Popularity and Mass Appeal

In my musical preferences, I tend to steer towards the obscure, as anyone who knows me has surely guessed. This is not only because I prefer the type of music that isn't popular at the moment but also because my exposure to modern pop music has been limited. The thing is, I don't reject popular music simply because it's popular. I listen to plenty of music that was hugely popular in past decades. Two of my favorite albums are Tracy Chapman's self-titled debut and Carole King's Tapestry, which were both chart-topping successes during their own time.


So where exactly am I going with this? It doesn't bother me that popular music exists, only that what passes for popular music these days is of such poor quality. It does seem that people have degraded themselves, in a sense. I mean, the same public that once sang along to the Beatles' "Love is All You Need" now makes do with the inane and immoral lyrics currently being shouted out by singers with little to no musical talent. What's happened here?



The problem is that popularity has been downgraded to mass appeal--a deceptively similar concept. Today's stereotypical tweenage Disney Channel derived singers did not come by their appeal honestly. They were brushed up and petted--manufactured, in a sense--by company executives with their eyes on the dollar. If anything, they deserve our pity. They could be perfectly happy people, living normal lives, if they hadn't been snatched away just for our entertainment. There's certainly something tempting in rejecting the high-pitched call of mass appeal--it gives a smug sense of self-satisfaction. But mass appeal is a slippery concept, because it is seems to imply an effort on the part of the producers to create something that is demanded by the public—the consumers. But in my weak terminology, mass appeal applies to anything that has been sanded down--altered, in a sense--to fit into the public perception of what's desirable. Or, perhaps more likely, to create that perception and then feed it until it becomes an autonomous, ravenous monster, gobbling up all and any semblance of non-conformity.



The more we hear a particular melody or lyric, the more we think we like it.i So the technique of mass appeal is disarmingly easy: mass production. Radio stations play the same top hits over and over again, drilling them into our brain until we think we like what we hear. When Ke$ha's hit single "Tick Tock" came up in a YouTube playlist for Lilith Fair 2010, I decided to listen to it, since I probably wouldn't like it anyway, and what harm could it do? Actually, I am ashamed to admit that I liked it. In spite of the questionable singing, manufactured music and perverted lyrics, it started running through my head, thrumming its way into my appreciation. What was going on? The answer: repetition. Almost any given hit song has a catchy, addictive chorus, even if the rest of the tune isn't worth a cuss.ii



Once I realized what was happening, I put a stop to it at once by listening to my favorite obscure alt-country/Americana folk-rock album until all traces of pop had been rinsed from my brain. But the damage was done. I realized that it would be only too easy for me, too, to get caught in the gulf stream of mass appeal, if only I was more willing to expose myself to it.



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This made me realize, however, that there's more to popularity than meets the eye. I'm not much of a conspiracy theorist, but it does seem that we, as listeners and consumers, are at the vortex of an inexorable and unnoticeable whirlwind that is slowly drilling down our defences until we give in and finally listen to that song, or watch that TV show, or buy that hot new item. It's a pattern from which we cannot escape--the yearly upgrade, the hourly update, the top ten list. Repetition, my friends, repetition. Rage against repetition, rage against repetition! No, I’m not going to repeat myself again. That would mean using their own weapons against them.
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i. I know this is true—I had it suggested and confirmed by two experts--my orchestra conductor and my mom. It’s science, people.



ii. I feel bound to offer an apology to Ke$ha—or whatever her name is—here, even though I know she’ll never read this. I’m sorry. Your music is annoyingly catchy. I wish you sang about different stuff, though. So, yeah. That’s it.