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What does it take to produce pop music for todays market?


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In Nashville, you first disguise your sexuality and your cocaine use; then you attend the right Church. You try to sit in the pew near Naomi, Brenda or Dolly. You associate with Black people only after you've made it pretty big, but not before. If you are a tight-Wranglered, pretty male with blonde foil highlights who can sell TAMPAX, SARA LEE, JENNY CRAIG and HUGGIES on CMT, so much the better. Wear the Confederate flag on your ass though you're from Albany.

 

 

In New York, you are the cute, "multi-ethnic", vaguely-Euro, semi-nude flavor-of-the-month, adored by gay Village frappucino aesthetes, and you actually have some talent.

 

In SoCal, you're a blond 13-year-old Mouseketeer, offspring of kvelling Jewish dad and blonde Shiksa Mom. Anglicize your surname to disguise your Jewishness. Barring that? You're 24 or under, attend the right Laurel Canyon parties and visit the right bizarro, 1950's-flavored biker clubs and wear the right ugly, shredded pre-faded expensive clothes from Melrose. Tell everyone Nancy Sinatra is a real sweet lady. You're in-like-Flynn. Over age 24? Hold the boom for infomercials or porn.

 

In London, you befriend--- or, better yet, are born to--- the right member of the ancient Jewish Media Mafia who govern everything that appears on Film, Theater, Telly, Magazines and Recording.

 

In Boston, your father was a huge RnB star of the 1970's who built his career for decades on the Chitlin' Circuit. Your friends are the right Rasta pot salesmen-- "Jamaican'" seems less ghetto. Spend a summer course at Berklee. You mention Jaco and "Q" and The Breckers, though you actually listen to Kelis & Nas. Live in a $2.5K per month broom-closet which dad pays for with Quiet Storm royalties. Give your inheritance to the Hare Krishnas. World Peace, and all that.

 

In Chicago, your mother was a huge RnB star of the 1970's, and you once attended a dinner with Jesse Jackson, Coretta Scott King, Maya Angelou and Tavist Smiley.

 

In San Francisco, you take a solemn vow never to learn more than two guitar chords, then you hang out with the right butch lesbians, fried former 1960's activists from Marin, meth sociopaths and black-turtlenecked art gallery poseurs.

 

In Miami, you sleep with the right tattooed, goateed Hispanic male model from North Beach, bitch-titted from 'roids and cross-eyed from his "K"-hole. You once met Gloria Estefan, and maybe saw Madonna on the Stairmaster at Gold's Gym. It could've been her. Sure looked like her. Okay, she was far away. Keep your day job at LANE BRYANT.

 

In Seattle... Wait? You're in Seattle? Dude, that scene's tired and over.

 

In Colorado, make a recording in which you play the four piano chords you know VERY...S-L-O-W-L-Y. Sell it as yoga music in healthfood co-ops. Wear a tux and be barefoot. Have a photo of Tuscany on your CD: Balding Yuppie alcoholics, and the trophy wives 20-years their junior, love that.

 

In Vegas? If you're young and unknown, you'll never have a solo career. Content yourself with a bit chorus role in STARLIGHT EXPRESS. Sniff lines with Buddy Hackett's son and Debbie Reynolds's bassist.

 

In Austin? You're an upper-middle-class white boy, bored with Business classes at UT, who decides he's gonna get in touch with his black and rockabilly roots. You play secondhand Ventures tunes very, very LOUDly on Sixth Street for drunk Tri-Delts. One night is REALLY special, 'cause a coked, straw-haired stripper from EXPOSE' watches you. You give attitude to everyone at SXSW. Your career goes nowhere. You try Real Estate.

 

In Texas, you take money and simply buy your career outright, lock-stock-and-barrel. That's all you need; talent/charm/looks/pedigree not necessary. Then you take that all-important vow not to learn more than two chords. If you learn more than three, you are blackballed from all Texas entertainment venues. Whether your music is fart or celestial chorus of the spheres, Texans won't know the difference. They'll treat your gig as though they're still at Pastor Hagee's.

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In Colorado, make a recording in which you play the four piano chords you know VERY...S-L-O-W-L-Y. Sell it as yoga music in healthfood co-ops. Wear a tux and be barefoot. Have a photo of Tuscany on your CD: Balding Yuppie alcoholics and their trophy wives love that.

 

 

Actually, there's two ways, maybe three...

 

 

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Good looks, fantastic body, the ability to dance really well, provocative clothing, an excellent person trainer, an excellent choreographer, the ability to sing well enough that AutoTune can track you, someone with deep pockets, songs with really obvious hooks and trite but universal lyrics about relationships that everyone can relate to mindlessly, and a fantastic marketing campaign.

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Most of these posts can be summed up like this: SEX SELLS.

 

Recipe:

 

Mix a head-bobbing beat with a rudimentary one dimensional melody and a sexually-charged hook. Then pepper with some cool synth and bass sounds. Garnish with a talented vocalist.

 

Oh snap--I just described Marvin Gaye's Sexual Healing.

 

Maybe things haven't changed much after all :p

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