HE’S GOT IT! Like T.I.’s “Whatever You Like,” Lil Wayne’s “A Milli” was a straightforward ode to being rich and getting laid.
Music is a drug, as they say, distorting perception and shaping reality into æsthetically appropriate patterns and themes. In heady times like these, it can be a real trip to look back through the past year and see what our musical idols were telling us about ourselves all along — whether showing us our most craven inner id, or echoing the cynicism that grows in our hearts as we react to the madness around us. As MGMT said in one of the most beguilingly mind-bending pop moments on record this year, “We’re fated to pretend.”
The interface between reality and fantasy is almost always a war zone in contemporary rap, but this year it felt as if the fantasy were ready to snap. Rap’s sonic frontier shifted radically, as the legal hazards of sampling meant that most rappers had to get by with synths and beatboxes. Whereas Kanye West’s new digital sobfest 808s and Heartbreak faltered, other rappers were able to make spare production work. “It ain’t frontin’ if you got it” is a line uttered in two Top 10 rap tunes this year: Lil Wayne’s “A Milli” and T.I.’s “Whatever You Like,” both straightforward odes to being rich and getting laid, in that order. T.I.’s song is particularly epic and seductive, if only because its brazen fantasy is so tawdry and false: when he offers to “gas up the jet tonight and you can go wherever you like,” he seems to forget not only the then-$4-a-gallon gas tariff but also his own ankle-cuffed house arrest.
“Whatever You Like” was eventually dethroned from the #1 spot on the Billboard “Hot 100″ by another T.I. smash, his duet with Rihanna, “Live Your Life,” a song equally obsessed with the twin goals of reaching for the stars and making that paper, with, at the beginning, T.I.’s somewhat contradictory spoken exhortation to “stop lookin’ at what you ain’t got and start bein’ thankful for what you do got.” T.I.’s success here hinges on his understanding that the goal of a pop song is to put the zeitgeist in a blender and hit “puree.” “Live Your Life” does that with gusto — did I mention that it’s dedicated to “all my soldiers over there in Iraq”? Of course, it doesn’t really matter what you’re singing or rapping about if you have Rihanna. Which may explain why “Live Your Life” was one of three #1 hits Rihanna had in a year where she didn’t even put an album out. The 20-year-old Barbadian is the bellwether of a trend in superdivas where the ability to get a tell-tale sing-along hook on the radio is more crucial than the ability to display a multi-octave voice or manufacture lyrical introspect.
If there was one constant in 2008′s pop sweepstakes, it was the rapid ascent of female solo artists willing to toe the line between pop diva and electroclash queen. The ubiquity in 2007 of Daft Punk and Justice seems to have emboldened a new generation of producers to harshen up the beats of dance pop and add some grit to tween pop. How else explain the jolting dance rock of, say, Miley Cyrus’s “Fly on the Wall” (on the otherwise turgid Breakout), or Britney Spears’s über-catchy “Womanizer”? The thing about diva pop is that as pop music (somehow) becomes more flagrantly sexual, the hand tips toward female artists who know how to channel that sexual energy into a dance vibe. Which means that even an ode to being cheated on (like “Womanizer”) or a diatribe against an ex who couldn’t commit (like Beyonce’s tribal detonator “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)”) can be a banger if there’s enough sass and ‘tude thrown in.
This new attitude also opened the door to newcomers (with the right producers). I was particularly impressed with a number of production jobs by French electro-shocker Space Cowboy, who worked magic for ennui-laden British tart Nadia Oh (with her offhandedly slut-tastic “My Egyptian Lover” off her Hot Like Wow album) and especially rising star Lady GaGa (whose album title The Fame could be prophetic if enough people hear glam-slam-thank-you-ma’am smashes-in-waiting like “Starstruck,” “Just Dance,” and “Poker Face”). Of course, the story of the year in terms of sassy chicks being provocative is Katy Perry, who turned her back on her strict religious background just long enough to pen her ode to making out with another girl as long as her boyfriend doesn’t mind, “I Kissed a Girl.”
Meanwhile, the more accessible acts of the underground seemed intent on reanimating the corpse of the ’80s. M83′s lauded Saturdays = Youth whooshed listeners back to their respective proms with its John-Hughes-soundtrack-that-never-was. New Zealand oddball Pip Brown a/k/a Ladyhawke put together a stunning pastiche of invented ’80s-isms, creating anthemic dance pop that rocks hard and mopes harder — like Bananarama fronting Depeche Mode. And São Paulo players CSS continued to party all over the world on Donkey, with their increasingly sophisticated synth/guitar rock/pop carried aloft by lead singer Lovefoxxx’s mix of innocent ineptitude and charming viciousness. Brooklyn’s Gang Gang Dance departed from their formless morass of wordless space jams to merge sparkling washes, weightless euphoria, worldbeat-inflected gaiety, and sex-starved dance-floor whump on Saint Dymphna.
When pop music is at its giddiest, heavy metal can be depended on to bum everyone back down to earth, and the new Metallica record would do just that if it weren’t so thrilling to hear these dudes defiantly back in the saddle again. Sounding like the by-product of a series of stern talkings-to, Death Magnetic sees Hetfield, Ulrich, and company return to the Black Forest guitar romanticism so painfully missing from the ugly-sounding records they’ve pumped out over the past two decades. If they’re still coming at you with songs about suicide, war, depression, and anger, at least they do so within the confines of tightly arranged jams and unbelievably gratifying waves of rockitude. But whereas Metallica got real, the rest of the metal world continued to get more unreal. Amon Amarth and The Sword continued in the vein of 2007′s top metallers, High on Fire and Mastodon, constructing elaborate mythologies to deepen their prog-metal labyrinths. The result is accomplished stoner thrash with song titles you can barely pronounce (e.g., the Sword’s axis-shifting single from ’08′s Gods of the Earth, “Fire Lances of the Ancient Hyperzepherians”).
And whereas metal has become more knotted and complex, so much of what used to be called “indie rock” has become contemplative. The patience required of metal fans in recent years to make it through tedious works by Sunn O))) and Earth has now beset the not-quite-rock world. Plodding gorgeousness permeated new works by indie luminaries Beach House, Portishead, and The Bug, to name a few. Meanwhile, the runaway success this year of newcomers Fleet Foxes — with their winsomely anachronistic CSNY-meets-Appalachia — was a resounding victory for the twin indie virtues of preciousness and perceived authenticity. But I was most impressed with the back-to-nature lushness of Mercury Rev’s Snowflake Midnight, wherein the band used programmed beats and a myopic obsession with the natural world to shed their previously annoying Flaming Lips–isms and discover an X’d-out bliss. It’s like catharsis on tape.
