TV Party
Celebrating unsung acts, the Shortlist concert is too long and all wrong
By Cole Coonce
Get two handfuls of near-breakout musicians of emo, indie, and hip-hop varieties, give each a quarter hour or so to showcase their wares for fans and MTV2's cameras at the Wiltern on Sunday, October 5, and poof!: You've got a theoretical glimpse at tomorrow's zeitgeist. Welcome to the Third Annual Shortlist Music Awards, the Teen Age Music International show for Playstation Generations X, Y, and Z, featuring acts that sell under a half million discs (at the time of nomination).
Arbiters include Dave Matthews, Flea, Erykah Badu, Perry Farrell, Chris Martin from Coldplay (who all actually sell records), and film mavens Spike Jonze and Cameron Crowe, among others, brain-jamming the niftiest music maker among finalists Cat Power, Bright Eyes, the Black Keys, Cody Chestnutt, Floetry, Interpol, Damien Rice, the Streets (all of whom were in the house), and, in absentia, Sigur Ros, and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The Listmakers' role, as they and MTV2 see it, is to vindicate the injustice of the underappreciated and undo popular indifference. It is what's right.
But they're wrong. Scroll through this writer's iPod, and you'll find most of these folks have a nifty tune or two - maybe even three - but their careers have already entered the matrix of diminishing returns. Why? Because they're versions of something. Simulacra. Interpol = Joy Division. Damien Rice = Kenny Loggins. (Ask your parents.) Yeahx3 = The Birthday Party with a sex change. (Ask your aunt. Or your uncle.) The Streets = Well, let's just say British rappers are like spark plugs ... white and completely interchangeable. Meaning what? Meaning, when you don't have an original idea, it's not like it gets more inspired.
Sample dialogue, pre-gig: Publicist to Writer: "You must see the Black Keys, because they are important." Writer to Publicist: "These days, when somebody tells me an act is 'important,' it just means it doesn't have a bass player."
And I was right. The Black Keys - not on my hard drive - doesn't have a bass player. It's a basic power trio without being powerful or a trio. It comprises a drummer who plays parallel to the proscenium and some guy in a hockey jersey with an oh-so-correct vintage guitar and a complement of vintage amps, tracked through vintage microphones. Two guys from Ohio. A guitar and drums. No bass. Their antecedent? 2001 Shortlist nominees the White Stripes? The Yeah Yeah Yeahs? Well, yeah, they all have the same retro guitars and amps. But, no. Dig further, Doug-o. Cream without Jack Bruce? Close, but nyet. The sound and approach have been lifted straight outta a teevee comedy sketch: Think "Wayne's World," dude. Guitar, drums, and a Midwestern Post Office Box. Party on, Wayne. Party on, Garth.
A small cadre of run-and-gun MTV2 Steadicam guys race up and down the aisles and perpetrate some jittery reconnaissance moves, zooming into Cat Power's mug, making this a Meta-Media Event. With all these scurrying camera crews around, the kids who forked over 35 bucks plus an $8.95 service charge to Ticketfucker don't feel cheated and sense that something important is happening now.
Which isn't, although Cat Power is suitably off her trolley and endearing.
So what are we left with, music lovers? A version of an awards show, featuring versions of rock bands on a version of MTV that nobody gets on their cable. Somewhere in France, a philosopher named Baudrillard is either having multiple orgasms or imploding.
The Shortlist Award went to Damien Rice, the night's Emo Poster Child of Banality. (Sample refrain: "Stones taught me to fly ... love taught me to cry ... life taught me to die ... .") I didn't know who won until I got home and looked it up on the web. Not that it mattered.
What matters is this: Records (or discs) mean nothing nowadays. And they never will again. They're useless artifacts of polycarbonate plastic and aluminum that take up too much shelf space. Awards shows for people who make those discs are even more useless. The Shortlist is a war of attrition for consumers who are ADD in toto. After four hours of relentless mediocrity, and interminable turnarounds between acts, I bail. I want to see Interpol, but I already have a bunch of Joy Division. And Interpol's good stuff is on the 'Pod.
Outside, I run a gauntlet of low-level hawkers and hustlers thrusting forth fliers promoting gigs, websites, and dance clubs. One tries to foist a compact disc on me. I refuse.
"You don't want a free CD?"
"Here's a proposition for you, pal. Pay me five dollars to take that CD off your hands. I'll take two for $10, which will cover the cost of my parking. Otherwise, you keep it."
Maybe this Shortlist gag is on to something. More acts should sell fewer discs.Published: 10/09/2003
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