Tell 'em: Charting the happy decline of the music industry

I have a special place in my (black) heart for really bad music. As a matter of fact, the first CD I ever purchased was Harvey Danger's "Where have all the merrymakers gone" if only to listen to his masterpiece "Flagpole sitta" ad nauseam. Looking back on the financial decision, I probably should have used the $8 to buy a crack pipe or pregnancy test or something just as useful for a 12-year-old.

But Harvey's seminal classic ultimately failed because it was unable to create — or at least sustain — the minimal momentum it had originally conceived. Obviously, we have seen this problem with other one-hit wonders too: the Spice Girls were hot but their music sucked, Chumbawumba's "Tub-thumping" sounds like a distant cousin of the donkey punch and I don't even need a one-liner to embarrass Vanilla Ice. The point is that the music industry — the entertainment industry, really — transforms so often and so dramatically, that artists are learning they must devise innovative and progressive ways to sell their work. Or they go down in history as one-hit wonders.

For journalists, we see them in newspapers, but we also (some of us) read their blogs, look at the pictures they took for their story and watch the occasional video they shot. For movie stars, we see them at the cinema but we're also subjected to their tone-deafness on the airwaves, we laugh with them on Leno and Letterman and we cringe at their futile attempts to produce autobiographies and similar filth.

But where does this leave musicians? They are a lot like the movie stars I already mentioned, but one big problem: music is becoming ubiquitous (if it already wasn't) and it's becoming free. The same cannot for said for (most) newspapers and movies. 

This means musicians need a game plan. For some, they simply blow off the promotional stunts and focus on their passion. But for others — and this is most prevalent in the rap game — the passion is fame, and many hip-hoppers can be found pushing their own clothing lines, appearing in video games and producing really, really bad movies to, ultimately, promote their music.

One particular hoodie has caught my eye, and if YOU! aren't aware of Soulja Boy, well, then, welcome to consciousness. Soulja burst on to the scene months ago, and his music really, really sucks. But there is a curious strategy lurking here — one that our Soulja Boy is probably not aware of — but one he is certainly capitalizing upon. Not only does he have a catchy jingle that even athletes love and adore (predictably so), he has created a literal movement. What's more, thanks to Youtube there are countless remixes available for immediate consumption (as egregiously evidenced by this blog). In effect, Soulja Boy has found a way to unite a myriad of people through a song. In fact, he even unintentionally incorporated Jerry Rice, Spiderman and Dora the Explorer into his campaign.

Wait. Run that back:

Arguably the world's greatest receiver, arguably the world's most bad-ass superhero and arguably the world's most lobotomized cartoon child have been allied on one front? Indeed. Soulja Boy has created an army of followers, a legion of clueless males and females from nearly every demographic eager to dedicate their time and energy to a song so simplistic and demented, Carrot Top is literally in tears as I type these words. Soulja has accessorized himself brilliantly, marketing his product instead of himself, though he has attained personal fame as it was the byproduct of his successful tune. Our Boy's  15 minutes may be running out, but Soulja has stayed way past his welcome.

I knew the song was a hit when it even made it to Spokane. Back in November, the men's basketball team trotted onto the floor and proceeded to ceremonialize a song that celebrates what can best be described as "vengeance," among other favorite past times. Since the song even made it to 509 (ask someone here what a "faux-hawk" is — I dare you), I was convinced it would eventually infect every man, woman and (mostly just) teenager that came within a restraining order's distance of it. We had an epidemic on our hands.

But then I got drunk, and it was still all over the bars. And then I checked Billboard, and it was still atop the charts. And then, I went home and was charged with watching remix after remix (For the record, I felt like "A Clockwork Orange's" Alex during the Ludovico Technique. I've since recovered).

And I've mentioned Youtube at length. Soulja should probably just cut the YT guys a check for a million bucks, and then he can call it good. That's how valuable the site has been to his song. Youtube has become a gold mine for artists from all genres of the music industry because it allows them to post their music videos for free. But I predict we may begin to see some morally-depraved artists begin to brand their songs better and more creatively, exploiting the obvious benefits of the net. We've already heard the ringtones (Crank Dat, incidentally, was wildly downloaded onto phones, too), but perhaps the "dance-move" approach may be pursued more vigorously. Perhaps the remix-strategy perfected by "Crank Dat" on Youtube will become more prevalent. The point is the Internet has allowed you, me, your mom and my mom to be a part of the action. We like being able to re-create a song, or a music video and we like learning how to do the dance moves Michael Jackson once impressed us with. We like toys that we can declare ours: iPods, iMacs and iPhones (and Iraq, Mr. Bush). So by extension, we like popular items that we can give our own creative touch.

In the end, Crank Dat is painfully bad. It's embarrassing. The song itself is leading a long death-march the music industry has been parading in for a little more than a decade. But Soulja Boy's marketing strategy is so intoxicating, we have all been left drunk with bemused joy. For now, the hangover is not in sight.