If I was mathematically inclined, I would come up with a graph outlining the appropriate balance of independent musician to commercial play Alexandra Patsaves could showcase in her television oeuvre. Maybe Alexandra is too specific, the woman does commandeer the music of practically a dozen shows currently on air, but I wonder sometimes if marketing companies aren’t also contributing to the ruination of the indie community.
Why go to your favorite record store, or listen to your favorite program on KRCL (before format changes), when you can flip through the channels and catch the tail end of Grey’s Anatomy for a soundbyte of Jamie Lidell or a Fidelity Investments commercial of a New Pornographer’s song?
I’m a pretty lazy person. Sometimes it’s just easier to listen to Whitney Matheson’s PopCandy podcast to catch new music then actively seek out new bands. Is that the same thing? Should I hold off my righteous indignation at those Feist “123” Apple commercials when I discovered Ingrid Michaelson from Old Navy?
I guess what I really wonder is whether this give an' take is really beneficial for both parties. Well, all three parties. Musician, commercial facilitator and me. Will the image of my favorite musician stale if they’re suddenly thrust into visibility by the next Swanson’s Chicken Broth commercial or as background when Meredith finally realizes she’s never going to get back with Derek and rides off into the sunset vowing to become a lesbian?
These are the questions, folks.
This wasn't the song featured in Grey's Anatomy, but I found Jamie first. And he makes me happy.
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So, back in the stone ages that were my high school years, I knew this very rockabilly kid; actual, factual duck-tail 'do, fender highway work-shirts and these black and white wingtips that I kinda coveted.
It's lunch-time, and I'm sitting at my usual place in the library (a north-east corner table, Dewy Decimal section 130), when a back-pack slams down in front of me. I look up, and it's Mr. Swamp-Rock himself, an expression of utter disgust on his face. "Ehf'n John Hughes", he mutters, slumping down into a seat.
"Huh?" I say.
"It's Molly Ringwald's fault, too," he says. "Ehf'n Ringwald."
"Ah," I say, because it feels like he needs it.
He grunts at me, and I put down The Great Orm Of Loch Ness (West High had an awesomely weird library) and put on my "I'm listening" face.
"Guess what I heard in third today," he says. "Just guess."
He spares himself my attempts at guessing by jumping right into the exposition. "Chantelle Godfrey was singing the Rave-Ups!"
My utter lack of comprehension must've shown on my face, so he continues. "I asked her where she heard them and she proceeds to tell me- me- about them; how they were this band that were discovered-" and here he manages to make "discovered" sound sexually transmissible "-for Pretty in Pink." He rolls his eyes. "Like heck!"
He'd played their Town & Country for me last summer, so I knew Chantelle had to have her facts at least a little mixed up.
"Did you tell her they've been out for a while now?" I ask.
"That's not even the point! She shouldn't even know about them! Chantelle Godfrey isn't The Rave-Ups! She's... she's Chicago! She's Bon Jovi. She's The ehf'n Jets!"
The librarian is looking over at us now, readying her shushing finger, and my rockabilly associate sinks further into his seat, red-faced.
"But you like the Rave-Ups, right?" I say, after a moment’s hesitation. "Aren't you happy they're getting out there?"
He stares across the table at me, his eyes narrowing in frank disdain for my all-too-apparent lack of understanding.
“You just don’t get it,” he says. “How can they be cool if everyone likes them?”
I frown, pretty sure I don’t know how to answer that. It couldn't be more obvious that I didn’t “get” cool, but it seemed to me that was sorta what happened if you were cool… that people liked you. I shrug my shoulders and pick my book up again.
The librarian’s aide is pushing a book cart towards our table. She’s an older woman, probably the mother of one of our fellow students. She nears us, and it’s plain to hear her humming “Positively Lost Me” under her breath.
Kid Rockabilly glares at the aide, and then at me. He rubs his hands through his duck-do and growls.
“Mother-ehf’n John Hughes.”
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