Melisma Fall 2022

STAFF

Editors-In-Chief

Ian Smith

Julia Bernicker

Managing Editors

Spencer Vernier

Julien Desjardins

Senior Editors

Ethan Lam

Georgia Moore Design Team

Isabel Overby

Olivia White

Anna Zhang

Liliana Boekhout

Annika Crawford Press Director Jill Yum

Assistant Press Director

Cecilia Wang

Social Media Directors

Hannah Costa Alec Rosenthal

Video Editor Anevay Ybáñez

Editors

Ben Clossey

Jason Evers

Isaac Dame

Jake Rubenstein

Lucy Millman

Sunny Astacio

Jack Brownlee

James Morse

Andrea O’Hara

Foreign Correspondents

Grace Rotermund

Andrés López

Staff Writers

Ava Dettling

Colin Bailey

Leo Ikle-Maizlish

Mariana Janer Agrelot

Mia Rose Charles Stone

A LETTER FROM THE EDITORS..

Dear fellow melismaniacs, groupies, and enemies,

Our magazine is looking gooooood, isn’t it? Thanks to the addition of a brand-new, incredibly talented design team, Melisma is reaching new heights when it comes to aesthetics. (Those records on the cover? They’re scanned from the WMFO collection! Insane, right?)

Onto new heights and new spaces, as a significant jump in club attendance led to the Melisma nomad phase: first to Tisch, and then to Cum. We’re back in our beloved MAB for now, but we welcome eager underclassmen to join our ranks, and we promise to turn on the A/C from now on. With new members come new ideas, and this magazine is chock full of them. For the first time in a long time, we’re happy to report that we had TOO many people who wanted to write for this issue, so look out for additional web content coming soon.

Now for this issue! We’re exploring new genres: from sophomore Colin Bailey writing about yacht rock to junior MJ writing about flamenco. Resident music degenerate Leo rants about the Y2K label, Proud Ohioan Ian takes a look at the post-pandemic state of live music, and kitchen whiz Charles waxes poetic on virtual entertainment. Mia schools us all on the science of nostalgia (as well as on the art of creating a layout), Ava gives us much to ponder on the next time we watch a movie, and Lucy and Anevay sit down for a conversation on what it means to gift someone a song. At the end, we bequeath to you a game of M.A.S.H., created by quizmaster Georgia.

And finally, for the changing of the guard. Julia came back from abroad for her final semester as E.I.C. while Andres abandoned us for Chile. She looks forward to retirement in the spring and hopes to always be remembered as the best E.I.C. with the worst taste in music. Also returning next semester is Managing Editor Grace, while our brilliant Press Director Jill heads to London and our effervescent editor Lucy follows in Julia’s footsteps (yet again) and heads to Copenhagen. We would not be able to attend a single concert without Jill, and we would be much farther behind on editing online reviews if not for Lucy, so we will miss both of them tons.

So many thanks to everyone who comes to our meetings, starts a riot in the Discord, and/or reads this silly publication.

With love, Julia Bernicker and Ian Smith

Interested in writing, art, or design? Questions, comments, adulation, spam, scams, or hatemail? Email melismamagazine@gmail.com

Melisma Magazine is a non-profit student publication of Tufts University. The opinions expressed in articles, features, or photos are soly 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.com. Please limit your letter to four hundred words or less.

ANEW EPIDEMIC

by Ian Smith

In the postpandemic state of affairs, more artists than ever are cancelling shows. Why?

On August 25th, 2022, one of my favorite bands since early high school called it quits. Girlpool, the indie-rock duo of Harmony Tividad and Avery Tucker, posted a statement to their Instagram in the late afternoon canceling twothirds of their upcoming tour dates for their latest album Forgiveness and going their separate ways after 9 years of working together.

The sudden announcement came as a shock to me; Tucker and Tividad seemed pretty close, and the statement didn’t seem to allude to a fight

or conflict. The statement didn’t seem to allude to any definitive cause, actually. But one month later, when the electropop legend Santigold canceled her tour for her album Spirituals, she made her reasoning loud and clear. “As a touring musician, I don’t think anyone anticipated the new reality that awaited us,” she wrote in an Instagram post. “After sitting idle for the past couple years, [musicians] rushed back out immediately when it was deemed safe to do shows. We were met with the height of inflation, many of our tried-and-true venues unavailable due to

a flooded market of artists trying to book shows in the same cities, and positive [COVID] test results constantly halting schedules, with devastating financial consequences. All of that, on top of the already-tapped mental, spiritual, physical, and emotional resources of just having made it through the past few years. Some of us are finding ourselves simply unable to make it work.” Her post blew up in the music community, and comments of support flooded in from musicians like Sudan Archives and Karen O, and even industry titans like Diplo, Mark Ronson, and Miguel echoed their dissatisfaction with the current state of live music. But what led us to this moment, where artists are struggling to break even?

we want to do is play for you.”

The historic relationship between artist, label, and consumer has famously never gone in favor of the artist. There is a time-honored tradition of exploiting and manipulating artists for profit in the music industry, from Taylor Swift’s masters to #FreeBritney, all the way back to Berry Gordy Jr. But the post-pandemic state of affairs is a particularly sticky moment in this history, if only because of the perfect storm that has led us to this moment in time. As Santigold mentioned in her statement, costs of gas, vans, hotels, and food are rising. The problem is manageable if the artist can move ticket sales, but ticket prices are rising as well, and Live Nation Entertainment (who practically operate a monopoly on event ticketing in the US) have been hiking up the cost of their service fees for the past 10 years, sometimes making the fees cost more than the tickets themselves. Some venues will even take a cut of merch profits, further leaving artists unable to turn a profit. The indie rock band Pinegrove demystified the financial side of touring in an enlightening email to their fans, writing: “Tours are generally structured so the upfront costs— which are significant, including merch printing & accommodations—are recouped, ideally, by about halfway through a tour. Only then does the band start making the money they’ll be taking home. Our run that was cut short in April, for instance, had just barely crossed over into the black when several of us got sick with COVID, which ended up meaning each member of the band lost 95% percent of expected income for that run & about 30%

of expected annual income.” Reading Pinegrove’s newsletter, it’s not hard to make out the writing on the wall, a much more subtler one. Because at the end of the day, a record deal is an investment, where a label gives money to a musician so they can make music that will turn a profit for both artist and label. And if the artist isn’t getting any money from streaming (which they aren’t), and if most of an artist’s money is coming from ticket and merch sales, who else is losing big if no tickets and merch are being sold? If no money is being made, who is pushing the artist to tour almost immediately after 2 years of widespread shutdown to balance that deficit? And when the artist ventures out into the hellscape that is the current state of live music, well, what are they supposed to do then?

Santigold and Girlpool haven’t been the only ones to cancel tours. Justin Bieber, Animal Collective, Arlo Parks, Wet Leg, and Shawn Mendes have also canceled either all or some of their upcoming tour dates, citing similar reasons of burnout and financial stress. Joining Santigold and Pinegrove in making public statements on the matter is Lorde, whose newsletter to her friends made Billboard headlines. “Things are at an unprecedented level of difficulty,” she wrote. “I’m one of the lucky ones, but for pretty much every artist selling less tickets than I am, touring has become a demented struggle to break even or face debt. Understandably, all of this takes a toll — on crews, on promoters, and on artists. You’ll notice a ton of artists canceling shows citing mental health concerns in the past year, and I really think the stress of this stuff is a factor.” Surveying the overall situation, it’s not hard to notice that some pretty huge systemic changes have to be made. Santigold herself actually suggests some fixes in a recent Rolling Stone article: a nonprofit direct-consumer streaming service, or a musician’s union, for example. But the most crucial changes have to come from the top down. Break up the Ticketmaster/Live Nation monopoly. Stop taking exorbitant cuts of an already thin profit margin. And most importantly, let your artists rest. They’ve been hit as hard, if not harder by the pandemic then record label executives. “All we want to do is play for you,” Lorde wrote in her newsletter. And, really, don’t we all want that?

“All

The Yacht Rock Mindset and the Steely Dan Resurrection

By: Colin Bailey

The summer of 2022 marked the first summer for many without strict Covid restrictions or a fear of being around others in crowded spaces. For the first time in years, many of us could comfortably go places and see people we hadn’t in some time. The atmosphere was brimming with pleasure, freedom, and a desire for fun. These sentiments translated in popular media, specifically with Gen Z utilizing Tik Tok. One particular trend on the app was to post yourself relaxing, maybe in your backyard with sunglasses and sunscreen on, while listening to a form of music from about 50 years ago, proclaiming that this season was a #YachtRockSummer. Seemingly appearing out of nowhere, yacht rock grabbed onto our generation this summer and shows no signs of letting us go. Why did this newfound adoration of yacht rock manifest itself in us?

Let’s take a trip back to the 60s. Most music at the time had an underlying serious agenda that pertained to

the 60s counter-culture, an anti-establishment movement that preached about making love, not war. The music, no matter how important, was heavy, with severe and biting lyrics being at the forefront of compositions. Enter the 70s, where counterculture still flourished, but a groovy and more light-hearted approach to music developed. Both musicians and the everyman needed a break from all of this political jabbing, instead gravitating to fun songs with an undercurrent of irony. Characterized by a tonguein-cheek attitude and ear-worm melodies, yacht rock came to fruition as a facetious counter-culture to counter-culture.

Yacht rock is the umbrella term for heavily melodic, catchy songs starting in the 70s that feature interesting chord progressions, soft vocals, and sheer technical prowess. Although popular in the 70s and 80s, yacht rock died out soon after with

the growth of alternative rock, grunge, and slowcore bursting onto the scene.

The genre has ostensibly flown under the radar for many years up until recently, with Gen Z succumbing to the “yacht rock mindset” of relaxation and realizing the ideas of “che sarà, sarà” and “c’est la vie” through the genre of yacht rock. The yacht rock aesthetic also correlates to “Dadcore,” the recent movement devoted to wearing clothes and listening to music similar to a dad’s. Being ironically cool is valuable in the eyes of Dadcore enthusiasts, and many yacht rock artists fit the bill. The lame yet suave tone of yacht rock is similar to the implications of dressing and listening to music that a father from the 70s or 80s would. Contrary to popular belief, yacht rock has not been a hidden gem for years, but has instead permeated every generation even to a slight degree.

A few examples include the use of “Escape (The Piña Colada Song)” by Rupert Holmes in many movies and television shows throughout the years and Kenny Loggins songs being a namesake for movies like “Footloose” and “Top Gun.” One of the more efficient reintegration strategies for yacht rock has been sampling. “Regulate” by Warren G and Nate Dogg samples “I Keep Forgettin’” by Michael McDonald, while another is Yung Gravy’s song “Cheryl” depending on Player’s “Baby Come Back” for the beat. Modern sampling brings new life to yacht rock. The revitalization of yacht rock has been here for years, but there is one band that has achieved more publicity than any other recently: Steely Dan. With 4.8 million listeners on Spotify and a recent uptick of listeners as seen on last.fm (up to a 40% difference), Steely Dan is a leading group in the yacht rock genre. Steely Dan was founded in New York at Bard College in 1971 by two social outcasts, guitarist Walter Becker and keyboardist Donald Fagen. Bonding over their similar musical tastes, they focused on creating a jazzy, genre-bending style. Released 50 years ago this November, their debut album Can’tBuyaThrill was a key example of yacht rock, incorporating an ironic tone with Donald Fagen’s odd yet enchanting vo-

cals. The song “Dirty Work” from this album was included in a 2022 episode of Euphoria. Kanye West sampled the Steely Dan song “Kid Charlemagne” in his song “Champion.” Even the Netflix special “Oh, Hello! On Broadway!” features John Mulaney’s character referencing Steely Dan quite a bit. The band has been around for half a century and referenced this much in popular culture, so why have they only experienced this uptick in the past few months?

The current cultural implications of music post-Covid point to a rise of lush, vibrant yacht rock. People are innately self-indulgent, doing what they want to be happy. Instead of pushing themselves further down the depressive state that the pandemic caused them to be in with sad music, many are turning to yacht rock, Steely Dan, and the like to breach into a carefree world. Completely bypassing the seriousness of lyrics of the Phoebe Bridgers and Fleet Foxes types, Steely Dan dives into the absurd and embraces cynicism writing lyrics about how world peace is baloney and how a drug dealer can be like Charlemagne or Jesus in some people’s eyes.

Steely Dan, as far as the industry goes, never should have made it due to their sardonic coolness rather than rockstar edge. Were they talented? Sure. Did they have “the look,” serious lyrics, or a career devoted to touring? Absolutely not. The shift from counter-culture seriousness of the 60s to absurdity and irony made Steely Dan the antihero and the antithesis to pop. The current zeitgeist after Covid is a sense of freedom and lack of restriction. People are liberated, and instead of being locked inside, they’re flocking to be with others and have fun. Such is true with yacht rock and, more specifically, Steely Dan. In the 60s counterculture, yacht rock was a breakaway from a society far too serious and a turn towards groove, irony, and fun. History doesn’t repeat itself but does rhyme, as we see a similar shift occurring in our post-Covid world. m

Steely Dan

I was around 7 or 8 years old, sitting behind the driver’s seat, leaning my head against the car door, looking out the window at the passing orange lights on I-95. We were about to park when my dad said to me, “We’re going to take a little longer to get home, I want to show you something”, stopping the car to connect his iPod and play a song.

I remember the moment the song started to play. I listened to those intial harmonies fully entranced and in full shock, not believing that someone could sound so beautiful. Piano gradually introduced itself, and now his voice was delicately but playfully bouncing from one side of the car to the other. It was pure magic, overwhelming me in the best way possible. The drums dropped in shortly after the piano reached a climax, and soon the guitar was in conversation with the rest of the instruments in the song. My heart was slowly racing, only to have it abruptly interrupted with what I thought was the beginning of a new song. I looked at my dad through the rearview mirror confused, and he told me to wait and to keep listening. I closed my eyes, placed my hand on the car door, realizing I could feel the song better this way. Little by little, my heart began to race faster and faster to the point where I began to laugh in full amusement while I danced in my seat. Too soon, the song suddenly started to wind back down to its initial power ballad form. My eyes widened with a delightful shock as I slowly realized it was all

the same song. I turned to my dad once more, wondering when the song was going to end, or if it was going to change again. I didn’t want it to end; I wanted to continue to be fascinated by new sounds and keep discovering new feelings that the song awoke from deep inside me. How was my little brain so mesmerized by this collection of noises? I looked at my dad. He had one hand on the steering wheel and made a fist with the other one. At the final moment of the song, he released his fist and made a motion like an explosion. Five minutes and fifty-five seconds of pure bliss.

Not long ago, I brought up this memory in a conversation with my parents, describing it in full detail. My mom asked me, “How could you remember this moment? You were so little, and it was ages ago…” I told her that I, along with the rest of humanity, tend to remember certain moments that have a strong impact on my life; although, she did bring up an interesting point. Why do I remember it so vividly? I have always been sensitive to music, but I never thought to ask myself the question of why it has such a major impact on me until recently.

Music provides us, the listeners, insight into personal experiences, giving us clarity about the world around us, even helping us understand and learn more about ourselves. That moment in the car 11 years ago was a defining moment for me, and the fact that I can still remember ev-

ery detail from that night perfectly is what gave me clarity about myself, even if I was just a child.

The moments of shock, delight, and amusement I experienced in the car were all a result of my brain releasing dopamine. It’s a chemical that plays a role in how we perceive pleasure, explaining why I felt the way I did during that drive. There is so much value in being able to understand the effect that music has on our emotions since we get to learn more about ourselves through being able to experience it. The emotional effects that occur in the brain as a reaction to music are mediated through the same areas that determine our other emotions. The more the different parts of our brains light up while we listen to music, the more we are enjoying it, and I am sure that every single part of my brain was lit up that night, from beginning to end.

Aside from the overall sensation I felt while listening to the song, it’s the fine details that compose the song that really played with my emotions; they were a big factor in dictating whether my brain lit up. Musically speaking, the slow beginning of the song put me in a calm and relaxed mood, just as any other ballad would. The second the song morphed into an upbeat melody; I instantly felt my heart rate increase dramatically. This is because upbeat music usually makes you feel happier, putting you in a more hyperactive mood, giving you more energy because of the increased heart rate. Another even more minute detail from the song that played with my emotions was the fact that the song is mainly performed in a major scale all the way through. Major scales are more generally associated with happy music with upbeat tempos, while minor scales typically are usually associated with music that is targeted to evoke emotions of sadness and melancholy. Since the song is mostly in a major scale all throughout, it didn’t bring up any unwanted emotions of sorrow, giving me a joyful experience.

I want to say thank you to this song for helping me understand, and for giving me the power to help me get a better grasp on the world around me. As cliché as it may sound, this song changed me, even if I was a child, it was a revelation. It showed me that I cannot live without music. I

cannot live without being able to experience what I experienced in that car, 11 years ago. I realized that it had become my anthem as I listened to it throughout the decade, not because of the lyrics, but simply because of the emotional response my body and mind had to it. My younger self would have been fascinated by all the new understandings I have experienced because of this one song. And for that, I thank Freddie Mercury, Brian May, John Deacon, and Roger Taylor from Queen for gifting me and the rest of the world with the jewel that is Bohemian Rhapsody. m

dedications SONG

Lucy Millman, Anevay Ybanez

We wanted to explore the emotional complexity behind associating specific songs or albums with a single person and how this occurs. Is it something we can control, or does it just happen and we have to accept it? We sat down with each other and had a pretty intense conversation about the songs we associate with our parents, past partners, friends, and what it means to listen to these songs post-realization once we understand these songs are no longer ours, but theirs. The thing that troubled us the most is, the people we’ve tied to these songs probably do not know that we have a musical dedication to them in our hearts.

What does it mean to you to give someone a song?

Lucy: For me, it’s when you really, deeply associate a song with someone, and it’s hard to read just the meaning after that. It’s not like the song really belongs to me in the first place, but I do think we make music our own. We listen, we establish specific meanings, we create our own connections to it. And now, it will forever be associated with somebody else. It ceases to be just mine. It’s the most intimate way that I can forever, like, tie someone and me together.

Symphony” by The Verve with her. That song is something, like in somebody who’s stronger to me, because I listen to that. It’s like, oh, it’s my mom. It’s been almost 15 years and like, this song will always belong to her no matter what.

Lucy: There are so many songs my mom just like, owns in my head. I hear the first 10 seconds of it and I just instantly picture her, her smile, this silly dance move she would do when she’d dance with my older brother and I. Those are hers forever. I’m not sure if there was ever a point when they didn’t belong to her.

What does it mean to you when someone tells you they associate a song with you?

Anevay: I feel very similar, if not the exact same. The thing is, I was thinking about yes giving someone a song, but I don’t think I’ve ever told someone except for my mom maybe and she knows I will always associate “Bittersweet

Anevay: It’s not the same, but at the same time what if it’s just a sweet memory or just like, I don’t know.

Lucy: I don’t know. It doesn’t feel the same, but maybe it is and I’m just pretentious for thinking it’s not. I honestly just don’t know.

“It’s the most intimate way that I can forever tie someone and me together.”

Anevay: It’s a really complicated thing to go through. The consequences of, I mean, you never give someone a song and are under the impression that something bad will happen, but it’s a big leap of faith. I don’t know how to articulate this, but like, you give someone a song. And things don’t end well. Or like you just part ways, but music is timeless. That piece of music is just like, it’s never going to be yours again.

Lucy: There are definitely some songs I feel weirdly protective of because I’m worried that if the connection ends badly for some reason, or we stop talking, that I’ll never be able to really listen to those songs in the same way. But at the same time, it’s still something I do and want to do because I guess there’s nothing that really feels more like love to me. I think it’s like, the most vulnerable I can be. This sounds weird, but I guess I think love is, in some way, devotion. And giving music is a way I devote myself to somebody, even if it’s dumb. It’s just me saying that, yeah, I want you in my life forever, because this song and the association with you will last forever. I’m not great with my words but, it’s just a way I say that I love you and I can’t ever really undo that, and I don’t think I’d ever want to undo that.

Anevay: For me, I guess there are also some songs that I’m intending on associating with someone, but I have yet to. “Fade into You” by Mazzy Star is a song that reminds me of someone who probably doesn’t exist in my life yet or, at least in this moment, I don’t know if they do, but I feel so strongly about it. And when I listen to it, I feel this overwhelming sense of love. And I don’t know if it’s toward anyone, or if it’s, or, I was thinking I almost might associate this song with myself and happiness. Like not in a self love way, but like this is a song I’ve been listening to since I was a kid. And like, is this a constant in my life? And do I want it to remain a constant? Or is it something that I’m genuinely holding on to give someone? I guess maybe it’s the same constant in my life? Because I want that song to mean that to me forever, and I don’t know if that means that I can’t give it to someone, because I really do intend on doing that. Yeah. But what if I already have and I just don’t know it yet? I don’t know, like, the most basic visual representation of love is a heart.

I just want the people in my life to know that I like, love them, and I really want them to feel that, like, in my mind, there’s no other end goal for me really and nothing matters at the end if I don’t think the people I love know that I love them. I have like, no shame in telling people around me that I love them, I want them to know, because I never want them to doubt that or not know somehow. I’m always worried about that. So this is like, I do give away songs, even the like, deepest, most meaningful ones I want to protect, because, I just… it’s permanent for me. This song is permanent for me, and you’re permanent for me, whether that’s a friend, my first love, my family.

Lucy: And love in a song is “Fade into You”, for you?

Anevay: Yeah. If we could put love in a song. That would be my sound, always––hopefully.

Do you ever restrict yourself from giving songs to people? Or save certain songs specifically for people?

“It’s a big leap of faith.”

“I think love is, in some way, devotion. And giving music is a way I devote myself to somebody.”

“I want that song to mean that to me forever, and I don’t know if that means that I can’t give it to someone, because I really do intend on doing that..”

INVENTING THE ALREADY-EXISTING VIRTUAL WHEEL: AT THE INTERSECTION OF SILICON VALL EY AND VIRTUAL ENTERTAINMENT

by CHARLES STONE

Over the summer, the internet witnessed the meteoric rise and fall of virtual rapper—and “partial artificial intelligence”—FN Meka, signed to Capitol Records and touted as the future of music. With a 100 million dollar contract and a single to boost the virtual rapper’s career, the signing was not without controversy. After some social media digging, it was found that the rapper had made a post making light of police brutality—not to mention the anti-black stereotypes involved in the creation of the character as well as the dubious claim that FN Meka itself was an AI creation. In less than a month, FN Meka’s contract was canceled and the façade of hype crashed down. It turned out that the rapper was merely the brainchild of Brandon Le, a designer for company Factory New, and the songs and voice were provided by human artists. With the façade stripped away, FN Meka seems just another in a long line of virtual musicians. It is unclear when performing under a virtual identity began; some claim it was with Alvin & The Chipmunks reaching the Billboard Hot 100 with their novelty Christmas song while more recent generations credit Gorillaz breaking through with an expansive multimedia project at the turn of the 21st century. However, the space for virtual entertainers has entered a new era following the great pandemic-era Virtual Youtuber boom. Though Virtual Youtubers began prior to the pandemic, emerging out of Japanese pop culture that features many virtual idols, the modern Virtual Youtuber is a synthesis between streamer and idol. The first Virtual Youtuber, or VTuber, to gain notable popularity was Kizuna Ai. Not long after, numerous talent agencies formed that looked to copy Kizuna’s formula as well as creating rosters of virtual talents. Big agencies, like Hololive and Nijisanji, were modeled after idol groups that were already common in the Japanese music industry. Thus, the

VTuber boom was a lightning-in-a-bottle moment as many viewers were already infatuated with Japanese pop culture: when many industries grinded to a standstill as a result of COVID restrictions, VTubers were able to fill both gaps while synthesizing a new culture in the process. Parallel to this development was the forced upbringing of the “Metaverse,” bankrolled by Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg and nurtured by a motley crew of Silicon Valley influencers. Their goal, in their own terms, is a refinement of the concept of the internet as a fully-virtual place to meet and interact with one another. As the pandemic represented a boom for Virtual Youtubing as a burgeoning entertainment industry, it was a similar moment for the bombastic type of financial technocrat to try and wedge their ideas of a top-tobottom virtual experience.

With these parallel developments, there have been some examples recently involving Western “virtual entertainment companies” attempting to advertise themselves as something entirely new. Anthony Martini, record executive and investor into FN Meka, bragged they had developed “a proprietary AI technology that analyzes certain popular songs of a specified genre and generates recommendations for the various elements of song construction”. While he admittedly clarified that “a human voice perform[ing] the vocals,” Martini lied about the usage of AI in order to create and voice music. The original voice for FN Meka, rapper Kyle the Hooligan, revealed that the songs were written and performed by the Factory New team.

Similarly, Miquela is another “AI influencer” in name only, with a voice and likeness provided by an anonymous personality. Much like the case with FN Meka, Miquela came under fire in 2019 after posting her experience of “sexual assault” in a rideshare car as part of her regular vlogs to promote her music. Describing her experience in excruciating detail, as well as her model being too uncanny to be familiar, made her a target of ridicule and distaste.

Something closer to the realm of VTubing can be found in the case of Polar. Though not known for any controversy, the hype surrounding the purported “metaverse-influencer” in video game Avakin Life, certainly raised eyebrows as the media attention describing her resembled existing forms of entertainment. Reuters’ tweet about Polar was the catalyst for this, selling her as having 1.6 million followers on TikTok and half a million Youtube subscribers to date with aspirations to perform in the real world in front of her fans, aspects which seemed all too familiar for fans of virtual entertainment to be considered a novelty. Some explanations classify the aforementioned examples as “virtual influencers” rather than VTubers. One explanation on this distinction provided by Filipino news site The Inquirer attempts to delineate that “A virtual influencer usually limits its content to social media posts and other recorded media”, while “VTubers focus on live content” and “often appear as 2D anime-inspired characters that freely move during a livestream video”. However, the only real difference between one and the other, at least provided by The Inquirer, is one is less mature or sophisticated to be an entertainer with a tangible career. Perhaps the reason for more technocratic hype into the “virtual influencer” rather than the “childish, uncool” VTuber is the extent by which they understand the virtual entertainer as a performer. Martini articulated the goal of Factory New as trying to make talent itself a virtual product: “The old model of finding talent is inefficient and unreliable. It requires spending time scouring the internet, traveling to shows, flying to meetings, expending resources all in search of the magic combination of qualities that just might translate into a superstar act . . . Now we can literally custom-create artists using elements proven to work, greatly increasing the odds of success.” Though Martini would distance himself from Factory New after the controversy, he articulated another goal of the modern technocratic type in subsuming to use the model of the virtual entertainer to completely subsume the Western entertainment industry. When the end-goal is to remove the human element and create entertainment as an algorithm, it automatically seems technologically advanced and efficient.

It cannot be reasoned that these virtual influencer types receiving ridicule among Western audiences is purely due to cultural differences, since the VTuber boom was fueled by those very same audiences. One reason for VTubers’ success could be due to the idol talent model, which allows for full groups of entertainers to emerge at once, each with different live schedules, personalities, character models, and fan interactions, as well as the ability to collaborate on more expansive projects. Even independent VTubers form small groups or circles. This is not to say the idol talent model for virtual entertainers is objectively better - indeed, horror stories involving all kinds of mistreatment by management have become all too common with the VTuber boom - but that the success of the major VTubing groups thus far has been the reassurance of a real human performing independently and alongside their equals.

But why write about the parallels in the first place? The pattern of individual startups trying to fill a perceived need, only to either fill it in the most embarrassing way possible, has been more and more common in the past couple of years as startup culture has simultaneously grown bigger and more likely to end in tragedy. FN Meka’s brief moment in the limelight is a similar story to other attempts at reinvention disguised as novelty. As the two fields of the metaverse and the VTuber grow alongside each other, more from the former field might try more bold attempts at virtual entertainment with even bigger downfall spectacles. If Juicero can pass off a 400-dollar juice dispenser as a health revolution, likewise with Elon Musk rehashing underground rapid transit, then companies have already been given the path to subsume the virtual entertainment industry and subsequently rewrite the historical aspect of it.

Admittedly, this all assumes that both VTubing and the metaverse as natal industries will survive and develop enough interest to create such massive downfalls. In the end, both may be no more than a fad and be unable to change (or remove) the human element in entertainment and music. As the Western entertainment industry begins to turn towards VTubers and other contemporary virtual entertainers as new sources of talent, they run the risk of falling for overpromises of technocratic origin and the inevitable spectacle of embarrassment. For better or for worse, the future of the enjoyment of music is coming, but it may not be the future that anyone has envisioned. m

THE SPANISH INFLUENZA:

HOW SPANISH ARTIST ROSALÍA INFECTED THE LATIN POP WORLD WITH STOLEN SOUNDS

by Mariana Janer Agrelot

Yo voy a seguir cantando, porque me nace,” Rosalía exclaims in “BULERÍAS,” a song in tribute to her career and the influencing voices that got her to the edge of stardom. Rosalía is currently one of the most influential Spanish-singing vocalists in Hispanophone countries and the Anglosphere, with “MALAMENTE” going Platinum in the United States. Rosalía’s first album, LosÁngeles (2017), and her second album, El Mal Querer (2018), both feature flamenco-based songs with the latter being incredibly experimental, playing around with Spanish Trap, Latin R&B, and Catalan Rumba.

“

El Mal Querer was first her senior thesis, but later, in 2020, earning her a Grammy in the Best Latin Rock, Urban or Alternative Album category. Although Rosalía’s Mal Querer was what jumpstarted her to the mainstream, it was highly criticized by flamenco purists leading to the accusation of cultural appropriation given the artists’ deconstruction of the genre and her use of Caló, a Spanish Romani language, in her song lyrics.

Flamenco, as a musical and physical art, is the product of Andalusian Roma in the South of Spain. Roma have been traditionally ostracized by Catholic Spanish society given their rejection of the dominating religion, their “uncommon dress,” and their nomadism. Thus, the Roma be -

came the scapegoat for many of the ills of European society and are harassed and punished for merely existing. With the intermingling of cultures in Spain during the Moorish Conquest, Flamenco carries a mélange of Romani, Arab-Berber, Spanish, and Sephardic elements to create the sensational music that exists today. As the Spanish defeated the Moors in La Reconquista in 1492 and consequently expelled the Jews and Moors in the subsequent century, Flamenco was appropriated into Spanish culture. Over the years, the White Spanish Catholic elite found flamenco to be a blight upon their nation, deploring it as an entertainment that lulled the masses into stupefaction and hampered Spain’s progress toward modernity. Now, Flamenco is inherently attached to Spanish national identity and stereotypes, with its Romani roots being whitewashed for the rest of the world to see. Although many of its most notable “cantaores” have been of Romani descent in Spain, white Spaniards such as Rosalía have often overshadowed the works of its original creators. With the boom of Reggaeton in the late 2010’s in American markets, coupled with the rising Latinx population in the United States, Rosalía was presented with the opportunity to enter a growing market. Although Rosalía is not the first Spaniard to break into the American mainstream, she

certainly has cemented herself as a pop culture figure in youth subcultures such as followers of y2k trends and urban style. With her 2018 single “MALAMENTE” appearing in hit shows such as HBO’s Euphoria, and her becoming TikTok meme as a result of her exaggerated gum-chewing in live performances of viral single “BIZCOCHITO,” it seems as if the Catalan-born artist is here to stay. Yet, the looming shadow of accusations of cultural appropriation lies heavy upon La Rosalía’s shoulders. She has been noted for saying things such as “I feel Latina” at her Latin American shows, and even posted a Tiktok with the sound “me an island girl,” a sound made by Selyna Brillare, an Afro-Dominican woman and creator from Queens, NY. Significantly, with reggaeton becoming so popular, Rosalía has also simultaneously shifted her sound from experimental Flamenco to a hybrid hyper-pop reggaeton Caribbean-sounding Frankenstein’s Monster in her third album Motomami.

It is significant that reggaeton was created by Afro-Puerto Ricans living in low-income neighborhoods or “caserios” in the coastal city of Carolina and the industrial city of Bayamón, thousands of miles away from Rosalia’s native Barcelona. The genre was created as a blend of Jamaican dancehall, Panamanian Reggae en Español, African-American Hip Hop and Rap, the Nuyorican Salsa, and the Afro-Puerto Rican genres of Bomba and Plena. With its distinctive and hypnotizing beats that move everyone to unending dance, reggaeton is one of the culturally essential genres of Puerto Rico. During the epoch of reggaeton in the 90’s, the music was censored in mainstream radio given the Governor Pedro Rosselló’s “mano dura contra el crimen” policy, in which he believed that the heavily “inappropriate” lyrics of the genre would encourage more people into the gang crisis in the island. Although this policy was incredibly racist and classist, this did not stop the genre from going underground and spreading to other Latin American countries. Daddy Yankee’s “Gasolina” brought reggaeton international, with the song becoming a viral sensation that climbed up the charts in the US, UK, Italy, Ireland, Australia, Germany, Venezuela, and more.

Considering the immigration of many Latinxs into the United States in the 21st century, it is no mystery that reggaeton would find its way into the American mainstream and eventually to the rest of the world. Artists such as Bad Bunny and

J Balvin entered international stardom levels in the past decade. The pop-reggaeton fusion hit “Despacito,” by Puerto Rico’s Luis Fonsi and Daddy Yankee charted around the world and eventually got a remix with Justin Bieber, solidifying its entry to the English-speaking market. Reggaeton was already popular in Spain as a result of the flowing exchange of Hispanic media between the two regions and the growth of Latin American immigration to Spain, so it is no surprise that Rosalía would incorporate reggaeton into her music. Yet, this does not excuse the abuse of the genre by her and many other White Hispanic artists. Rosalía uses an exaggerated Puerto Rican accent and slang in songs such as “SAOKO,” a remix of the 2004 song “Saoco” by Puerto Rican artists Wisin and Daddy Yankee. Departing from the song’s original reggaeton beat, she transforms the song into an experimental hyper-pop-reggaeton fusion. Although the song was met with incredible praise, it did make Puerto Ricans incredibly ambivalent towards “corruption” of Wisin and Yankee’s legendary party-hit. Given the popularity of Motomami within non-Latin American spheres, Rosalía’s music creates a dangerous precedent for reggaeton and flamenco. Consuming music and creating music with a variety of different genres is certainly a symbol of globalization’s progress. Considering the course that Rap and Hip Hop has taken with white artists overshadowing the work of Black artists, reggaeton and flamenco are at risk of becoming a gentrified genre. Rosalía has already been awarded accolades reserved for Latinx artists, such as Latin Grammys and the sole Grammy focused on Latin Urban Music. This begs the question: Should Latinx media brace itself for the impact of globalization, and adapt to become more palatable globally, or should it preserve itself from being appropriated from outsiders to Latin America and the Caribbean, such as Rosalía? m

by LEO IKLE-MAIZLISH

Within music criticism, there is perhaps no archetype more universally derided than that of the genre stickler, he (as it’s always a he, isn’t it) who “well-actually”s his way through every conversation, qualifying and restricting with the arbitrary, sadistic glee of a middle-manager, insisting so-and-so are “not real” examples of a particular style due to any number of anal-retentive, insipidly observed characteristics, and generally contributing nothing but inertia to the critical discourse.

With that being said, the way “Y2K-core” is getting thrown around these days as a descriptor for just about anything 2000s has got me fucked up.

There’s cultural and affective specificity to the Y2K moment, and with it the potential for humor,

critique, as well as pathos in its redeployment as an “aesthetic.” All of this gets flattened down and washed away when we reinvent “Y2K” as a catch-all term for zoomers’ childhood nostalgia regarding the 2000s.

The defining features of Y2K (the historical occurrence, not the style) are rich in their resonances and ironies when viewed from the current moment. Blindingly obvious in hindsight is tech and technocapital’s bluster, ringing all the alarm bells of impending doom and dumping hundreds of billions into the weatherproofing of dotcoms whose very businesses were built on shaky foundations to begin with. Surrounding this is, necessarily, a tech culture high enough on its own fumes to achieve such myopia, one unshakably convinced of the universality of its highly specific vision of the cybernetic future devised entirely by the most coddled minds Silicon Valley has to offer. Enveloping the tech culture within this ideological nesting doll is a larger be-

lief that the social and economic structures that produced it are, like its vision of the future, inherently logical and inevitable as end points of history.

The commonalities, then, between metaverse and cyberspace, between dotcom using the sheen of the internet to obfuscate and repackage old modes of commerce at a (supposedly strategic) loss and “gig” based platform doing the very same thing (this time with an app instead of a website), or between Fukuyama’s end of history thesis and the surety of tech-bro futur-fatalist charlatans such as Musk, are hopefully not hard to find. Reenacting the Y2K era, then, is always a political statement, one steeped in irony, a calling-bullshit on the current wave of tech self-assertion. Perhaps it is a reassurance that this, too, will burst, looking at the collapse of the dotcoms as indicative of the eventual fate of our current digital landscape (admittedly, Google and Amazon currently seem far more entrenched than AskJeeves or Pets.com ever were [but then again, see Le Guin - “so did the divine right of kings…”]). Perhaps it is, to the contrary, a reassurance of

the current moment’s stability, a fond look back at the apocalypse which was named but never materialized as we grit our teeth through what seem to be a number of quite material apocalypses. Either way we read things, this much is clear: to evoke “Y2K” is to make ridiculous (and perhaps this is not a making-ridiculous in the sense of rejecting, but more a making-ridiculous in the sense of adopting as a camp aesthetic) the current tapestry of technoculture in which we find ourselves enmeshed, along with the vision of the future it proposes for us. When we anarchically expand our “Y2K” playlists to include Blackout-era Britney, scene/mallcore, and post 2008-crash club-pop, all this potential meaning is lost, and “Y2K” becomes a redundant, if catchy, term for a decade, and nothing more.

(That being said, I will admit that I am totally not above having played Pitbull’s “Hotel Room Service” upon request at a supposedly Y2K-themed party, so perhaps I should mind my own before telling you how to live.)

If you’re not convinced, let’s look at an artifact central to the Y2K aesthetic, the “blobject.” Though quaint today, we should remember – this was the stuff back in 2003! The blobject is useful, I think, as a prime example of technocapital’s disavowal of, and blindness to, its own cultural specificity. The blobject proposes, through its edgelessness and undulations, a visual language untethered from previous traditions or cultural specificities. One could, from this, read in the blobject a futuristic universalism; almost certainly this what the the designers of the iMac G3 had in mind. However, to do this would be to ignore the blobject’s antecedents, and the fact that it is actually retrofuturistic, drawing from the production design of 60s science fiction, a mediated idea of what the future will look like, gussied up in design jargon and sold as a sign of the future, when all it really signifies is that the straight edge ruler and sheet metal have been swapped out for NURBS curve and injection mold. The blobject functions, fundamentally, by attempting to distance itself from its own physical reality, by, so to speak, [bl]abjecting the right angles within, which, perturbingly, it cannot rid itself of. What, then, does it mean, for a Terrell Davis, or an Andrew Thomas Huang, for that matter, to bring the blobject back? I would argue this tendency within the visual art of the Y2K revival functions, on one level, similarly to the vaporwave aesthetic, in that it dredges up the material culture of consumerisms past in a deliberately unsettling manner, asking the viewer to consider their nostalgia for, and the transience of, postmodern styles repackaging specific moments of the past in order to evoke timelessness (whether that be the faux-grecian stylings of early 90s mall architecture or the 60s retrofuturism exhumed by the blobject). However, whereas the marble bust as aesthetic centerpiece is currently only the purview of a few right wing Twitter weirdos, the minimalist motifs (or lack thereof) that the blobject works with are ever-present in the currently dominant flat style of user interface and industrial design. Blobjects, in their revived, referential form, then, exist in uncomfortable proximity to that which we currently take for granted in design - in short, it is the [bl]abject which reminds us of the historical and cultural specificity of our (and technocapital’s) interfaces which we try so hard to forget.

m

Soundtracks: The Understated Storytellers

By Ava Dettling

Be honest. Have you ever been walking down the street, or doing some other inconspicuous thing, while listening to music, and thought: “Wow, I must look so cool right now.” I’m afraid you have been a victim of main character syndrome. You are not alone—it’s hard not to fall victim to this. The music surrounds you, suspends you from the drain of reality, and adds that much-needed sheen of romanticization to your life.

Protagonist syndrome draws heavily from the influence of movies. The often overlooked act of listening plays a crucial role in the viewing experience. There is an indelible link between sound and visuals, and it is particularly interesting how it affects the viewer during and after watching the film. Sound reaches a part of us that visuals may never access, and the deft interplay between the two—when done well—creates an unforgettable effect. Sound plays a role in the emotional connection between the viewer and media, the narrative structure of the film, and the film’s context in broader society. Some films may emphasize one component more than the other, but all three work together to some extent.

When you first think of sound and music in film, a few of your favorite soundtracks and scores may come to mind. They can often make a big impression when watching a film, as they connect to a sense other than sight. Ever jumped at hearing one of your favorite songs in a movie? Ever snuck a Shazam in the movie theater? Ever listen to a score front to back as study music? However you may re -

act to sounds in film, music is imperative to the making of the film and how it affects you.

Curated soundtracks tend to be impactful both on-screen and off. They are made up of songs that weren’t specifically made for the film, so they have their own story and context outside of it. Since these songs exist in the real world of the viewer, they can be used to garner an emotional connection with them.

All this talk got me thinking more deeply about the purpose of music in the films I’ve seen. A specific film that comes to mind is GardenState directed, and starred in by Zach Braff. The movie follows Andrew Largeman, a misanthropic twen ty-something visiting his hometown for his mother’s funeral. He is inundated with reminders of his past, and he must come to terms with how he has (or has not) changed since leaving. He soon meets a type, Sam, and learns to appreciate life and all its wonders. The film became an indie classic, winning a Grammy for Best Compilation Soundtrack. The soundtrack is a healthy mix of genre and time period, including artists like Coldplay, Nick Drake, Simon & Garfunkel, Zero 7, and the Shins. From folk to trip hop, the soundtrack is understated but powerful.

When I first watched this film, I was in my first year of college. It was the first time I was living on my own, and I found myself thinking of home very often. I struggled with the compartmen talization of my past

and present, and the movie eerily mirrored that. Listening to the soundtrack when I visited home not only enlivened my experience with a cinematic quality but made me feel less alone in my struggle. I found solidarity in Braff’s character, and I wouldn’t have been able to do so without the music. I can separate the music from the medium of film and reapply it to my own life, thus giving it an almost transferrable quality. When used in a film, the song inevitably adopts the context of the film. It will always have some sort of connection to it. But since the songs existed before the making of the film, they are not limited to the context of the film. The viewer can adopt the song in their own life, determining how much meaning is related to the film, and how much is personal.

The soundtrack can also strengthen the narrative of a film. Similar to the VirginSuicides scene, the exchange of music in Garden State is a crucial driver of plot. When Largeman and Sam first meet, they share a tender moment in which she shares “New Slang” by the Shins with him. “You gotta listen to the Shins. It’ll change your life,” Sam says, foreshadowing her own transformative effect on his life. This is one of the first moments that establishes the two’s symbiotic relationship, and serves as the beginning of a life-changing adventure with her. Without the inclusion of this song, this scene would not have been nearly as iconic and memorable as it is.

The film is based on Braff’s real-life experienc- es, which adds to the person- ability of the soundtrack. Since much of the film’s plot recalls true events, one comes to wonder whether the songs do too. Were these the songs Braff was listening to in real life? The songs themselves serve as a sort of homage, strengthening the memorial quality of the film. They also contribute to

the narrative in their empathetic nature. Empathetic versus anempathetic sound in film refers to whether the sounds match the tone, style, or plot point of the film. The opening song of Garden State , “Don’t Panic” by Coldplay, empathetically matches and strengthens the narrative. It debuts right after Largeman learns that his mother has drowned and he must return home. The lyrics: “bones,sinking likestones…homes,placeswe’vegrown/allofusare donefor” drive this point home. The song’s sullen vocals and bare acoustic tone succinctly introduce Largeman’s struggle and dejected attitude.

Music can strengthen the narrative not only in empathetic usage but also in anempathetic, or at least contrary, usage. A particular film notable for its anempathetic soundtrack is Sofia Coppola’s MarieAntoinette(2006). Coppola was more intent on humanizing the queen rather than depicting her with historical accuracy. Yes, MarieAntoinette can be problematic in its rose-tinted view of the French monarchy at that time. But the film chooses to focus on an aspect of the story that’s often overlooked: the fact that Marie was just a teenage girl. Since the film is not dialogue-heavy, Coppola relies on the soundtrack to reveal this side of Marie.

Despite the film’s eighteenth-century setting, the soundtrack is rich in contemporary music, including genres like new wave, electronic, indie rock, and punk. Coppola depicts Marie hosting her lavish parties to the gritty tune of New Order’s “Ceremony.” Young baroque ladies freely flirt with men and gamble their fortunes away, embracing the devil-maycare attitude of the song. When The Strokes’ angst-driven “What Ever Happened” comes on, it poignantly reflects Marie’s own melancholy with the responsibility of queendom. “I want to be forgotten, I don’t want to be reminded” is rather profound in its accuracy. The sonic aspects of the songs contrast with the pale and pretty delicacy of baroque times, as the instrumentals are heavy in percussion and gritty guitar. The genres of new wave and indie rock are known for their against-thegrain sound, further aligning with Marie’s

own contrarian tendencies.

The songs cleverly present a careless teenage at - titude, one that rejects responsibility and propriety.

It is not novel to say that Coppola’s Marie Antoinette is a more feminist take on the historical figure. What may be novel is to note how the music contributes to this depiction of her. Coppola uses artists like Siouxsie and the Banshees and Bow Wow Wow—ones known for their fierce female leads and unapologetically assertive sound. Marie is seen heedlessly giving herself to the music of “Hong Kong Garden” during a masquerade ball, embodying a certain vitality that can only come with being a young teenage girl. Coppola induces a montage of decadence, with an endless supply of fur-lined slippers and luxurious deserts being presented to Marie. This scene came to represent the frivolous spending of the real Marie Antoinette. However, when played to the rambunctious tune of “I Want Candy,” the scene seems more closely related to the unabashed appetite of youth. In fact, Coppola draws much inspiration from the frontwoman of 80s new wave band Bow Wow Wow. Annabella Lwin was only thirteen when she was cast as lead singer and only seventeen when she was ousted. Her thrashing spirit was thrust into a heavy responsibility at a young age. This is not unlike Marie Antoinette, who was only fifteen when she married Louis XVI and began her queenhood. Coppola presents an empowering picture of Marie, a teenage girl recklessly abandoning herself to self-indulgence and pushing against the bounds that hold her.

Coppola uses the power of context to her advantage. She takes genres, artists, and lyrics that already hold their own story, using them to tell Marie’s story. If the soundtrack was replaced with a purely instrumental and traditionally baroque score, I doubt she would have been able to successfully humanize Marie. The use of contemporary songs alongside a historical figure more easily relates the viewer to the character. And since in this film Coppola chooses to tell a personal story rather than an accurate one, this device is essential. The use of anempathetic sound is able to close that distance between the viewer and Marie— more so than dialogue ever could.

When watching a film, you may take the sound for granted. Yet, every song is a choice. Every song is linked to the visual, heightening the significance of not only what you’re seeing, but of what you’re hearing. Whether feeding into your main character syndrome or contributing to the narrative of the film, the soundtrack is a force to pay attention to. The songs existed before the film and will exist long after. But that moment of collaboration with the visual exists in its own right, creating long-lasting effects for the media and the viewer.

Next time you’re watching a movie or show, listen carefully. m

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