I didn’t know this before now, but Radiohead songs aren’t available to download from iTunes. Instead, they’re selling them DRM-free (320kbs MP3s) on another website, and — get this — only as entire albums, not as single songs.
What to make of this? Maybe they just think that Apple’s DRM is a crock and don’t want to have any part in it. Probably not though, as EMI are one of the few labels that allow their tracks in iTunes to be sold DRM-free for a premium.
The stated reason for doing it is that “iTunes insists that all its albums are sold unbundled, but [Radiohead’s new digital distributor] 7digital doesn’t. Radiohead prefer to have their albums sold complete. The artist has a choice, and if they feel strongly then we respect that.” But here’s what I’m not sure about — should Radiohead really be allowed to dictate the context in which I listen to their music? I mean, obviously it’s their legal and moral right to do so, but really, do they have a point here?
Here’s how I see it: songs are the basic unit of content produced by musicians. These units have traditionally been packaged in bundles called “albums”, so that distributors have a viable means of manufacturing physical objects that contain the units, then shipping these packaged units all over the world and selling these them to you in shops. Of course, over time this bundle of songs developed into a cultural object all of its own, and some musicians started to come up with the idea of concept albums[1], and fans came to decide on their favourite albums. As someone who used to make music, and as a fan, I can get behind both of these perspectives. But that doesn’t necessarily make them absolute truths, or opinions that I can universally dictate to others (particularly to my fans if I’m a musician).
Other artists — not musicians, but artists whose work is not intrinsically tied to commerce and business — don’t seem to have this hangup. An artist might have an exhibition of works that is significantly more of a coherent collection that the average album, but by and large they are happy to allow their pieces to be enjoyed individually, and to sell them individually. This is because non-musician artists don’t have this odd historical context that the business side of their distribution model imposed on what they produce, and thus on what they sell.
So on the one hand I respect Radiohead for sticking to their convictions here, but on the other hand I don’t know if it’s not a little bit hypocritical and selfish. I love albums, and I honestly mourn their passing. But I also recognise that when you sit down to write a song, it’s just a song, and not really a chapter of a larger master work (unless you’re Pink Floyd[2]). And even if it is, that doesn’t mean someone might not just enjoy that song you wrote one afternoon in isolation.
Obviously this all highlights yet another hangover that the music industry has inherited from its own colourful past, and the present difficulties in finding an alternative model that everyone is happy with. The old guard will hang on as long as possible, smaller forward-thinking distributors will struggle to get a foothold, and Apple will fail to man up enough to go that last few yards for customers. And bands will still crawl all over each other to dive into the trench and maybe get noticed.
Here’s what I would do if I were in a band that was looking to make an impression: record twelve songs, and then publish them as a single-track album. Tell everyone it’s a forty-minute sprawling rock opera song that just happens to have eleven silent sections, each of which separate parts of the song (or “movements”) that have completely different melodies and rhythm. Call it The Album Song, or Metal Machine Music II. Claim that it was inspired by Radiohead and Walter Benjamin, and if your label tries to interfere accuse them of trying to dictate your art for the sake of commerce. Sell your song on the digital download stores for 99¢, make a little bit of money, and get your music heard by more people. It can’t lose.
- There are definitely albums that I can think of that constitute self-contained works, and not just a collection of songs: Brian Eno’s Music for Airports is the best example I can think of. In fact, it might be a bit unfair of me to pick on Radiohead here, because I consider OK Computer to fall wholly under this category too.
But by and large though, I don’t think this is the case. People might think that The White Album is a monolithic piece of art that is completely intertwined with itself, but I don’t. It’s just what happened when one of the best bands ever went into a studio and recorded a bunch of completely random songs; wonderful examples of songs as single units. If they’re adhesive in some way it’s not by design, it’s because the band were on a roll and the songs were all recorded around the same time. That’s why I listen to the White Album as an album, but that doesn’t mean that the songs don’t stand alone. Revolution 9 and Rocky Raccoon don’t rely on each other to be what they are.
- Again, maybe Radiohead are Pink Floyd, so they might get a free pass here.
Last year I tried writing about that intangible sense of warm satisfaction that comes from using a mechanical camera. I didn’t think I was too successful in expressing myself even at the time, but I figured that was mainly because those types of sensual experiences are very much a visceral thing, and can’t be adequately expressed through writing.
How wrong was I? Dig this:
The Leica is lumpless, with a flat top built from a single piece of brass. It has no prism, because it focusses with a range finder—situated above the lens. And it has no mirror inside, and therefore no clunk as the mirror swings. When you take a picture with an S.L.R., there is a distinctive sound, somewhere between a clatter and a thump; I worship my beat-up Nikon FE, but there is no denying that every snap reminds me of a cow kicking over a milk pail. With a Leica, all you hear is the shutter, which is the quietest on the market. The result—and this may be the most seductive reason for the Leica cult—is that a photograph sounds like a kiss.
Candid Camera: The cult of Leica, by Anthony Lane (The New Yorker).
I’m going to have to go against the tide of popular opinion and say that I think Prosperity, a four-part drama that’s currently running on RTÉ 2, is some of the best Irish TV I’ve seen in ages. It observes four separate underprivileged Dubliners on a single day in a quiet yet affecting way, following them as they wander through the streets of the city.
The script is pretty understated — virtually nothing happens in the way of plot in the first episode, and most of the dialogue is monosyllabic chat — and I can understand how some people immediately dislike it. Made by director Lenny Abrahamson and writer Mark O’Halloran, the duo that produced Adam & Paul, it’s subject matter is similar but it lacks the overt comedy of that film. Despite the suggestion of a strong social message in the title, there’s no morality lesson or proposed solution to the “dark side of the Celtic Tiger” situation so beloved of Sunday newspaper columnists. It starts, drifts along for a while, and stops.
So what’s to like?
First of all, it’s beautifully made. From the Sopranos-style opening credits that have been transplanted to the generic ringroads of Dublin to the slow, deliberate pacing and editing, the whole thing hangs together well and creates a mood, even if that is one of boredom and disconnectedness.
The characters are delicately drawn, not meant to be animated movie roles but rather developed and believable people. Both of the main characters in the two episodes that have been aired so far (Jenny the young single mother and Gavin the young teenager with a debilitating stutter) are desperately repressed and shy, resigned and quietly hiding behind masks of passivity. The young actors do really well to convey inner emotion while remaining apparently resolute, and any revealing moments are all the more effective for it. Similarly the events of the day are nothing that extraordinary and don’t culminate in any sort of cinematic epiphany, but rather grow into a slow dawning awareness. It’s a mature approach to telling this type of story. This is much tougher to pull off than simply relaying a narrative, but for me it worked.
The style reminded me a lot of Pavee Lackeen, a film about an Irish Traveler that similarly surprised me in its self-restraint. The temptation with this separate-but-interconnected-storylines structure must be to try being too clever, and end up making Short Cuts[1] for inner city Dublin. Thankfully Prosperity avoids this, and avoids the Oscar-baiting wailing and gnashing of teeth that could also have come with the roles.
Television drama rarely ventures beyond straight storytelling or character arcs, with every scene progressing the narrative steadily towards a conclusion, but Prosperity makes the most of the diversion by taking the opportunity to instead gradually build mood. To begin with, there’s a sense of tense anticipation that something explosive is going to happen at the end of these periods of quiet buildup, and then nothing does and you deflate. This mirrors what you expect of the characters too; there’s a lot of anger built up, but they refuse to let it out in any way. After all of this non-release, when something does eventually happen (as at a couple of points in the second episode), it’s comes as a shocking dull thud, just like in real life. I guess the style I’m describing is Realism, but that’s not really a style that we associate with portrayals of modern Ireland at all.
Which leads nicely into one of the most striking things about watching the first episode: the contrast between the program itself and the content of the three ad breaks that interspersed it. From a stylistic point of view the frenetic, saturated ads clashed with the careful editing and muted tones of the program. But the content was a complete juxtaposition too; expensive cars, wrinkle cream and holiday homes bookended the lingering shots of Jenny sitting around in the shopping centre, waiting for the day to pass. Of course this would not have been the intention of the filmmakers, but if you want your social message, there it is.
For fear of annoying the program’s detractors further I’ll restrain myself from talking too much about the Joycean similarities of a main character wandering around Dublin for a single day, interacting with a variety of characters, listening to the colloqueal speech patterns, quietly observing the details of everyday life, walking along streets and past local landmarks. But it’s there if you want to look for it, that’s there too.
The dialogue, yeah? Not much there either. Don’t take my word for it. Here’s a typical exchange from the first episode between Jenny and her friend:
INT. CITY PARK
Stacey and Jenny are sitting on a bench in the park.
JENNY
Boring here isn’t it?
STACEY
Yeah.
Beat.
JENNY
I like your scrunchie.
STACEY
Got it today.
JENNY
Did you?
STACEY
Yeah.
JENNY
It’s nice. Purple is nice.
STACEY
Yeah. Why didn’t Natasha come in with you?
JENNY
Just.
STACEY
Why?
JENNY
On bebo all day she is.
STACEY
Right.
JENNY
I think Lauren is coming in though.
STACEY
Why is she coming in?
JENNY
Getting something. Buying something.
STACEY
You hanging around with her now?
JENNY
Sometimes.
If you think this is desperately pedestrian, you’re right, but that’s the whole point, just as it was in Waiting for Godot (whoops, now I’ve invoked Beckett). We Irish have a tendency to romanticise the simple nobility of the common man from our past (hence the undying obsession of Irish films and plays with the misery and deprivation of stony grey 1920’s Connemara cottages and crammed Dublin tenement houses). Yet somehow it’s a leap too far to see any kind of poetry in the banality of modernity. The English seem to have no problem with this type of thing, as evidenced by Ken Loach, Mike Leigh, Shane Meadows and co.
Additional credit for Prosperity to RTÉ for making the episodes available to watch online in full as they are aired, both with and without director and writer commentary, as well as the shooting script that the dialogue above was taken on.
- … or Magnolia, or Slacker, or Traffic, or Amores Perros. Although I do love these types of movies, I expected Babel to fall into this category so completely that when it turned out that this wasn’t the case, I was thrown completely.