy, it’s a mere Timex to iTunes’ atomic clock. So, here’s the breakdown, the exposition, the “analysis” of this most capitalistic—some might say meritocratic—of enterprises: the iTunes’ Top Ten circa September 30th, 2009 (with melophobe’s built-in buyers’ guide). Here we go!

Yesterday, feeling particularly down on my new weed-pulling job, I was happy to hear this song on the drive home. Naturally, I found myself imagining I was Miley Cyrus, an exhilarating fantasy that led me to wonder what it would actually be like to be Miley Cyrus, to hover in that ethereal plane where anything is possible with the flip of a phone or the swipe of a card, to be divorced from the exigencies of life—work, bills, mortgage, retirement, pulling weeds—that tether the rest of us, that ground us, that give us the comfort of a common existence full of boring days, similar gripes, and shared fears. I ruminated in this way for a bit too long, my mood slipping with the steadiness and predictability of a depressive in dire need of cognitive therapy. The song had ended, but Miley’s celebration, her induction into her celebrity peer group, has just begun.

Taking cues from the precedent Kanye set with “Stronger,” Jason DeRulo samples Imogen Heap’s eerily vocoded “Mmm What You Say” for a compelling bit of cross-genre experimentation that captures a sound hitherto unsung: electro-hip-hop-melancholia. It’s like this guy Jason DeRulo is some sort of romantic from the future, a nerd who calculates his odds, realizes his chances, and finally—depressingly—resorts to robotic love.

Lil’ Wayne, the lyrical contractor, lends his talents to the rich and the promising, branding their tracks with his gravelly croak like a real-deal ranch-hand for hire. On Jay Sean’s “Down,” Wayne pops up with a forgettable verse on an even more forgettable track. He should wrangle his horses—they’re getting away.

Martin Seligman, the godfather of “positive psychology”—a science that swerves dangerously close to the moralistic teachings of modern self-help—claims that the difference between optimism and pessimism has to do with one’s “explanatory style”—their way of applying cause to an unpredictable world.

Optimists, Seligman argues, “interpret their setbacks as surmountable, particular to a single problem, and resulting from temporary circumstances or other people.” Equipped with this basic explanatory tool, we can see The Black Eyed Peas’ endless refrain “Tonight’s gonna be a good night,” through their lenses—optimists’ lenses that bend the temporarily positive to the permanently blissful, the particularly lucky to the pervasively fortunate, and the collectively successful to the individually self-promoting. It may forward their state of mind, but I find their treatment of the “personal” particularly disturbing. For The Black Eyed Peas, you see, tonight’s not going be a good night because of us; oh no, that would be too generous, too understanding—rather, it’s all because of them.

Not at all as good as “Just Dance” or even “Pokerface, “Paparazzi” is my first taste of the Gaga-brand ballad, a washed-out, slowed-down sort of electro that’s as cold and uncomfortable as a sweaty hand in a sequined glove. Her “postmodernist” shtick is bullshit, but that we can ignore: her sounds, they speak for themselves.

First time hearing this, I could’ve sworn it was that dude from Death Cab cashing in on the next iteration of his electro-twee side project The Postal Service, but nope, it’s the product of a 23-year old Adam R. Young, a talented—if neurotic—little weirdo who’s inexplicably rocking the charts with this retarded little song about bugs. Bugs!

I’m sort of poor right now, so instead of actually buying these songs from iTunes, I search for them on YouTube. This way I can listen to the tracks at the poorest quality possible while I watch little fan videos that completely distract me from the songs I’m supposed to be reviewing—it’s really working out. ANYWAYS, whoever made the video for this song threw in pictures of this attractive but altogether uncowboy-like dude (who I’ve decided is Carrie’s current love interest). YouTube is so mysterious! Who is he!? As for the song, it’s no Miranda Lambert or anything, but it’s damn close.

If Timbaland gets credit for transforming top-40 radio into the eurobeat party station we tune in to today, then, given his defining role in mid 90’s R&B, he’s fast becoming one of the most influential producers of all time—at least as era-defining as Max Martin and even more game-changing than Dr. Dre. Although he has no production credits on iTunes’ current top ten—and nothing to do with this song—a quick listen shows that almost half of the top ten songs are still coasting in the direction he first steered with Nelly Furtado, Justin Timberlake, and Keri Hilson back in the mid-2000s.

Supposing Timbaland to be the only hinge on which music shifts (for the benefit of narration) may be reductionist, but it’s also convenient, and I’m all in favor of factoring out the nonsense to get to the root of this inflated triumph of capitalism we know and love as pop music.

So, is this a ripple from Timbaland’s wave? Is this an echo, a reverberation of his waning influence? It could be. It very well could be.

When I was working at an automotive warehouse in SE Portland, we had this little radio that was always tuned to the local alternative station, a dreary little channel that ebbed and flowed with the tired sounds of Red Hot Chili Peppers, Pearl Jam, and Bush. One afternoon, while shifting a shipment of overstocked axels, my friend Andrew directed my attention to the little radio, where this very same band, Kings of Leon, was singing about “their sex” or “this sex” being “on fire,” or something equally odd and disturbing. We were dumbfounded. The seriousness, the soulfulness, and the pain with which they lamented their flaming sex were altogether breathtaking and equally hilarious. Ever since, I’ve thought of these guys as the ambitious-yet-sleazy types—the guy you invite to dinner and later find strongly “identifying” with your little sister. Here, thankfully, their focus has shifted from the lust of an orgasmic crescendo to the nakedness of something entirely different: their feelings.

If you can’t make your way over the high hurdle that is Shakira’s honk, then I suggest you make your way over to YouTube—that most public of dumps—where the music video for this song, “She Wolf,” lies in wait, ready to pounce. Like all she wolves, Shakira seems to be wearing a skin-colored bikini sort of thing, an outfit that promotes that most pleasurable of states: the confusing turn-on. That being said, it’s a delightfully provocative confusion, one that I happily submitted to not once, but twice. The song itself, on the other hand . . . .

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