Charting Australian Music

Following on from last week’s blog, and a related post, I was intrigued by a recent headline in The Guardian, which implied “Australian music” (whatever that means…) is facing extinction. Perhaps The Guardian is looking in the wrong place, or is too fixated on the ARIA chart data to get the full picture.

First, I think the local music scene is doing OK, as evidenced by the latest Independent Music Exchange in Melbourne. Sure, this may not be the music getting into the charts, or even getting radio airplay, but it’s obviously music that people want to hear, judging by the number of participating labels and punters turning up. Alongside this independent industry is a solid live circuit, and better distribution thanks to companies like Sound Merch, and the network of independent records stores.

Second, let’s assume that “Australian music” means music written, recorded and released by Australian artists and artists based in Australia. I could suggest that one reason “Australian” music does not feature in the charts is because Australian artists aren’t releasing music the general public wants to hear. Or as I have mentioned before, maybe the charts are the wrong measure of success. But another reason might be a case of cultural cringe.

For example, back in the 1980s, when I was living in London, there was a constant stream of Australian bands who always seemed to be touring the UK. I’m referring to artists like Nick Cave, The Go-Betweens, The Triffids, The Moodists, The Apartments, Ed Kuepper and The Underground Lovers. These bands seemed to have more of a following overseas than back home. It’s the challenge of Australia having a small domestic market, so that bands had to explore overseas opportunities. But I also suspect that their particular music was not widely appreciated at home – where pub rock was more in favour. (I recall going to house parties in Kangaroo Valley aka Earl’s Court, in London’s inner west, where the only music blasting out on the stereo was AC/DC, Cold Chisel and The Angels – requesting Nick Cave or The Triffids would probably cause offence!)

Finally, to show that I’m not living in an ’80s time-warp, here are just a few of the current and active Australian bands I have enjoyed seeing in Melbourne over recent months: Mildlife, Black Cab, Essendon Airport, All India Radio, Oren Ambarchi, Mick Harvey, Karate Boogaloo, The Laughing Clowns, The Underground Lovers, User, Scattered Order and Tongue Dissolver. And they continue to release new music – just don’t expect to hear it on local radio or see it in the local charts!

Next week: Accidental Album

 

Measuring musical success

How do we measure musical success? In an age of streaming algorithms, with songs created by AI, and “liked” by social media bots, what are the key measures by which songs or pop stars could be deemed a commercial, critical or artistic success?

The music charts are only an indication of popularity, based on a weighted combination of physical sales, downloads, streaming and radio airplay. Sales of CDs, vinyl and downloads are relatively easy to track. But streaming numbers, which account for the majority of industry revenues, have to be adjusted to discount things like free user accounts and older hits, in order to keep the charts “fresh” and “authentic”.

The problem with streaming is that it can give a distorted measure of success. Back when recorded music was only available in physical formats, buying a copy of a record meant that you didn’t own the music, but you owned an artefact that was yours to keep and play forever. That purchase counted as just one unit for the purposes of chart calculations – but you could play it hundreds and thousands of times in the privacy of your own home, yet it wouldn’t make the record any more “popular”. Contrast that with streaming platforms, where you don’t “buy” a specific song, you pay a monthly subscription; and in theory you can simply play the same song on repeat – and that form of consumption now dominates the charts. The potential to manipulate streaming algorithms in favour of particular tracks is no different to the chart rigging practices of the era of pluggers and payola.

Of course, most musicians don’t make money from record sales (or even from streaming royalties). Live gigs and merchandising account for a larger share of their overall revenue. Which is why some pop stars can generate significant GDP when they go on tour. But rather like the charts, ticket sales are only a measure of financial success, not of artistic quality or critical acclaim. Frankly, I have no interest in whether or not a pop star has achieved the highest grossing tour of all time – does the music sound any good?

The pop industry is a bit like the fast fashion industry. It requires a high turnover of new stars and new content. Given that maybe fewer than 10% of artists or records make a profit, the major record labels have to keep updating their front list catalogue with new releases. Most pop stars have a relatively short recording career – so unless they can move into song writing, music production, artist management etc. they have an ever-decreasing shelf life.

On the other hand, longevity is now something of a benchmark for musical success. With a certain bunch of octogenarians about to release their 25th studio album, no doubt some lifetime achievement awards are in the offing. But you can be pretty certain that the new record won’t carry any major surprises – it’s not like they’re about to release an album of nose flute music or three hour drone works.

Speaking of awards, the bloated industry event that is the Grammys now has 96 different categories. Some of the “genre-specific” awards feel like they have been conjured up to make sure everyone gets a turn on the podium. (Although there’s still no prize for “Best Nose Flute Recording of The Year”)

Do critics’ reviews matter or make a difference? Musical appreciation is highly subjective, and even the best-known and well-regarded critics can disagree about the merits of the same album. As a teenager, having to rely on the UK’s weekly music papers for information, it was common to gravitate towards certain reviewers – so if they gave a new album 5/5, it was probably worth checking out. Whereas, if a critic whose tastes were not to mine gave it a 5/5 review, it was probably one to avoid. In a way reflecting the Grammys, music publications increasingly cater for a particular genre or style of music, so the reviewers are preaching to the converted. In a highly fragmented music market, with silos full of homogenous content, the role of critic and reviewer is increasingly one of curation. “If you only buy one melodic rap album this year, then make it’s this one”.

A swathe of TV talent shows have been responsible for creating a bunch of (mostly) short-lived pop stars. In an effort to “give the public what the public wants”, the tactic of casting your vote for/against individual singers is supposed to ensure that “success” reflects popular taste. But, with a very narrow range of musical genres represented, and an even smaller number of songs included in their Karaoke-style repertoire, these shows are not well-suited to identify sustainable creative talent.

From a financial perspective, most major labels rely on their evergreen back catalogue. Partly to ensure certain recordings remain in copyright, but mainly to recover their past investment, reissues, supported by critical re-appraisals and careful curation, can yield strong returns on the balance sheet. An artist’s 100th birthday, the anniversary of a seminal album, or an old song’s inclusion in a box office hit or a popular TV series, are all valuable triggers for retrospective release campaigns.

Success is relative and it depends on your personal perspective. A friend of mine has been in the music industry since he was a teenager. He started out playing in local bands, then moved into music production, set up his own studio, and served as a “gun for hire” to various bands for live work and studio sessions. All along, he has been releasing records as a member of different groups, or as a solo artist (under his own name and various noms de musique). None of these records has been commercially successful, and all of them have been released on small independent labels. But for the past few years, he has single-handedly (and single-mindedly) forged a “new” name for himself, recording and releasing his own music which is meeting with critical acclaim and steady sales. He’s not exactly filling stadiums, nor is he about to top the singles charts but he has achieved a level of personal and artistic success, that reflects the pursuit of a 45 year career path on his own terms. Now that’s what I call success!

Next week: Charting Australian Music

 

My night with the Buzzcocks

Manchester was a crucible for UK music in the wake of punk rock. Joy Division, Buzzcocks and The Fall were just a few of the key bands to emerge in 1976-77, inspired by the Sex Pistols’ legendary gigs at the city’s Lesser Free Trade Hall. These groups were supported by a cohort of entrepreneurial managers, promoters and producers. Added to this mix were local record labels like Factory, New Hormones and Rabid, and together they helped to define a “Manchester sound”, even though the bands themselves were musically diverse.

But by the very early 1980s, the city had gone off the boil again, with a number of those influential post-punk bands on hiatus. Major names such as The Smiths, James, Happy Mondays and the Stone Roses were not yet established, and “Madchester” was still several years away.

Around the same time, my family moved from the leafy suburbs of south east London to a semi-industrial town about 20km from Manchester. So the city became my second home during my time as a student at Leeds University.

In those far-off, pre-internet days, fanzines were an important source of information (alongside the weekly music papers, New Musical Express, Melody Maker and Sounds). City Fun was a key Manchester publication, and I found myself getting involved as their “Leeds correspondent”. This included writing a few articles, selling copies at gigs and trying to blag free concert tickets under the pretence of writing glowing reviews. (More on that another time….)

The editorial team on City Fun was led by Liz Naylor and Cath Carroll. In September 1982, I went with them to see Nico performing at Manchester’s Band on the Wall. After the gig, Liz, Cath, Richard Boon and myself travelled to the infamous Haçienda nightclub (which had opened just a few months earlier) in a white Ford Escort estate car driven by Howard Devoto.

The Haçienda that night felt like a hangout for off-duty musicians. Mick Hucknall, following the demise of his band the Frantic Elevators, and yet to achieve fame in Simply Red, was sulking on the balcony. Members of A Certain Ratio were propping up the bar. Vini Reilly from The Durutti Column was dancing to David Bowie’s “Fame”. I’d heard that  one of the reasons Howard Devoto was in town was to re-unite with his mate Pete Shelley. Both Buzzcocks, the band Devoto and Shelly formed in 1976, and Magazine, the band Devoto formed after he left Buzzcocks, were on hiatus at the time, so there was a strong suggestion that the pair were going to start recording again. (They did, but not for another 20 years.)

Seizing the moment, I walked up to the bar where my new best friend Howard and his old mate Pete were deep in conversation. In my slightly inebriated state, I tried to insert myself into the discussion, much to the bemusement of both Shelley – who looked at his companion as if to say, “Is he with you?” – and Devoto – who replied with a look of “Don’t blame me!”

Not the finest hour in my annals of rock star encounters.

As a footnote, I met Howard again a few years later, at a house party in London. We got talking, mostly about the pros and cons of being called for jury service. (Knowing his penchant for 19th and 20th century literature, I managed to avoid making any obvious references to Dostoevsky, Kafka or Camus…) If Howard had any memory of our previous encounter, he had the good grace not to bring it up!

Next week: Measuring musical success

 

My night with the Sex Pistols

Fifty years ago, the Sex Pistols shocked the establishment, generated salacious media headlines, shook up the music industry, and scared local authorities into banning their concerts. They were even celebrated as “Young Businessmen of the Year” for managing to extract large amounts of money from clueless/gutless record labels – these labels effectively paid the band to simply go away and leave them alone. I would recommend watching “The Filth and The Fury” documentary to get a better understanding of this startling episode in music history.

Unfortunately, the Sex Pistols imploded within two years – so I didn’t have a chance to see them in their heyday. But fast forward 20 years, and the band brought their Filthy Lucre tour to Japan. I was living in Hong Kong then, and thanks to my old mate and celebrated author, David Quantick, I ended up spending a night in Tokyo with the Sex Pistols.

At the time, David was a writer for leading UK music magazines, and he’d come to Japan to cover some live gigs. When I met him at his Tokyo hotel, his first words were: “We can either go and see this Welsh indie band, or we can see the Sex Pistols at Budokan.” With apologies to Super Furry Animals, it was no contest, and the Pistols won hands down.

The gig itself was mainly memorable for the sight of a crowd of Japanese fans singing along to “I am an anti-Christ, I am an anarchist” – many of them wouldn’t have been born when the Sex Pistols were in their prime.

After the show, we went to a back stage area, where a rather desultory “after party” was happening – a few beers in a cavernous loading bay. If I recall correctly, The Sex Pistols (minus John Lydon) made a brief appearance, but it was clear they didn’t really want to be there. We soon got word that there was an “after after party” being hosted in a venue “nearby”, so with address in hand, we went in search of further adventures.

Although I’d been to Tokyo before, I’d forgotten that distances within the megatropolis can be deceptive, and “nearby” was somewhat misleading. Also, street addresses in Japan can be very confusing for visitors, and it was obvious we were never going to find the location unaided. Thanks to our taxi driver and some friendly strangers, we made it to the venue, which turned out to be a subterranean night club, occupying several floors.

Before I knew it, I was sitting next to Sex Pistols bass player, Glen Matlock. Next to him were guitarist Steve Jones and drummer Paul Cook. (Lydon, not surprisingly, was a no-show). I got into a long conversation with Glen, mainly about the Filthy Lucre tour, and  also about the band’s “reunion”. I was curious how they got on, given the acrimony that had seen Glen leave the original band in early 1977.

I soon realised that the drinks kept appearing at our table, but the bar staff didn’t ask for payment – so we were drinking on the Sex Pistols’ tab (or the Japanese promoter’s). I wish I’d taken a photo of me sitting alongside the three band members (“for one night only, John Lydon was replaced by an unknown singer…”) but selfie culture was not a thing back then.

A few hours later, the band and their immediate entourage had left. The club manager came over and politely explained that from now on, we would have to pay for our own drinks. Similar Japanese reserve and restraint was on display the next day. I had crashed at David’s hotel room in the early hours of the morning, but he had to depart soon after dawn to catch his flight home. I slept on, but around 10am or 11am, the phone rang. It was the hotel reception politely but firmly suggesting I should vacate the room as soon as possible. I can’t imagine such tolerance and patience being shown in many other places.

Fast forward another 14 years, and I was walking along Melbourne’s Collins Street on my way to work. I spotted a vaguely familiar face having a coffee at a pavement cafe.

“Are you Glen Matlock?”

“Who wants to know?”

Having quickly established my bona fides (and Glen corrected me as to the exact date of our previous encounter), it turned out that he was in town as part of Robert Gordon’s  backing band – an almost surreal supergroup that not even AI could have dreamt up. The Robert Gordon gig that weekend at Richmond’s Corner Hotel was something of a frustrating experience. It felt like the singer was simply going through the motions – his performance was more showbiz posture, and less musical substance. Anyway, it’s nice to see that Glen has found a new home as a member of Blondie (and a reputation for being an amiable grand old man of rock).

Next week: My night with the Buzzcocks