MELISMA TUFTS’ JOURNAL OF MUSIC
MELISMA EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Kriska Desir
Kristina Mensik
MANAGING EDITORS Charlie Billings Ella Harvey
PRESS
Ross Bretherton Teddy Obrecht
SENIOR EDITORS
Grant Fox Jordan Rosenthal-Kay
FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT Chelsea Wang
SOCIAL MEDIA Katie Fielding
Diana Hernandez
CONTRIBUTING WRITERS Iyad Bugaighis Adaeze Dikko Sarah Markos Aidan Menchaca Katie Sanna Josh Schuback
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FROM THE EDITORS
appy Birthday, T-Pain’s son. We at the magazine are slinging back birthday shots in your honor. This semester marks a huge change for Melisma. We’re no longer Tufts’ Premier Journal of Music. Justin Timberlake’s character from The Social Network told us our name would be cleaner if we just said, “Tufts’ Journal of Music.” There surprisingly hasn’t been much punk music for us to cover, yet. That’s not to say music on campus hasn’t been wild. We were treated to the most lively performance the Crane Room has ever seen, all thanks to Mykki Blanco. S/O to Applejam for the great job they’ve done this semester, especially in bringing Palehound for Spring Thing. Tufts musicians have also been doing great things. For example, Aaron Mentos has been using music to bridge the gap between here at Tufts and Kenya. There’s also Tucker, who channel their friendship and love into great garage punk. Let’s not forget STAZ, who is the BAMF we all want to be. Bubó, too, has has made a name for himself on campus. At the magazine, we’ve done a lot this semester. We talked to Kodie Shane, Anna Wise, FIDLAR, and others. But it’s been a bittersweet semester, too, as we say goodbye to Grant and Jordan, who helped make Melisma what it is today. They were the ultra-serious and ultra-cool juniors who talked about obscure people like Oneohtrix Point Never and Adam Harper as if anyone knew what they were talking about. A bumbling freshman, now sophomore, who shall remain unnamed had to copy and paste transcripts of Melisma meetings into Google Translate just to keep up. Now, Jordan and Grant are the ultra-fun but still ultra-cool seniors who will be sorely, sorely missed. We hope this issue does them some justice. *~*~<3~*~* Kriskina Mensir Editor-in-Chief
STAFF
Bennett Brazelton Dana Brooks Kelly Kollias Orsi Nagy Noah Zussman
Interested in writing, art or design? Questions, comments, adulation or hatemail? email melismamagazine@gmail.com
MELISMA | SPRING 2017 | 3
MELISMA TUFTS’ JOURNAL OF MUSIC MOTHER TUCKER
Tufts’ favorite sister-cousins Adaeze Dikko
HER CHURCH AND HER STEEPLE STAZ’s journey to find the demigod in herself
Kriska Desir
VENUE SHOWCASE: SONIA
Aidan Menchaca
SAME DRUGS NO MORE
The promise, failure, and danger of Facebook Live
Ella Harvey and Jordan Rosenthal-Kay
K-POP AND THE ELUSIVE QUEST FOR AMERICAN APPEAL
Katie Sanna
URBAN CONTEMPORARY
Does the Grammy category protect black artists or does it just continue to pidgeonhole them? Sarah Markos
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AARON MENTOS
A chat with the soccer prodigy turned music advocate Iyad Bugaighis
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BUBÓ
11 12
MUSIC AND ACTION IN THE 21ST CENTURY
14 16
HIP-HOP BEEF DOESN’T MATTER ANYMORE
20 23
THE SOUND OF TV
25 27
Meet the Tufts student at the forefront of alternative music in Guatemala Ross Bretherton
Why it’s more important than ever that artists and fans work together Josh Schuback
Grant Fox
The transformation of soundtracks in the golden age of television Diana Hernandez
SUMMER PREVIEW
Picks from the editorial board
ON THE COVER
STAZ Photo: Kriska Desir
Melisma Magazine is a non-profit student publication of Tufts University. The opinions expressed in articles, features, or photos are solely those of the individual author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of the editors or the staff. Tufts University is not responsible for the content of Melisma Magazine. If you would like to submit a letter to Melisma Magazine, please send it to melismamagazine@gmail. com. Please limit your letter to four hundred words or less.
MOTHER TUCKER TUFTS’ FAVORITE SISTER-COUSINS
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his past year, Tucker has emerged fully embodying the movement towards variety and diversification that defines Tufts’ unique music scene. Consisting of members Josh Berl (bass), Noah Cutler (guitar, vocals), and Zoe Schoen (drums), Tucker represents a low-pressure sharing of music and love that can often be lost within the technicalities of labeling a group as a “band.” Whether through their lyrics, head bop-inducing instrumentals, or the band’s dynamic, Tucker exudes a certain relatablity, one that can only emerge in a tight-knit music scene like that at Tufts. The band started out as an exchange of written songs; Tucker’s members are buddies that just happened to fall into a more collaborative rhythm of enjoying music with each other. “We
BY ADAEZE DIKKO
decided to become a band way before we started playing together because we are friends,” says Cutler. Their desire to share creative process with people they care about, and work on improving it together has been the group’s mission. Tucker works because they perfectly combine friendship and musical chemistry. It’s what the band calls “silly love music.” But Tucker’s not conventionally silly. Throughout our conversation, Tucker defined their sound as “sad college kid music.” Their lyrics and instrumentals conjure up feelings of the best parts of dark, college angst. According to Schoen, they enjoy a “simple, hot beat,” but also love experimenting with weird rhythms, often throwing random chords on “normal-sounding music.”
MELISMA | SPRING 2017 | 5 Tucker’s musical influences span so many genres and styles that it was almost impossible for the trio to narrow down their favorite inspirations. For Schoen, her greatest inspirations are “a mix between bands doing things similar to what we might be doing, but also soul.” The tendency of bands like Palm and Big Thief to pick up a quirky, complicated take on established hooks appeals to Tucker’s drummer and obviously translates into the way she approaches her own stylistic contribution to the group’s overall sound. Berl admitted to liking more “poppy” music than his band mates do. He tends to find himself gravitating towards “regular rock, grungy stuff” like Weezer. For Cutler, groups like Krill and Tiny Hazard are appealing for their busy instrumentals underneath emotionally and physically raw vocals. But he pointed to jazz artists like Gilberto Gil as inspirations with their expert execution of genreblending (punk, rock, reggae, blues) via seriously swanky chords. Combining the best of indie rock, pop, and jazz, Tucker produces a sound that might be labeled as funky, psychedelic rock, but doesn’t quite fully encompass or fall into any one category. Tucker achieves their off beat sound by manipulating classic plays on various music classifications, making vastly different genres their own while still creating cohesive music. Berl explains that Tucker’s style of music is a “thing that sounds normal, but is a little off.” From the beginning of our chat it was clear that despite the members’ differences, they had found unlikely chemistry. Tucker isn’t just a band— they’re a group of friends, puzzle pieces that just fit despite how different they are. According to Cutler, common ground and understanding is far from lacking in Tucker. “Although we listen to different types of music, there’s a basic similarity between some of the styles and what we like in certain music, regardless of genre,” says Cutler. In listening to “room that’s cold,” one of three songs labeled stragglers on the band’s Bandcamp profile, it’s clear what exactly he means—the song is the result of three complicated and separate pieces coming together to create music that’s cohesive but with a little room for the best kind of chaos. The trio met through BEATs, Tufts’ trash percussion group, which allowed the trio to start creating music with each other in a
friendly, performance-geared environment. Cutler believes that the band’s involvement in BEATs was essential to their relationship, as it was their first opportunity to be “constantly working together creatively and have internal favorites.” Despite varying musical ideas, Tucker largely avoids conflict because collaboration has always been key for them. They embrace and fully take advantage of each other’s knowledge and perspectives through a shared love for theory tricks. This love is the basis of a moment that Josh describes as one of the group’s fondest memories: “[Noah] started playing this guitar riff, I started playing this other thing, and then without hesitation Zoe comes in with this really weird timed, really cool thing.” The three all described it not only as one of their favorite songs, but also as one of the coolest moments as a group. They might not actually be related, but their dynamic, one that the band jokes is akin to that of three “sister-cousins,” contributes to their unique sound and is a part of the reason for their standing as a hot band on campus. Not even a year since the group came together, Tucker is making their mark on the Tufts music scene. They have been featured in the Applejam concert series, WMFO’s Tinier Desk series, and have even performed at an event at the Twin Oaks commune in Louisa, Virginia. As far as what comes next for Tucker, we shouldn’t have any expectations at all. Zoe puts it simply; “We will see. No rules; anything is possible.” That open approach is also apparent in the evolution of the band over the course of the its short tenure—the group has played in a couple different iterations, including one with the friend and fellow BEATS member, Tucker, for whom the band is named. The group has even undergone a name change in its short life; the trio performed under the name Hugo Chavez before settling on Tucker. While fans shouldn’t expect any more name changes, they should anticipate a release this month. Their working album, Sludgebad, is set to come out in May. Berl’s graduation from Tufts next month will not signal the end for Tucker. He seems hopeful about keeping the project alive. “Tucker started out as sending files back and forth. I feel like it could probably continue that way,” he says. With the dedication that that each member has devoted to Tucker, it is certain that no matter their path, as they tell me at the end of the interview, “love will prevail.”
AARON MENTOS
A CHAT WITH THE SOCCER PRODIGY TURNED MUSIC ADVOCATE
BY IYAD BUGAIGHIS
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e recorded over a beat Tarik made, and then we recorded over a beat I made. Want to hear them?” I’m sitting in Aaron Mentos’s room on Boston Avenue as he’s cycling through tracks he’s made with Tarik Smith, another Jumbo beat-maker. Aaron sits at his desk, his laptop screen revealing an open project on Logic Pro, a music production software, between two Yamaha studio monitors. Pulling up one of the tracks he made with Tarik, he describes the process, “I just said ‘Bro, you should just take the beginning of your verse, pitch-shift it down, and make it the chorus instead.’” Looking around the room, you can see his electric guitar standing up next to a few potted plants and a MIDI keyboard at his fingertips: the common setup of any bedroom producer. “Growing up I played the cello in an orchestra, steel pan, and I played the bass in some steel pan groups in Springfield.” Mentos grew up in Western Massachusetts surrounded by music. “My dad also had a reggae band so I’d sit in on his band playing when it didn’t interfere with soccer,” Mentos explains. At Phillips Academy Andover, he took advantage of free music lessons, continuing his development as a cello and bass player. “I was also introduced to music production in a digital music class. We did mostly analog stuff, but the entire musical experience at Andover started an addiction,” he says. Before coming to Tufts, Aaron played Division I soccer at Colgate University; but he didn’t let his commitment as a student-athlete dampen the time he’d put into his music. “A lot of the times I’d be up until 3AM working on music and waking up at 6AM for morning lift,” he recalls. Mentos was also selected as a member of the national soccer team of Saint Kitts, an island nation about 250 miles east of Puerto Rico, of which he is a dual citizen. He has the flag of St. Kitts hanging in his room and I take his picture in front of it. A career-ending head injury while playing soccer meant a two-and-a-half-year hiatus to recover, during which he had to take a break from school,
MELISMA | SPRING 2017 | 7 soccer, and music. “The way that I operated changed after the head injury. Everything was about healing so I had to learn to heal myself,” he reflects. Over this past winter break, Mentos worked with One Trybe Company and Jitegemee, an NGO whose name translates to “self-dependence” in Swahili, that focuses on academic excellence for street children in Kenya. The project was made possible through the Tisch Fund for Civic Engagement and the Pratt Enrichment Fund for R.E.A.L. “One Trybe Company is basically a collective of artists from Kenya and the U.S., as of now, who see the potential music has to transform lives for the better,” he tells me. With a focus on bringing music workshops to children in under-resourced areas and schools, OTC uses free music theory and production clinics to inspire children to pursue music as a positive outlet. “I was co-teaching the class with Mtu Saba, a native of Mombasa who was fluent in Swahili. He was a crazy, exceptional performer,” Mentos says, “I was teaching [the kids] about the basics of music theory, harmonic theory. We were teaching it in a way that they could relate to it; so basically, things that you might hear in popular music. He was translating what I was saying into Swahili, and I was playing the guitar, just to give the kids an idea of the difference between a major and minor chord, major scale and minor scale, different tempos and that sort of thing.” Mentos and Mtu Saba’s teaching style focused on making the class fun and engaging for the kids. “We took a beat I
made to show them the different ways that we could take a song and manipulate the tempo to give it a different feel. We started with 70 BPM and it sounded very slow, and I asked the kids, does this make you want to get up and dance? We then sped up the tempo to 120 BPM so it went from a slow-paced song to a fast-paced dancehall song. So, then I asked again if it made them want to get up and dance, and they were all like, ‘yeah it does,’” says Mentos, “Mtusaba started getting all of the kids into it. He ended up singing along to it. I didn’t know what he was saying
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The way that I operated changed after the head injury. Everything was about healing so I had to learn to heal myself
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because it was in Swahili, but he would sing and end it with Tegemea, and the kids would respond with Tegemea which means to depend on someone or something. Mtu Saba organized a choreographed dance to go along with it. This all came about when we were just freestyling in the moment. And that was kind of how the song came together and that’s the one we recorded.” Mentos also produced and performed on a song titled “My COMPANy” with Kenyan artist Machakos Kyalo. The two released a music video for the song, shot in Kyalo’s village Kyuluni.
Mentos says he has plans to bring OTC to Saint Kitts with fellow Tufts student and steelpan performer Isaiah Thomas-Marshall. “We’re working on getting funding for the trip right now to make it possible. It’ll involve similar theory and song-writing workshops, as well as helping to orchestrate a steelpan band,” Mentos says, “One of our older kids from Jitigemee also asked me to produce a song for him to sing over, so we’re making it happen.” Aside from his work in music advocacy programs, Mentos has some music that he’ll be releasing in the future as well. “Towards the end of my two-and-a-half-year break from school, I started working on a project called the Brainwaves EP,” Aaron says, “We’re also trying to release the songs Tarik and I recorded while school’s still in session, because we need the support of Tufts students. We’re trying to coordinate music videos, too.” For those wishing to get involved, Mentos has ways in which the Tufts and Boston community can help. “We’re also trying to do a book drive show for Jitegemee. They expressed a need for books to fill the new library they had built for them,” Mentos says.
HER CHURCH & HER STEEPLE STAZ’S JOURNEY TO FIND THE DEMIGOD IN HERSELF BY KRISKA DESIR
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y first introduction to Annahstasia Enuke was as a Melisma Magazine hopeful—it was the summer before my freshman year and I was scanning the magazine’s website with a reverence that makes me cringe now. By chance, I stumbled on Enuke’s snapshot, one of a series of short, five question interviews that Melisma conducts with student musicians. In response to the question, “Where do you see yourself in five years?,” Enuke, who now goes by STAZ, says, “Either at the Grammys for my psychedelic jazz-rock record in a spike choker and a baby doll dress” or “at grad school.” When I meet Enuke in person, she exudes the same striking confidence as she does in her now three-year-old snapshot. Her parents raised her that way. “Both my parents are artists,” she says, “they always encouraged me to have these massive dreams.” She laughs. “When I was 16 or 15, they sat me down for a family meeting about how I’m going to be famous one day and how I’m going to handle that emotionally.” She acknowledges that a conversation like that one might seem bizarre to most people, but she credits her drive and self-assuredness to her parents’ own confidence in her. Enuke says, “It just never really made fame, or other goals that were that big, that big to me. They just seemed like normal goals.” Though music is Enuke’s creative and professional focus now, when she started music at 16 it was just a hobby for her. Enuke’s first venture into songwriting was weekend jam sessions with a high school friend. She continued to experiment with music throughout high school, creating a foundation in jazz and more classical standards. The shift in her music career came when she signed to her current
label, Buskin Records, at 18. When Enuke arrived at Tufts as a freshman, she was already a signed artist. However, balancing an education in political science with an education in navigating the music industry proved to be a challenge, especially as a young black woman. “The music industry doesn’t really have space for black girls who want to go to college,” Enuke says. In fact, she found that her professional career not only detracted from her educational ambitions and her artistry, but also from her right to an identity. “It’s either you’re a black girl who is pretty and has a voice, and they’re going to put you in a latex thing and have you dance around and do pop, or you’re super soulful and deep and you came from the ghetto, and your family’s poor and you’ve done drugs fifty times,” she says. Enuke was struggling to take the reins on her own career and on her own artistic direction. She found herself without a voice. “I went in without any experience and I went in with people who were well meaning but were not woke people. Being that I was so naïve, I went with the flow and did what they asked me to,” she explains. “I wouldn’t do things that would compromise who I am morally, but in terms of my sound and the songs I was writing and the production direction, I didn’t put as much of my weight into it because I didn’t know what I wanted.” In addition to an artistic path that began to feel less like her own, Enuke felt pressure to leave school to focus on her career. Pulled in several different directions and looking for clarity, she decided to take a year off after her sophomore year. Yet the time off didn’t solve the problems she thought it would. She says, “It was a hell.” The year off did, however, allow Enuke to see her relationship with her label clearly. “It was good because for the first time I had to really determine what I wanted because otherwise I was just sitting around, getting the silent treatment, waiting around, wasting away, going into debt,” she says. Though the year off “just wasn’t a good space,” Enuke emerged from the year ready to make music professionally
MELISMA | SPRING 2017 | 9 without waiting for permission from anybody. She was ready to take control of her artistry.
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Enuke began to seek out communities that would foster her art rather than stifle it. “It became a journey of trying to find my people and trying to connect with a black community in LA without having any sort of ‘in.’ I started inserting myself into these places and trying to find a sound that spoke to me,” she says. The journey eventually led Enuke to return to Tufts, a place she came to realize was “more conducive for becoming an artist.” She went about finding a community of artists here, in an environment geared toward collectivity as opposed to the industry’s sink-or-swim atmosphere. Enuke explains, “Here, there are people who are industrious and entrepreneurial, but are not cutthroat in the sense that they won’t do anything for you unless you do something for them. It’s a lot more symbiotic here.”
which her voice thrives and what doesn’t. She’s learned both what her voice is capable of and the room that it needs to achieve its power. Though Enuke’s artistic process for her non-musical endeavors—she also creates prints, ceramics, sculptures, jewelry, and films—is more controlled, her songwriting process is a near-spiritual one. She says that her music “comes from a world or from a soul that [she’s] not directly in contact with all of the time.” It’s a place that she has to tap into. “Art is cathartic for me, but nothing is cathartic like music is. Music is like screaming on top of a mountain every second that you’re doing it. To be able to write anything that allows me to access that feeling, I don’t put any corrals on it,” Enuke explains. That approach, as well as her focus on feeling and soul, is what allows her to create genuine connections with her music. “That’s where I spend my time developing. I’m figuring out: ‘How do I pull out all of the stops? How do I make that person cry? How do I make that person shiver?’ [I’m figuring out how to] have a connection with the person in front of me or the crowd in front of me enough that I know what they need,” she says.
ENUKE DESCRIBES HER SOUND AS ONE THAT IS “STILL IN FLUX, BUT ALWAYS HAS A LOT OF SOUL”
The sound that Enuke has worked to develop in an enclave of student creatives is built on a foundation of soul. “I went on tour with my uncle and he gifted me an iPod full of all the music that influenced his life and his music career. There was Otis Redding, Nina Simone, Billie Holiday, Bette Davis—everybody that is in the soul anthology and in the blues anthology and in the rock anthology.” Enuke’s songwriting process is based on the work of these artists.. “It helps me to write a song with four chords in C, have a super simple melody, then drop a sick beat on it, or drop a really cool bass line, then work weird from there. I start from that core of love songs that Aretha Franklin would sing because that’s where I’m coming from in terms of what I know to be a song,” she says. Enuke describes her sound as one that is “still in flux, but always has a lot of soul.” Her voice is deep, powerful, and unwavering, yet still able to find moments of tenderness. In other words, it’s soulful, though Enuke describes her sound as “lush.” “I don’t do a lot of things that are sparse or vibey. I do a lot of things that are very solid, earthy, and lush,” she says. Enuke admits that lush used to mean drowning out her voice with extravagant guitar licks, bass lines, and orchestral movements. Now, she says, “I don’t force things as much.” Her main evolution as a songwriter has been developing her understanding of what constitutes the lush soundscape in
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Lately, Enuke has been channeling her energy into a project set to release this summer, with collaborators stretching between Los Angeles and Australia. “My tentative title for the EP is Her Church and Her Steeple because the journey that I’ve been on has been about realizing my own worth and realizing my own strength and making myself my religion,” she says. The EP uses religious themes to present Enuke’s story, a coming of age that ends with her realization of the power of “seizing the demigod in yourself.” She says, “I’m at this place where I’ve set a base, a community space where you go and worship. That’s what this EP is going to be, a base.”
BUBÓ MEET THE TUFTS STUDENT AT THE FOREFRONT OF ALTERNATIVE MUSIC IN GUATEMALA BY ROSS BRETHERTON
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lenty of students release albums while at Tufts, but not many first years can boast being at the forefront of a musical movement in their own hometown. That’s exactly what Andres Bolaños, known to the music world as Bubó, is aiming to do. Recorded in a home studio in his hometown of Guatemala City, Bubó’s forthcoming debut Como Tu No Hay Nadie is as polished as it is groundbreaking in a city where live music is pretty much limited to pop, classic rock, or reggaeton. Having grown up in the predominantly Catholic country of Guatemala, Bubó grew into a culture of family, both in a biological and a musical sense. “The music scene is really really small,” notes Andres, “It’s this tight circle of about 50 musicians that are working hard on their music in Guatemala, so we all know each other.” The country’s appetite for live music is expanding, however, with the recent development of ‘cultural centers’ in the capital city. These centers provide artists like Bubó a platform to perform a more diverse variety of genres. The small size of the music scene played to Bubó’s advantage, as it put him in touch with his producer, Juan Pablo Perea. Perea’s past work included one of Bolaños’ influences, the prolific Guatemalan rock band Bohemia Suburbana. Bubó crossed paths with Perea when the producer invited his high school rock band, Radio Capital, to record a few demos. Though the band wasn’t as keen on returning to the studio, Bolaños liked Perea and decided to return with some solo work he had been writing on the side. “I had two songs written and decided to record with him and see what happened. I never thought I would end up recording an EP.” Bolaños’ solo work as Bubó represented a stark departure from the more classic rock sound of his high school band. “I could never write those songs,” he says of the rock anthems performed by Bohemia Suburbana, Alux Nahual, and more recently Radio Capital. Instead his EP consists of politically-conscious love songs that loft his sultry croon above laid back, yet intricate instrumentals. At moments it feels psychedelic, verging on the sound of Tame Impala in the hazy “Me Voy”. In the title track, “Como Tu No Hay Nadie,” the crunchy kicks and subdued ad libs backing the chorus drive into an entirely different realm. Bubó
isn’t trying to sound like anyone in particular, and the result is an EP with something for everyone. Among his influences, Bubó credits David Bowie’s drumming, and The Beach Boys, especially “the way [Brian Wilson] recorded everything perfectly and was very tedious about the exact sound he wanted to get.” This perfectionism manifested itself in the four-month recording process for the EP. In Perea’s basement, the two started with acoustic tracks, and layered on instrumental tracks one at a time. The drums were most time consuming, since neither Perea nor Bolaños is a drummer. They recorded random drum ideas over each track 16 times, and meticulously pulled in elements from all of them. From the nineteen songs Bubó wrote, five made the cut for the EP. Oddly enough considering the grounded vibe Bolaños exudes in person, the name Bubó is a contraction of Bougie Boy. While wandering through the 5th Arrondissement in Paris, his friends told him that he looked like a Bubó and the name stuck. To Bolaños, though, the name represents his aspirations to live a simple life, like Hemingway, Picasso, and countless past Bubós. In his own words, “Guatemala is a country with lots of differences in opportunity and money. [For example], if you are born into a family of wealth it doesn’t necessarily mean you have to [ascribe to capitalism]. In whatever situation you should be who you like.” Bubó’s presence in the Tufts music scene since his arrival has been minimal, in part because his past work has been so grounded in his hometown and disconnected from anything academic. With no formal musical training, music for Bolaños is spiritual, not something to study. However, with a recent performance at the Crafts Center Spring Art Show, he is slowly making his presence more known on this campus. With a booming alternative scene in Guatemala’s neighbor Mexico, Bubó isn’t the only one with his eyes on introducing his hometown to a wider variety of genres. “It’s exciting,” says Bolaños of the timing of his project, “because nothing like this has been done before in Guatemala.” Through his producer, Bubó was able to score a 15-day licensing deal with the telecom giant Millicom Tigo, who will be promoting his debut single on May 19th. With the EP out shortly after, a music video in the works, and several gigs already lined up in Guatemala City, Bubó has a busy summer ahead. For a breakout artist, when talent aligns with good timing there’s nowhere to go but up.
MELISMA | SPRING 2017 | 11
VENUE SHOWCASE: SONIA BY AIDAN MENCHACA
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oston has a new venue, Sonia, to replace the beloved TT The Bear’s Place. TT The Bear’s was bought by the Sater brothers, who own the neighboring venue Middle East. Sonia’s Booking Manager Aaron Roy told us, “The Saters decided to buy the property when the former owner was thinking of selling to a developer who wanted to turn the property into luxury apartments.” The venue, which takes its name from the sister of the Sater brothers, was completely redone to become Sonia. According to General Manager Ned Wellbery, the acquisition of the property came with extensive renovation. “It was completely renovated and we opened the whole space up. It’s much bigger now with increased sight lines to the stage. We have a state of the art sound system and lights so you’re going to get a magical performance,” said Wellbery. “A great green room was added for artists to hang out in. Aesthetically its similar because it has the Middle East arches in the interior. We also have a mural painted entrance as well as church pews that line the walls. The bar is made of antique oak doors that came from the Armory in Somerville. It’s a beautiful room that everyone will love!” As part of the Middle East club brand, Sonia will open up opportunity for midsize shows.“It is another room added onto the Middle East legacy,” said Wellbery. “We have the Upstairs, Downstairs, Zuzu, Corner, and now, Sonia.” Roy said, “Having the ability to build bands as they grow into bigger rooms at the same club is a unique advantage that not many other venues have.” As far as the type of artists will perform at the venue, Sonia is striving for variety. “We are a multi-genre venue that welcomes all form of music,” added Wellbery. “We want musicians to feel like they are at home when they play.” If any indications can come from the first few shows, Roy said they will feature local bands. “The first show is 3/31 featuring an all local rock band line up: Doom Lover,
Creaturos, Bad Boys Club, and Auva. The second show is with local psychedelic rock band Wobblesauce.” The opening of Sonia meant the closing of TT The Bear’s Place; a beloved Boston institution. “One of the nicest places we played at was TT The Bear’s,” said Soubhik Barari, a member of the Tufts band Castle Danger. It was this small but warm corner show venue in Central Square; we played on a quiet but lively Thursday night with a few other local indie bands. For us, it was a really incredible opportunity to share an artistic space with some giants of the past who’d performed there - The Pixies, Smashing Pumpkins, Arcade Fire, Smashing Pumpkins, the dream list goes on.” “It was certainly saddening to hear of such a treasured musical space closing in our backyards; in some ways, it felt like the departure of a generation of amazing indie and punk bands circulating through Cambridge,” he continued. “It would be really great to see a new music space take its place and continue to usher in a new generation of talented artists. Perhaps, expanding it to performers of other genres or artists of different forms, and maybe even finding ways to integrate the community would be an exciting rebirth.” Luckily for fans of the area like Barari, Welbery said that while he had no intention of recreating TT The Bear’s Place, Sonia would create something innovative for Boston.“TT The Bears was its own legacy so when they closed it ended there. We have a lot of respect for what they did for the music scene. Sonia is something new that will open a new chapter for the Middle East and the community,” Welbery echoed. “The fact that we have a brand new independent venue to see great shows in the city; it’s not a very easy thing to pull off nowadays,” he added. “It’s always been a dream of mine to manage one and this place has so much potential to be one of the best venues in Boston. I’m excited to see where we can take it!”
MUSIC AND SOCIAL ACTION IN THE 21ST CENTURY WHY IT’S MORE IMPORTANT THAN EVER THAT FANS AND ARTISTS WORK TOGETHER BY JOSH SCHUBACK
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usicians have platforms to make political statements that uniquely position and privilege them: touring gives musicians major access to the public in various areas; behemoth music festivals like Coachella and Governor’s Ball have had attendances nearing 200,000; YouTube and streaming services also reach massive audiences, helping artists get their music out like never before. A Taylor Swift music video can reach 2 billion views, and Drake’s music on Spotify has cleared 1 billion streams, numbers most elected officials can only dream of. When a musician has something to say, someone will hear it. In a time when an artist and their audience have never been more connected, it is up to musicians and fans to do more and put words (and lyrics) to action. Great art emerges from difficult times. Specifically, music can act as the voice of the people, providing a strong and clear message that represents an entire movement. To see this in action, look back to the Civil Rights Movement during the mid 20th century. During this time songs like Sam
Cooke’s, “A Change is Gonna Come” came to embody the movement from which they rose. The song was, and still is, an anthem of its time, capturing the essence and spirit of the Civil Rights Movement, and giving a voice to the oppressed. When talking about this time period there is one name that is hard to avoid: Bob Dylan. Dylan emerged from the Greenwich Village music scene in the 1960s and achieved major commercial success with his highly political second studio album, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. Although he once said, “I’ve never written a political song…songs can’t save the world,” much of his music was inextricably linked to social movements of the 1960s and 70s, and deliberately so. Perhaps this mention was just an offhand remark or meant to be ironic, but Dylan even facetiously claiming his music to be apolitical represents the power of political music. Cloaked in the appeal of “apolitical,” a song like “Blowin’ in the Wind” with its pleasant, Americana fingerstyle guitar, contained enough potency to become another anthem of the Civil Rights Movement. Songs like Dylan’s lured fans in with their sound, only revealing their true political charge after further listens. Dylan sings against war (“How many times must a cannon ball fly?”) and against the oppression of black people in America (“Yes, ‘n’ how many years can some people exist / Before they’re allowed to be free”). For such a short and sonically bittersweet song, Dylan manages to say a lot. Crafting a political song is only half the battle. If no one listened to Dylan’s music it would have no purpose. It is the fans that give music its social power. “Blowin’ in the Wind” became an anthem of the Civil Rights Movement because the people who marched and protested sang and played the song. While a musician and their
MELISMA | SPRING 2017 | 13 music can be a catalyst for change, change will only happen when fans take it upon themselves to put their favorite artists’ messages into action. The music of Dylan, Cooke, and others gave people a common voice in their fight for justice, and in turn those people gave the music its power and unique place in history. This relationship between artist, art and audience is essential to the link between music and politics.
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Bringing this idea to the 21st century, has the role of the fan changed? Not really. It is still fans who determine the success and impact of any musician. What has changed is how fans listen to music. Fifty years later music has become much more accessible in a way that defies geography. What this has meant for the industry at large is that fans place less stock in the artists to whom they listen. Instead of having to buy an entire album in order to listen to an artist, someone can easily stream one song. The average fan puts less money, time, and thought into their music choices.
quires some more in-depth attention is Pusha T. The rapper is known as one-half of the rap duo The Clipse, and as the president of the GOOD Music record label. But he was also a major advocate for Hillary Clinton in the 2016 Presidential Election. Not only did Pusha T support Clinton, he actively helped with voter outreach and registration efforts in his home state of Virginia. According to Pusha T, he supported Clinton for her changed position on criminal justice reform, an issue of personal importance to the rapper who has seen lives ruined by harsh sentences.
The music of Dylan, Cooke, and others gave people a common voice in their fight for justice, and in turn those people gave the music its power and unique place in history.
So how can artists with a distinct political message better reach their fans? The easiest way is to do more than just sing. Musicians can donate time and money to the causes they hold dear. They can play charity shows, talk to government leaders, and get involved with organizations that help solve socio-economic issues. Few do this better than Chance the Rapper. At his 24th birthday party he raised over $100,000 to donate to SocialWorks, a nonprofit that helps to empower youth through education and civic engagement. He has been an integral part of President Obama’s My Brother’s Keeper program, and he recently donated one million dollars to help fund Chicago public schools. Chance has taken on the challenge to do more. Being a political musician no longer means just making political music. It requires a level of engagement that not every artist wants to, or can, attain. The other side of this is the audience. With the ability to skip songs and such a vast collection of music available thanks to streaming, it has become easy to judge songs and artists quickly. It is vital that fans stay more engaged in their favorite musicians. Pay attention to what they are saying and doing outside of their lyrics. One artist who re-
Without the support of their fans, artists like Chance and Pusha T would not be able to accomplish anything. It is fans who empower these artists not only financially by buying tickets and music, but also by acting on the change those musicians encourage. It is important that when people see something they disagree with, whether it be in politics or music, they speak out against it. In the same vein, it is vital that those same people support the artists and causes that are of importance. In a sense, fans should “vote with their wallet” for artists they feel are contributing to the national conversation in ways they see as productive. It is the fans – both as audiences and as voters – who hold the power to create real change.
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SAME DRUGS NO MORE
THE PROMISE, FAILURE, AND DANGER OF FACEBOOK LIVE BY ELLA HARVEY AND JORDAN ROSENTHAL-KAY
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oes anyone have facebook live? I’m about to premier [sic] a new music video on there in 10 minutes ok?” Chance the Rapper tweeted in early February. A prompt response came from @outhawindow: “WHO TF USES FACEBOOK IN 2017” Nonetheless, people navigated to Facebook and watched a clock countdown until the video’s release on Chance’s Live feed. The excitement was twofold. Fans were overjoyed simply because it was Chance that was dropping something. But there was a second excitement too: what could Chance do on Facebook live, or anyone for that matter? Perhaps there was a feeling that Facebook Live could revive the platform from its moribund motivational-postfrom-grandma wasteland. Further, using Facebook Live promised the opportunity to revolutionize the music video. Chance could have followed Swedish producer Klingande’s foray into the concept of a live music video – their bumpy, homespun video for “Something New” aired on Facebook Live some months before. Or he could have done something entirely new. Ten minutes after the tweet, however, Chance treated his captive internet audience to a traditional, prerecorded video. He played “Same Drugs” on a piano, sitting on a vibrantly colored stage, accompanied by a large cat puppet in 80s attire. Music publications responded with confusion, their expectations unmet. It “wasn’t live,” they said. Was this expectation predicated on Klingande’s video? The kind of video Klingande released wasn’t new – its only novel feature was its liveness.
New technologies change how artists are presented. We, the audience, expect artists to work within the parameters of the new platform. The advent of the music video is the canonical example: music videos airing on MTV changed the way we consumed music and who we expected arists to be; video killed the radio star. The style of performance in which artists trafficked became more elaborate. Further, a hit single required a hit video, subsequently making the top of the charts more exclusive. Facebook Live lacks a clear design to which Chance can adhere. In one ad, Facebook told users “to go live when you see someone walking something that isn’t a dog.” Live streaming encountered its first transformation as it became a crucial tool cutting out the journalistic middleman by posting live updates of political events. People used it to capture racial violence. Elizabeth Warren’s fiery speech at Boston Logan airport, after Trump’s first Muslim ban was instated, was circulated initially via Facebook Live. However, it’s not clear how Chance or any other artists are supposed to use it. Critics tip-toed around saying that he used it wrong because they likely realized there isn’t an established “correct” usage yet. Facebook has made clear that they don’t know what Facebook Live should be or how artists can use it. Chance initially wanted to release his video on Snapchat. Interestingly, despite his popularity, Snapchat refused, as did Twitter. These older platforms have established how they are supposed to be used. Snapchat told Chance that he could take a video of the video on his phone – platforms like Snapchat and Twitter understand how they’re used, and asked Chance to adhere to the structure of their platforms.
MELISMA | SPRING 2017 | 15 Facebook Live ostensibly agreed because its use is illdefined. Facebook Live lacks a design, or a script, which artists can break. This is an inversion of the medium-user dialogue we saw with cassettes. It’s essential, then, to characterize how musicians are currently using Facebook Live to understand what it means for producers and consumers of music. At its simplest, artists have used Facebook Live as a vehicle to perform. NPR now livestreams their “Tiny Desk Concerts.” Boiler Room, a livestreamed electronic music show that started on UStream, invites their global audience to underground shows by allowing them to join in on a live stream. Even private concerts, like Brooklyn’s Afropunk festival, have streamed via Facebook Live. Artists have also used Facebook Live to stream less formal performances. Moby, for example, frequently livestreams himself toying with his piano. Brad Oberhofer sports goofy sunglasses and fiddles around on his guitar. Disclosure plays “kitchen mixes,” living DJing from their home and interacting with fans in the Facebook comments. Artists also use Facebook Live to simply “engage” or “connect” with their fans. Zedd and Alessia Cara sat down recently and just talked to fans through the comments section of the video. All of this amounts to what Dr. Nancy Baym at Microsoft Research calls relational labor. Artists become required to engage with fans to maintain their level of success and ultimately keep afloat their label’s bottom line. Connecting and engaging are labor; by requiring artists to perform more labor to maintain the same level of success, we undervalue their work. Yet the language we’ve built around talking about engagement and artist authenticity masks this fact. Perhaps, Baym notes, this is because the skills involved in this labor are gendered female. The soft skills of relationship building and communicating are undervalued compared to masculine self-promotion. In this sense, tools like Facebook Live contribute to a patriarchal dynamic where certain expressions of labor have different market value. In addition to the uncompensated labor that tools like Facebook Live force artists into providing, there is more work on the consumer’s behalf too. Facebook Live proliferates the social media content arms race: artists increasingly have to produce more and more content to stay relevant. Consequently, the audience is either required to perform or outsource the task of curation. Internal algorithms on platforms like Facebook play a role in sorting content. Increasingly, however, the task of consuming and characterizing artistic output has fallen on the critic. For example, the A.V. Club assembles curative content by linking to videos
and posts through their Great Job, Internet! series. Facebook Live is not a blank slate. Chance’s premiere of “Same Drugs” reveals some of the inherent constraints of the platform. “If different platforms make it easier or harder for users to upload preexisting videos or, in this case, for special categories of users to upload videos, that becomes part of the politics of the platform,” said Nick Seaver, Professor of Anthropology at Tufts. “You’ll see this on Twitter, with verified users – that gives them access to
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technologies like Facebook Live place a novel set of demands on the artist. In doing so, they exclude a certain class of musicians.
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certain privileges [which] aren’t evenly distributed in spite of the metaphor of the platform being ‘a stage for everyone to be a star on.’ There are still all sorts of structures and inequalities baked in.” There are musicians for whom this is a boon. Facebook Live fosters demand for spontaneity, charisma, humor, charm – qualities that allow some to advance but also hold others back. Facebook Live presents an unfiltered view of artists who aren’t afforded the tools to post prerecorded content like Chance. Artists are subsequently expected to be both authentic and sociable. Outside of the demand that artists make their private lives public, there is an intrinsic risk associated with streaming live in terms of potential embarrassing/awkward moments.
Often, new technologies like Spotify and Facebook Live are labelled as democratizing. But technologies like Facebook Live place a novel set of demands on the artist. In doing so, they exclude a certain class of musicians. Those unable to use it to present themselves live, whether because of a disability or their inability to forfeit their time, then have a harder time becoming musicians. By making what it means to be an artist about more than music, Facebook Live compounds existing inequities between musicians. Facebook Live creates a new kind of artist that is valued not only for their musical prowess, but also their character. People define technologies, but technologies define people. “There will be different kinds of celebrities and different kinds of music,” Professor Seaver suggests, “there’s no reason to think that music is stuck in the same spot.”
HIP-HOP BEEF DOESN’T MATTER ANYMORE BY GRANT FOX
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ince Staples recently sat down for a 30-minute interview with the writer and TV host Touré to discuss his new album. About ten minutes into the interview, Touré asks Staples who won the beef between Remy Ma and Nicki Minaj. “Shit is fucking corny,” retorts Staples in his characteristic deadpan. “Isn’t beef a part of Hip-Hop?” implores Touré. “It’s fucking corny,” Staples replies. Watch battle rap instead, Staples argues, at least those guys are mostly friends and write more entertaining insults. What’s so fun about two successful musicians spending time and money to say mean things about each other on their songs? “It’s like, ‘I’m gonna say really hurtful things about you for the sake of hip-hop. Oh,’” says Staples. Touré makes a face at this; the kind of face someone who loves hockey fights would make if you asked them to just watch WWE instead. Touré is twice Vince Staples’ age, and their conversation encapsulates the growing generational divide in Hip-Hop about beef. As Staples’ generation makes up an increasingly large portion of rappers and rap fans, beef is becoming less relevant. On the surface it may seem like Hip-Hop beef is still relevant. In just the first few months of 2017, Remy Ma reignited her feud with Nicki Minaj, Rick Ross and Birdman have been trading shots, and Drake took another shot at Meek Mill on the opening track of More Life. But outside of fans getting excited about the newest mean spirited lyrics, beef doesn’t have the consequences that it used to. Beef still happens and people still pay attention, but it has less of an impact on Hip-Hop culture. In other words, fans enjoy the feuds and diss tracks, but assign little meaning to the outcomes. Perhaps there is no better example of beef’s waning relevance than its impact on Drake. Over the
past five years, Drake has had spats with Kendrick Lamar, Pusha-T, Jay-Z, Common, and of course Meek Mill. The outcome? Nobody is worse off, not even Meek Mill who spectacularly lost his beef with Drake in the summer of 2015. In fact, it’s likely that at least one of the names on the list of artists Drake has beefed with came as a surprise to you. Nothing speaks to the irrelevance of beef like the one between Drake and Kendrick Lamar, two of the biggest names in the genre, being lost to history. Beef has historically been predicated on one of two things: regional/group disputes or authenticity. Because local music scenes were stronger before the Internet, rap fans were more tied to geography in terms of their preferred artists. Regional Hip-Hop scenes had their own distinct sounds, top artists, and fans. When artists from different regions had beef, it was easier for this beef to spill over into the entire geographic network and become a beef between regions/groups instead of individual artists. These beefs were usually predicated on which region was better, and could range in scope from neighborhoods to entire sections of the country. The East Coast vs. West Coast battle of the ‘90s is a prime example of a regional feud, but many had a smaller reach. In the ‘80s, the New York neighborhoods of Queens and South Bronx had a more localized regional beef that drew in many different artists. Rap beef has also been predicated on the struggle between real and fake. Beef is a way for rappers to call out their peers for being inauthentic while simultaneously proving to fans that they’re the real one, the one deserving their respect, and therefore their business. “You a fan, a phony, a fake, a pussy, a Stan,” rapped Nas on “Ether,” not only calling Jay-Z fake, but calling Jay-Z’s entire premise for
MELISMA | SPRING 2017 | 17 dissing him fake, since Jay was a purported fan of Nas. In another example of real vs. fake, hip-hop in the ‘90s and early 2000s was obsessed with the concept of the “studio gangster,” the rapper that wrote rough lyrics but never lived what they rapped about. When Arsenio Hall asked Eazy-E about the term, he defined it as someone who would “go in the studio and all of a sudden become hard when they used to dance music,” which was a clear jab at Dr. Dre. The complicated beef between the two had a lot of moving parts, but from Eazy’s point of view, Dre was a fraud. Eazy’s diss tracks against his former NWA groupmate all hinged on Dre’s purported fakeness. Eazy’s song “Real Muthaphukkin G’s” was a full-fledged attack on Dre’s authenticity. “Softer than a bitch but portray the role of gangsta / Ain’t broke a law in your life,” he rapped. 50 Cent’s beef with Ja Rule in the mid-2000s took a similar tone. 50’s song “Wanksta,” aimed at Ja Rule, spelled out Hip-Hop’s disdain for studio gangsters in its chorus, “You say you a gangsta, but you never pop nothing / We say you a wanksta and you need to stop fronting.” That authenticity in Hip-Hop was so closely tied to gang membership was no accident. Regional/group beefs sometimes became proxies for ongoing gang conflicts, and it didn’t help that rappers involved were often gang-affiliated. Beef between gang-affiliated rappers escalated beyond music in serious ways. According to a piece in Billboard from 2005, federal investigators found that New York drug lord Kenneth “Supreme” McGriff and employees of the label Murder Inc. had conspired to assassinate 50 Cent as revenge for a song detailing McGriff’s criminal past. After his beef with Ja Rule had been settled, 50 Cent confessed that from his perspective, the beef was never between him and other rappers, but between him and other gang members. “These guys are not rappers. These gangsters, the guys that I ended up having beef with…not Ja,” he told DJ Drama. The East Coast vs. West Coast beef was also mired in gang conflict, which resulted in the deaths of Tupac and the Notorious B.I.G., like-
ly at the hands of rival gang members. Beef over authenticity was also colored by gang conflict. In “Real Muthaphukkin G’s,” Eazy, who was affiliated with the Crips, accuses Dre, who had no affiliation, of being “a wannabe ‘loc,” or someone who was faking that they were a Crip leader. But Hip-Hop is slowly losing its fascination with gang culture. Many rappers still have gang ties and the genre is hardly free of violence, but today authenticity is less tied to gang affiliation. The result is that beef is now less frequently a proxy for gang conflict; undoubtedly a positive side effect. In addition to the potentially high stakes that beef with gang-affiliated artists brought, rap beef historically carried a high cultural impact. Nas’s diss against Jay-Z, “Ether,” introduced a new word into the Hip-Hop lexicon that became synonymous with beef— nobody rapped over the “Ether” instrumental unless they were starting beef. Kanye West and 50 Cent’s beef over the release of their 2009 albums was in part inflated by the media and overblown, but it ended 50’s music career. The same happened with 50 and Ja Rule, though it was 50 ending Ja Rule’s career. Beef had serious economic impacts. For a genre so infatuated with commercial success, this was crucial. Exposing fakeness was not only about upholding the value of authenticity, it was about business. Because authenticity was so highly valued, careers could be made or broken with success or failure in a beef. Once fakeness was exposed, it was hard to make a credible case to rap fans that you deserved their business. A lower supply of artists in the market due to higher barriers to entry, a more homogenized sound that defined Hip-Hop, and a fan base that valued authenticity meant Hip-Hop was a much more competitive business. Getting exposed as a phony could mean the end of an artist’s career. There are three things driving beef’s growing irrelevance: a lower value placed on authenticity, a lower amount of tribalism in Hip-Hop fans, and a faster news cycle. First, rap fans care less about traditional notions of authenticity, which means accusations of inauthenticity carry less weight and generally don’t have as big of an impact in beef as they used to. Nowhere is this more apparent than
Drake’s beef with Meek Mill during the summer of 2015. To recap: Meek Mill accused Drake of employing a ghostwriter to craft some of the verses on If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late. Drake replied with a few diss tracks aimed at
Kanye West, Will Smith, and Drake share a laugh at Meek Mill memes backstage at Drake’s OVO Fest in 2015
calling Meek Mill everything but a liar. Meek Mill enlisted the help of legendary New York DJ, Funkmaster Flex, to premier his response and the demo tracks of Drake’s ghostwriter performing early versions of some of the If You’re Reading This tracks, proving Meek Mill’s allegations correctly. Drake fans didn’t seem to care much about the allegations, and Hip-Hop fans collectivey shrugged their shoulders at Meek Mill’s allegations and took Drake’s side. On the surface it seemed like a beef Meek Mill should have won easily. He had proof that Drake wasn’t keeping it real and premiered it live on the radio show of the most famous DJ in New York City. But what Meek Mill and Funkmaster Flex didn’t realize was that Hip-Hop fans don’t value authenticity as much as they used to. This extends far past Drake, who admittedly is known for borrowing more than his fair share of sounds and trends from other scenes. That “Panda,” by Desiigner was the most popular song in the country despite it being a blatant rip-off of Future should be another indication that authenticity matters less. Or consider that Rick Ross, who consistently portrays himself as a successful drug dealer, was once a corrections officer. The second factor driving the irrelevancy of beef is that rap fans are less tribal. Homogenization of radio, the expansion of the Hip-Hop market to include more artists, and
the internet lowering the barriers to accessing music from other regions means fans are less tied to certain groups. Loyalty to a specific group, regional sound, or subculture is less strong, as the Internet flattens the Hip-Hop map and makes everything more accessible. Not only are people in Philadelphia listening to Hip-Hop from Atlanta, rappers from Philadelphia sound like rappers from Atlanta. Thus, it’s harder for beef predicated on regional/group identities to have an impact. This matters because weaker regional ties means fans are more fluid with their tastes. It’s harder for beef to happen between two cities when people in both cities have equal access to each others’ music. It’s the HipHop version of Thomas Friedman’s theory that countries that have McDonalds don’t go to war with each other. The fact that Lil Uzi Vert – a rapper from Philadelphia who sounds like rappers from Atlanta, who in turn are influenced by Miami Bass music – is popular today is evidence of this breakdown in regional loyalty. Rap fans welcome this breakdown in regionalism. Atlanta Hip-Hop, whose entire ethos runs counter to the principles of New York Hip-Hop (if this sounds extreme, watch any interview Lil Yachty does on a New York radio station), is not only popular in New York, but popular to the point that the last Hip-Hop song by a New York artist to reach #1 on the Billboard Hip-Hop charts was “Panda,” an unabashed rip-off of Future, the self-proclaimed king of Atlanta. The effect this has on beef is a reduced likelihood of regionally motivated disputes. It used to be that regional sound identities were strictly enforced. New York rappers who tried to sound like California rappers were accused of biting. Southern rap was seen as a lower form of music and had its own distinct culture and rules due to its exclusion from Northern markets. Loyalty to a certain sound/region not only motivated beef, but the ways rap fans perceived music from other regions. Master P, the founder of Southern powerhouse label No Limit, only became one of the highest-
MELISMA | SPRING 2017 | 19 paid moguls in hip-hop because he helped create a market in the South for the southern Hip-Hop being rejected by northern radio stations. The third factor driving beef’s irrelevancy is a faster news cycle. There is more information circling about more artists and a faster updating of news. Album release cycles are shorter, staying relevant means artists need to release a near-constant stream of content, and a larger market of artists means fans value novelty over authenticity. With technology bringing lower barriers to entry for new artists and a faster news cycle driving a demand for new artists, long running beef is hard to sustain. Individual rappers may trade insults over Twitter or even hint veiled threats in their lyrics (the awful trend of the “subliminal” diss), but it’s hard to keep fans intrigued in an ongoing beef. The result is that beef is less relevant since it’s both harder for fans to keep track of it, and the outcome might not even matter because of changing values and loyalties within the Hip-Hop community.
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It used to be that regional sound identities were strictly enforced. New York rappers who tried to sound like California rappers were accused of biting.
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Nowhere is beef’s irrelevancy more apparent than the recent feud between Drake and XXXTentacion. To briefly recap: X’s most popular song “Look At Me” acquired tens of millions of plays on Soundcloud while the rapper was in jail for a number of reprehensible charges. Drake teased a track called “KMT” at a performance in Amsterdam in which his first verse recreated X’s flow and rhyme scheme almost exactly. X’s fans started accusing Drake of biting, and when X got out of jail, he gave an interview accused Drake of ripping off his song, not being man enough to come to his bond hearing, and generally not being “in this shit for the culture.” These are powerful accusations. Like most rap beef, Drake v. XXXTentacion is predicated on authenticity. X accused Drake of being inauthentic by copying his style. He’s also accused Drake of being inauthentic by using Jamaican patois, but that seems like more of an attempt to tack on additional arguments against Drake rather than a genuine defense of the Jamaican community against appropriation. Drake has defended his actions, claiming that he had no idea “Look At Me” existed before he made “KMT,” and
only found out about the accusations of biting from X’s fans commenting on his Instagram posts. X responded by leading chants of “fuck Drake” at his first show after getting released. Like all recent spats of beef, this one doesn’t matter because inauthenticity is no longer a devastating charge to levy against another rapper, especially Drake who’s weathered these accusations his entire career. The substance of X’s accusations differs little from Meek Mill’s. Drake fans, as well as the general population of Hip-Hop fans, have shown they care little about these accusations. If they did, the revelations that Drake was in fact using a ghost writer would have ended the Drake vs. Meek Mill beef, Young Thug would constantly be fielding accusations of biting Lil Wayne, and Action Bronson would have been dismissed as a Ghostface Killah rip-off years ago. Plus, Drake v. XXXTentacion, like other recent feuds, is not drawn along any deeper lines of allegiances. This isn’t a South Florida vs. Toronto beef, nor is it a new school vs. old school beef, nor does it have any likelihood to spill over to other rappers. Offset of Migos has weighed in on Drake’s side (an ironic position to take considering Drake’s relationship with the iconic Migos Flow only three years ago), but there’s no risk of X fans turning against him or Migos. The lack of tribalism means nobody is forced to pick sides. It’s important to note that beef’s lack of relevancy is a good thing for Hip-Hop, not in a pacifist, can’t-we-all-just-getalong way, but in substantive ways that make Hip-Hop a better place for artists. First, rap beef has fewer physical consequences (i.e. people aren’t shooting each other over lyrics as much, even though there’s still plenty of violence) because of the lack of tribalism. Second, careers aren’t ending over beef, which is better for fans. They get more music from a wider variety of artists. As a result, rappers are less afraid to take creative risks because there’s less of a risk for being called out on inauthenticity. Rappers are free to borrow from other regional sounds and aren’t pressured to conform to rigid standards of authenticity. Drake’s affinity for grime music is occasionally problematic, but it’s helped push the genre into American markets, perhaps tempting American artists to collaborate more with U.K. artists or expand their sound by turning to grime producers for beats. Everything about Young Thug would have been mocked 15 years ago, but the Atlanta oddball is hailed as a visionary artist in today’s more accepting Hip-Hop culture. Imagine Migos, Chief Keef, or even Vince Staples who raps over cloudy Clams Casino instrumentals coming up in an industry s dominated by old standards of what Hip-Hop should sound like. The genre would be a lot more boring if these rules were enforced through beef, and for that we’re much better off with beef’s growing irrelevancy.
K-POP AND THE ELUSIVE QUEST FOR AMERICAN APPEAL
BY KATIE SANNA
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usic and performance transcends language and countries and races,” Rapmonster (born Kim Namjoon), the leader of Korean Pop group BTS, says as he stands on the stage of the Prudential Center in Newark, New Jersey. It’s the second night of their sold out North American tour. The impassioned crowd had just completed a successful project that involved creating a rainbow of lights across the packed stadium and holding signs with supportive phrases in Korean. BTS’s continual success internationally might prove Namjoon right – that despite cultural and linguistic barriers, K-Pop can not only enter, but profit in the American market. With the rise of internationalism and social media, culture from across the globe can be more easily shared than ever. In the music sphere, this trend has contributed to the global phenomenon, South Korean pop music, most commonly referred to as K-Pop. It consists of a distinctly hyper-polished pop sound that borrows from music genres across the globe. A typical K-Pop song can incorporate American trap sounds and Arabic beats, all while maintaining a distinctly Korean sound. Most KPop groups typically consist of multiple members of the same sex who focus on creating a cohesive entertainment production encompassing music, videos, and live shows. Each K-Pop song released is usually paired with a high production value music video, a distinct concept to the song, intense choreography, and a hook in English, meant to appeal to international audiences. An entertainment company, not the artists, fosters the entire production process. The company puts the members of a group together and manages them. Unlike the typical pattern
in American music where artists control the creative process, Korean entertainment companies will bring together famous producers, songwriters and choreographers to make the most successful group. The typical K-Pop group does not have control over its musical process, although there are notable exceptions with groups that produce their own music. But to prosper in the global music industry, K-Pop has to move outside South Korea’s borders, and lately it has been very successful in breaching Japan and China’s large music markets. However, due to increased tensions between South Korea and North Korea, and by proxy China, there is a large shift in the exportation of K-Pop. Recently China imposed new regulations that limits the amount of K-Pop allowed on all media platforms including TV and popular forums for music sharing, which will severely hurt K-Pop’s commercial performance overseas. As Tufts student Sitong, a Beijing native who runs a Chinese fansite for Namjoon, explains “it’s not just about K-Pop, it’s more of a social thing – even if you’re already a K-Pop fan, as you can get less and less access to your idols and people around you get upset if you even talk about Korean idols, really the industry is not going to have a good time in China.” The increased tensions go further than government regulation, with social pressure dissuading K-Pop fans in China revealing the precarious situation of K-Pop in one of its largest markets. Korean entertainment companies are adjusting by setting their sights on a new large market to make up on the loss from China: the United States. With the exception of one hit wonders like PSY’s “Gangnam Style” and Keith Ape’s “It G Ma,” no single Korean artist has
MELISMA | SPRING 2017 | 21 firmly established themself in the American market. Unlike most American bands, Korean pop groups typically have multiple singers and rappers in each group. This distinct change in group setup may provide a barrier to entry to the American market, which tends to favor the solo personalities of lead singers and individual acts. But America has a long history with boy bands, whose hyper-polished image and multiple personalities match up with how K-Pop groups are structured. Bands like NSYNC and the Backstreet Boys succeeded in creating large, adamant, and passionate fan bases, especially with young girls. This lead to large levels of fame and success for the groups, where fans picked their favorite members and felt like they actually knew the band. K-Pop groups use a similar tactic, but in a more profitable and streamlined manner. When these groups travel to do concerts in America, they’re marketed like early 2000s boy bands. The merchandise caters to each member and there are usually meet-and-greets in which fans can take pictures with their favorite members. Also, many passionate fans will choose one member of a group to photograph and sell merchandise of. This grassroots promotion of the members can be very profitable, with fansites for the group EXO purchasing a billboard in Times Square in New York City this year to promote their 5th year anniversary. Overall, the prospect of selling Korean groups in American markets is feasible once they have enough momentum to pull in fans who normally would turn to American boy bands. K-Pop groups have been a small presence in America for a while. The former girl group The Wonder Girls opened for the Jonas Brothers on their North American tour, Girls’ Generation performed on the Late Show with David Letterman, and 2NE1 even appeared on The Bachelor. All these groups have managed to gather a large international following outside of South Korea, and very large support within South Korea itself, but they have not broken into the American mainstream yet. Currently, a member of the former girl group 2NE1, named CL, is working on her American debut. CL released a track entirely in English called “Lifted” which was created to appeal to American audiences with its laidback vibe and music video shot in New York City. She also toured across North America, playing small venues across the country rather than the coastal stadiums most K-Pop groups frequent. However, “Lifted” failed to chart higher in America than 2NE1’s 2014 album Crush, and most Americans who don’t follow K-Pop would be more likely to recognize her from her 2015 collaboration with Diplo, Riff Raff, and OG Maco, “Dr. Pepper.” CL’s inability to chart can either be seen as a failure on her part to break into the American market, or it can show the viability for Korean groups like 2NE1 to enter the American market without “Americanizing” their sound.
As Korean artists start playing more shows in America, they gain larger followings. Always on the edge of the American mainstream, or arguably just ahead of it, K-Pop has been slowly increasing its American presence. In 2016, rap group Epik High performed at Coachella and South by Southwest. The latter performance was so successful the group trended on Twitter across the country. Increasingly common collaborations between American and Korean artists can increase the Koreans’ appeal to Americans. Girls’ Generation’s “The Boys,” featured Snoop Dogg and boy group Big Bang’s G-Dragon featured Missy Elliot on his album Coup D’Etat. Recently, upcoming American R&B singer Gallant featured Korean singer
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Always on the edge of the american mainstream, or arguably just ahead of it, k-pop has been slowly increasing its american prescence.
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Eric Nam and Epik High’s Tablo on the song “Cave Me In.” All three acts in “Cave Me In” speak fluent English and performed entirely in English. All of these collaborations represent a larger movement within K-Pop to enter the American market by appealing to American artists’ fan bases. But K-Pop isn’t putting all of its eggs in the American basket. K-Pop groups commonly will perform their songs in multiple languages, even going the length to create distinct sub-groups to target specific geographic regions. K-Pop super group EXO had two groups EXO-M and EXO-K, the former group singing in Mandarin and the latter in Korean. Although the separate group idea was dropped, EXO still releases their albums with a Korean and Mandarin version for each song. EXO also has specific songs and releases in Japanese. It is possible that Korean entertainment groups will start the widespread use of this tactic to appeal to American audiences in order to break into the American market. Korean entertainment company DSP Media recently created a co-ed K-Pop project K.A.R.D, designed with an international focus. Before their official debut the group has already released an English version for their song and plans to tour North America. This current trend mimics the process K-Pop underwent as it attempted its entry
to the Japanese market. Japan is the second largest music market in the world after the U.S., which lead to Korean entertainment companies setting their focus on Japan in the late 1990’s into the 2010’s. After the initial breakthrough of groups like TVXQ, Girls’ Generation, and SHINee, K-Pop established itself as a more permanent fixture in Japanese media. According to Forbes Magazine, K-Pop presence in Japanese media has led to a 22% net increase of income for entertainment company S.M., which has groups that achieved great Japanese success like Girls’ Generation and SHINee. Likewise, the first group that truly creates sustained success in the U.S will pave the pathway for many other groups to follow. The groups with the most likelihood of American success must have a strong Korean and international following, but also overcome the fleeting nature of past Korean hits in America. Although PSY’s “Gangnam Style” achieved American fame, his other releases afterwards failed to approach that level of success. To truly establish themselves they must have a sound that resonates with American listeners, but not lose their strong Korean fan bases. This balancing act can prove to be challenging as songs that tend to do well in Korea do not naturally do well internationally. As Korean native and Tufts Student Julia explains “Korean audiences are not only interested in the music, but are also interested in the artists. They consider looks important, and they enjoy watching performances and cool choreography. Meanwhile, American audiences are less interested in the looks and more interested in the music itself.” As K-Pop continues to explore a large plethora of genres, its sound can fluctuate from Bryson Tiller’s underwater R&B with NCT’s “The 7th Sense” to Britney Spears’s bubblegum pop with Hyuna’s “Bubble Pop.” As K-Pop truly doesn’t confine itself to one sound, it will continue to create sounds to appeal to Western audi-
ences, and its meticulously produced visual component will only add to K-Pop’s appeal in Korea. Groups like BTS, Big Bang and EXO have had large international and domestic success, and prove to be on a growing trajectory towards the United States. However, it is also possible that Korean talent outside of the restrictive K-Pop sphere could beat these mega K-Pop groups to American success. Notably, Korean-American rapper Jay Park, R&B artist Dean and Epik High’s Tablo have all created sounds that appeal to American audiences. As these artists continue to collaborate with American artists and create music in English, they will naturally permeate into America. Currently, America is the target of a large and established music market that has the ability to succeed outside of its own physical barriers, the question is not when Korean music will enter America but instead which act will be the one to do it first.
LISTEN TO: NCT U - THE 7TH SENSE DEAN - BONNIE & CLYDE CL - LIFTED JAY PARK - ME LIKE YUH BTS - BLOOD SWEAT & TEARS
MELISMA | SPRING 2017 | 23
THE SOUND OF TV THE TRANSFORMATION OF SOUNDTRACKS IN THE GOLDEN AGE OF TELEVISION BY DIANA HERNANDEZ
O
ne of the joys of rewatching Scrubs on Netflix is noticing how the series so cleverly uses music. In one such instance, I found myself singing along to “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey, as it played throughout an episode of the show. It wasn’t until the episode finished that I noticed the name of the episode, “My Journey,” corresponded to its music. But it seems like the doctors from Sacred Heart Hospital won’t be saving any more lives to the tune of yesteryear’s pop hits on Netflix because Netflix did not renew its license for the popular show. After May, Scrubs will be gone from the Netflix catalogue. Scrubs has had a tumultuous relationship with the online streaming service. Brad McHargue, a user on twitter, tweeted to Zach Braff, who plays J.D. on Scrubs, “The Netflix version of Scrubs uses different songs in a # of the episodes. Why?” To which Mr. Braff replied, “The music license didn’t cover Netflix.” This isn’t just a question of erasing the show’s original vision. As the “Golden Age of Television” continues, production companies are investing heavily in soundtracks by commissioning original music and licensing existing songs. Both original scores and already existing songs serve the same purpose: to capture the feelings in a show at any given moment. Further, a different soundtrack may alter the effectiveness or appeal of a show; a good soundtrack can retain viewers. Netflix spends more on its original shows than most cable companies, e.g., Fox or Disney. Creators of shows have become more willing to spend large amounts of money on music supervisors and licensing rights to existing songs.
Netflix is quickly becoming a dominant player in the new TV market, and is taking steps to beef up its music licensing division in 2017. According to Netflix, their investment in originals will slowly increase and come to replace some of the other content they currently spend money on licensing, which could explain Scrubs getting nixed. The value of Netflix’s original content jumped from $450 million in 2015 to about $5 billion in 2016. Netflix has exhibited an
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The netflix version of scrubs uses different songs in a number of the episodes. why? the music license didn’t cover netflix.
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upward trend in its spending on original content in order to garner new customers. A sizeable percentage of this investment goes to the production of soundtracks for Netflix Originals. Because TV Soundtracks have become easier to access through digital streaming, they have garnered more attention as standalone pieces of art. This partly explains the hype for original soundtracks from Netflix Originals such as Stranger Things and Master of None.
The age of streaming TV shows on streaming services such as Netflix, Amazon Prime, and Hulu has started to remove the old cable business model out of the equation. Audiences no longer feel a need to pay a lump sum for hundreds of channels, only a fraction of which they like. Instead, they pay a small monthly fee for a select few shows that they love. Both Netflix and Amazon Prime have invested heavily in original content, emphasizing a higher production value compared to many cable channels. Netflix and Amazon come in second and fifth place in how much networks spent on content in 2016. Another appeal is that these platforms allow audiences to binge watch seasons from beginning to end. Thus, these shows are treated more liked extended movies rather than one-off episodes. There is a greater pressure on production companies to create in-depth character development and plot to keep viewers interested in binge-watching the show. Because viewers binge-watch these shows as if they are watching an extended movie, TV shows needs to include more of a cinematic experience, and part of this requires a higher quality soundtrack on par with a movie. A soundtrack has the power to deepen the meaning of a show, but only if done correctly. This is where music supervisors come in handy along with the funds to back up their musical choices. It’s no surprise then, that Netflix is investing more in their music licensing department, hiring more staff and diverting more funds to Originals. For Stranger Things, the creators sought out an original score from band members Kyle Dixon and Michael Stein from S U R V I V E. Dixon stated in an interview with Rolling Stone that in comparison to producing one of their own albums, in “dealing with a film or a TV show, there’s a broad[er] range of emotions that you have to touch on.” In an interview with Complex, Matt Duffer commented, “Because I think I was so frustrated that I’d watch television and the scores felt like an afterthought.“ The choice of an original score turned out to be quite successful, leading to an
original soundtrack album release and a nomination for the 2017 Grammy Award for Best Score Soundtrack for Visual Media for both Volume 1 and Volume 2. Netflix takes into account critical acclaim and awards when measuring its success for originals through the addition of new customers and retention of old customers paying for an annual membership.
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Creators of shows have become more willing to spend large amounts of money on music supervisors and licensing rights to existing songs.
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Whether it is the uncanny music from Stranger Things that plays while in the Upside Down or when “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey during Scrubs, a well-planned soundtrack effortlessly matches the current feelings present in the show. Next time play closer attention to the music playing in the background of a favorite show. Someone chose it on purpose. It may come to your attention that Scrubs isn’t the only well liked show on Netflix with a modified soundtrack, Freaks and Geeks on Netflix also made some changes to its soundtrack. Netflix might want to find room in its budget to retain other content with original soundtracks. If spending on original content eclipses the preservation of old shows’ existing soundtracks, Netflix runs the risk of alienating the fanbase that gave them the power to create originals in the first place.
LISTEN TO: KYLE DIXON & MICHAEL STEIN - KIDS KYLE DIXON & MICHAEL STEIN - STRANGER THINGS S U R V I V E - A.H.B. BEACH HOUSE - MASTER OF NONE ANANDA SHAKAR - JUMPIN’ JACK FLASH YOUNG BUCK - GET BUCK
MELISMA | SPRING 2017 | 25
THE URBAN CONTEMPORARY DILEMMA DOES THE GRAMMY CATEGORY PROTECT BLACK ARTISTS OR DOES IT JUST CONTINUE TO PINHOLE THEM?
B
BY SARAH MARKOS
eyoncé’s ambitious visual album Lemonade is a 56-minute chronicle of black femininity overflowing with personal and political messages. Her ethereal performance at the 59th annual Grammy Awards was an ode to black motherhood. She performed “Love Drought” and “Sandcastles” while pregnant and featured images of her mother and her daughter, Blue Ivy. Despite the cultural importance and musical ingenuity of Lemonade, the winner of the much anticipated Album of the Year category was Adele’s 25. Beyoncé instead won the Urban Contemporary category. Adele was heard expressing her disbelief backstage, stating, “What the fuck does she [Beyoncé] have to do to win album of the year?” What is required of black artists to receive recognition from white Academy judges? What place do white Grammy trustees have in judging black art? The Urban Contemporary category comprises a broad assortment of music styles, making it difficult to decipher the intended meaning of this category. Other nomination included Rihanna’s Anti, Gallant’s Ology, Anderson .Paak’s Malibu, and KING’s We Are King. Beyoncé accepted the award stating, “My intention for the film and album [Lemonade] was to create a body of work that will give a voice to our pain, our struggles, our darkness and our history.” The speech highlighted the importance of representing black women in media, an accentuation of the history of excluding black artists at the Grammys despite the domination of black culture in media and general appropriation of black music style. Her speech, however, contradicts the unusual concept of Urban Contemporary, considering the history of the genre. The term “Urban Contemporary” was first coined by Frankie Crocker in 1974 to
name the format of his FM radio station based in New York City, WBLS. Following the success of WBLS in 1980, more radio stations began to broadcast a wide range of black genres in an effort to increase popularity and profit. The term “urban” was used to distinguish radio shows consisting of black music so that broadcastings would also appeal to white audiences. To date, “urban” remains a catch-all term that music corporations use to exploit black artists for their influence and fame, while avoiding the word “black.” The Urban Contemporary category, by definition, includes artists whose albums contain “at least 51 percent playing time of newly recorded contemporary vocal tracks derivative of R&B.” The pioneer of this category, Ivan Barias, denies that the category name suggests inclusion of black artists. He argues it is “indicative of a certain musical energy that encompasses all of the diverse genres of urban music.” Still, the meaning of the term “urban” in the category’s context remains unclear. Urban Contemporary, in its history and in the Grammys, is a failed attempt to create a black space within a white system— not to increase inclusivity, but rather profits. The winner of the Urban Contemporary category has never won an award in the General Field, which includes Album of the Year, Record of the Year, Song of the Year, and Best New Artist. These four general awards are regarded as the highest honor—they are all almost always televised, and are almost always won by white artists. For the Album of Year category specifically, only four black artists have received that award in the past 20 years. Conversely, the Urban Contemporary category has never included a white artist, and the award is only broadcast on television when the award recipient that year is likely to attract a large audience. This year’s Grammys is the first year that the Urban Contemporary category was televised since Frank Ocean’s album Channel Orange won the award in 2013, though it lost to Mumford and Sons in the Best Album of the Year category. Frank Ocean, like various black artists predating him, boycotted the Grammys this year by not submitting his critically acclaimed and widely popular albums Endless and Blonde to Grammy consideration. In a New York Times interview, Frank Ocean explained this decision stating, “[The Grammys] just doesn’t seem to be representing very well for people who come from where I come from, and hold down what I hold down.” The Grammys reconstruction in 2012 led to a massive decrease in categories—reducing from 109 to 78. According to Barias, the Urban Contemporary category was an effort to create a space for non-traditional R&B and rap artists. Following the omission of several R&B and rap categories, some people argue that the Urban Contemporary category is necessary in order to increase the representation of young, black artists in the Grammys. But instead of creating a separate category, why aren’t black artists provided equal representation and equal chances at winning the General Field categories? Black artists should not
be expected to be happy with the inclusion of a single category with a genre name that has a history of discrediting black artists. The Urban Contemporary category is not an effective reform, but a new addition to allow white artists to win the general categories. Meaningful modifications in the near future are unlikely, considering the inherent racism and partiality towards white artists embedded in the music industry. White people throughout history have profited from music of the African Diaspora. Though jazz was created by Louisiana Creoles during the Jim Crow era, the first jazz album ever recorded was by the original Dixieland Jazz band. Ten years later, Paul Whiteman was hailed as the King of Jazz. Even today, the Grammys’ black music categories are dominated by white artists—Eminem has the most awards in the Best Rap Album category. In order for reform to be effective, the Grammy decision process and lack of diversity within the Recording Academy must also be addressed. The Recording Academy, which presents the Grammy Awards, is predominantly white. All members of the Recording Academy vote for the General Field categories, often leading R&B, hip-hop, and rap artists to go unrecognized. Academy members have the choice to vote in 20 categories, without any requirements in expertise in the category’s music style. Unequivocal structural changes must be made to the Grammys trustee board and voting process in order to ensure that black artists have an equal chance to gain recognition in the Grammys. Nothing will change until all categories are made more inclusive and more non-white judges are included in the Recording Academy, which seems unlikely considering the president of the Recording Academy, Neil Portnow, does not believe racism exists within the Grammys. In an interview with Pitchfork Portnow stated, “No, I don’t think there’s a race problem at all. Remember, this [The Grammys] is a peervoted award. So when we say the Grammys, it’s not a corporate entity—it’s the 14,000 members of the Academy.” Even though artists have the choice to join the academy or not, it is up to the Grammy board to ensure the membership is diverse.
MELISMA | SPRING 2017 | 27
summer PREVIEW WHO’S GOING TO BLOW UP
WHO TO SEE IN CONCERT
ANZ
May 8 | Screaming Females | ONCE Ballroom May 13 | Perfume Genius | Royale May 15 | Told Slant | Middle East Upstairs May 15-16 | San Fermin | Brighton Music Hall May 17 | Wavves | Brighton Music Hall May 18 | Princess Nokia | Middle East Downstairs May 20 | Andy Shauf | Sinclair May 26-28 | Boston Calling June 5 | Air | Royale June 7 | Girlpool | Brighton Music Hall June 10 | Freddie Gibbs | Middle East Downstairs June 14 | Pains of Being Pure at Heart | Sinclair June 16 | CupcakKe | Great Scott June 16 | Palehound | Sonia July 5 | Alex G + Japanese Breakfast | Sinclair July 7 | Raekwon | Brighton Music Hall July 11 | Vagabon | Great Scott July 19 | Ride | Royale July 22 | Kendrick Lamar | TD Garden July 26 | Nite Jewel | ONCE Ballroom August 1 | Mura Masa | Paradise August 5 | Rozwell Kid | Paradise September 5 | Shabazz Palaces | Sinclair September 19 | Jay Som | Sinclair
Anz is one of London’s most criminally underrated producers. Her solo releases are sparse, bordering on nonexistent, but her production mixes showcase the sheer quantity of unreleased dubplates she’s sitting on. Lacing in elements of Footwork, UK Garage, Grime, Dubstep, and Trap into her work, Anz has managed to beats that are familiar in content but unique in style.
YVES TUMOR Yves Tumor is a mysterious, mercurial artist whose music runs the gamut from ambient meditations to sultry 70s-inspired funk. Notoriously private, his current whereabouts are murky and even his real name is up for debate. What we do know is that he was a part of the LA avantgarde music community and a contributor to compilations released on his friend Mykki Blanco’s Dogwood Music label. Tumor’s 2016 album Serpent Music was released on the German experimental label PAN and features a wide variety of strangely compelling sounds that represent his diverse output.
SNAIL MAIL
Hailing from the Baltimore area, singer and guitarist Lindsey Jordan probably just graduated from high school this month, but she’s already an accomplished singer-songwriter who has played at SXSW. Her band’s music is a passionate channeling of suburban ennui mixed and refreshing wit. Songs like “Thinning” and “Stick” are adolescent anthems. Check out their 2016 EP Habit and on their early summer US tour.
WHO’S DROPPING ALBUMS May 12 | Hary Styles - Harry Styles May 12 | Girlpool - Powerplant May 19 | Alex G - Rocket May 26 | Lil Yachty - Teenage Emotions June 2 | Saint Etienne - Home Countries June 9 | Planetarium - Planetarium June 16 | Fleet Foxes - Crack-Up June 16 | Kevin Morby - City Music June 16 | Lorde - Melodrama June 16 | Palehound - A Place I’ll Always Go June 16 | Com Truise - Incorruptible July 14 | Shabazz Palaces - Quazarz: Born On A Gangster Star
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