The Middle of Nowhere #5

Welcome back. For those that don’t know, I lost my mother to her battle with depression so I took the time to properly digest that grief. I promise I’m not disappearing unprompted. Words hit these blank documents with a purpose nowadays, I’m grateful I have this platform to freely dump the thoughts. There’s a bountiful amount of music I’m eager to explore but I want to discuss a little about race, the act of being indistinct, and Harry Styles.

The Curse of the Astonishingly Unspectacular

There is nothing worse than someone who represents nothing. To fully love and properly examine the art is to be keenly aware of artists who are playing The Game™. Explaining The Game™ takes an excruciating tangent about commerce and the ramifications it holds on creation. I’ll save a few hundred words by saying this: Playing The Game™ today takes a lot of forms and only the most skilled can play while maintaining a sense of self in their creation. It takes a certain measure of talent and strength where you remain playing and the tables don’t turn.

Drake is always the easiest and most poignant example of someone who plays The Game™ and how the results turn out. Typically, it’s very processed and recycled, a clear indication of factory line creation to sort the bottom line for a maximum payout. But it’s obvious that Drake is an exceptionally talented artist. His best work as a songwriter suggests an artist who takes a lot of pride in establishing the perfect hook. His knack for melodies on pop and R&B records are especially evident, a voice that hardly does — and frankly should never — strain for power. Drake will showcase moments of brilliance that frustrate the hell out of me because it’s clear there’s an artist bursting with ideas despite how much fans want to bubble him or some quota he needs to reach. But I can tolerate a frustrating artist. At least there is precedent of competency and evidence of care for the art. The real vitriol I have is held out for artists who play The Game™ and grow comfortable in the muck.

I’d argue Harry Styles was a pretty solid artist at one point. He’s always been derivative of old rock classics but his earlier solo work spotlights a real giddiness for the genre, so much so, it could take away from the art. Think of a middle aged dad waxing the hell out of his car in admiration of its dazzling paint job and design that he ends up ruining the paint job he worked so hard to maintain. “Two Ghosts” from his self titled debut is exceptionally warm, cozying up inside the most beautiful memories. It’s quietly pretty somber, lamenting how him and his partner have grown past those times, hopelessly clawing for the distant. It’s the details in which he describes his significant other that give “Two Ghosts” its warmth, colored more as a fond goodbye than a time for mourning. Fast forward a couple years, Harry opts for something slicker, closer to David Bowie than Paul McCartney and Crosby Stills & Nash. “Adore You” sounds much squeakier with fresh ears but it’s irresistibly sunny, coaxed in sticky vocal layers on an undeniable hook. Harry Styles, at worst, was a retro rock pastiche who could favor some pretty flavorless creative decisions. He played The Game™ but his love for the classics were on equal footing. This year’s Harry’s House is some of the most aggressively mediocre music I’ve ever heard.

If the people who made shopping at Target their personalities made an album, it’d sound like Harry’s House. It’s a DisneyWorld commercial that has taken on human qualities and engaged in lethal combat. There’s a psychotic amount of wax applied to Harry’s House, sanded down until the music is only music by textbook definition. It starts with “Music For A Sushi Restaurant,” menacingly unsexy in approach but completely oblivious to how un-erotic it is. It stumbles through food/sex innuendos and jumbled metaphors into excruciatingly stale production. “As It Was” plays like a freakishly utopian waterpark, ironic given its pretty icy, combative lyrics. “Late Night Talking” is the worst in all this; the grooves on this album are pretty nonexistent but this is seemingly negative on the scale. The uncoordinated will feel some solidarity to this frighteningly eager tune. If Harry Styles didn’t favor queer aesthetics, Jehovah’s Witnesses would devour this album for how inoffensive it is. It’s astonishing how The Game™ has rewarded something this bad.

I was quick to throw Harry Styles into the pile of people who have capitalized off of white mediocrity. But I couldn’t help but be a little skeptical of this idea. The Game™ is akin to one of those dudes who ‘doesn’t see color.’ It’s primarily concerned with how the dollar can be made. We’ve seen white mediocrity both kindly rewarded and flatly rejected. Consider how Armie Hammer has been cast aside and, barring some bizarre marketing campaign to have him arise with a comeback story, will likely stay out of anything remotely big. Then there’s the inverse of Ezra Miller and how they, despite their increasingly expansive list of fuckups, have been granted the grace of having a standalone superhero film. What is the difference between these two people? It’s not a matter of quality control; Ezra Miller is wildly incompetent at everything they have done in acting. Armie is, at worst, a pretty average actor but has a psychotic enough mindset to show impressive restraint (Call Me By Your Name) or hilarious outbursts (The Social Network). This is all merely a testament to how the higher-ups view the consumer. The Game™ can dispose of Armie Hammer a dozen times if he proves inessential towards money-making. Ezra Miller can and likely will abduct more people and face no consequence because there are enough comic book fans that will show up and spend money on an anticipated Flash movie. The Game™ does not discriminate. It will use your comic books, your music, your race, your identity as long as it can be converted into a machine to generate revenue.

Harry Styles will continue to win in spite of such obvious mediocrity because he has the ability to generate revenue like few others. His rabid fanbase has lasted almost over a decade now, following from One Direction into a new generation ecstatic to see his growth and how he represents countless people in identity and aesthetic. This will allow him to have songs like “As It Was” chart at number 1 for 15 weeks and be a god awful actor in disastrous blockbusters. The beef I have with this is that it comes at the expense of the art. I do not hate The Game™ inherently; I hate that it often preys on people and their desire to gain capital that it forsakes the art. With Harry’s House, it’s abundantly clear that it has. An album for absolutely everybody is an album for absolutely nobody. It’s a shame it’ll still sell.

The Cut

A lot of this will read a little late; it’s supposed to be a little more topical but I’ll be playing catchup through the column because of the time I took off to grieve. I’m sure y’all get it, who cares?

• Still completely baffled at how I didn’t immediately fall in love with Cash Cobain & Chow Lee’s 2 Slizzy 2 Sexy. Perhaps that fact is indicative of the year I had this year but this album is to die for. Where Drill music coming out has gotten utterly exhausting in a post Pop Smoke New York, pussy pursuit is eternal. Few records embody outrageous horniness better, with Cash Cobain’s taste in samples twinkling and glistening atop the rumbling drums.
• The compromises on Yeat’s 2 Alive are very apparent, fewer songs dipped in toxic waste, his lyrics a little less horrifying under shinier contexts. His latest EP Lyfe somewhat bridges the gap between the volcanic self destruction and someone maximizing the opportunity for playlisting. “Up Off X” is droopy, like his face is melting and his brain is decaying from the drugs. But “Out thë way” and “Killin ëm” wouldn’t sound uncommon in an athlete’s workout mix. Not entirely sure who “Can’t stop it” is for but it reminds me of Optimus Prime, Shia LeBouf and the 2008 recession.
• Nav’s new album Demons Protected By Angels is definitely sponsored by LeBron James. Lots of face scrunches, fire emojis, and absolutely no thoughts. “Demons in My Cup,” “Weirdo,” and “Wrong Decisions” are all great Nav records. Wish he produced more of his own stuff like he used to do.
• The Blood Orange 4 pack is less amazing and more compelling in regards to what he might do in a full length setting. Really tender, soft, gray music.
• The Sha EK album is a bit disappointing but I don’t really care to talk about that. I’m more upset by the fact that they massacred “Who You Touch” into an edgeless wallpaper. That makes 2 songs this year ruined by sample law (Gunna- “Pussy Power”).

• Van Buren Records really keeps scraping against the ceiling, itching to hit the next level. They’ve got the affection of most rap writers that don’t exclusively listen to a bunch of noise. You’d think the YouTube music react scene would eat them up, especially since they’re an actual group and not *disgustingly gestures* Brockhampton.
• EST Gee’s I Never Felt Nun is really impressive to people who like boring music. His rapping gets wasted on some really unimaginative production. His trademark aggression often scrapes against the Mainstream™ beats in a really engaging contrast, but other times, it feels cynical and lackadaisical. The Yo Gotti CMG effect I guess.
• Shoutout to my friend Glock for frequently putting me onto some really effective emo records. Maybe it’s all projecting and a product of my mental state but something about white guys in utter anguish really hits.
• Following that thread of rock and self hatred, I also got into Title Fight recently. Instead of moaning self pity, these guys are just angry. It’s easy to say ‘Woe is me’, it’s much more satisfying to say ‘fuck this shit man.’ My introduction was The Last Thing You Forget, the person on guitar absolutely eviscerates my skull with how hard they go.
• Ka’s Woeful Studies and Languish Arts are typically great. His music plays out like a spaghetti western stare down, tension laid thick.

If you want to see me write about something specific, feel free to support the column and DM me on Twitter @calebcat23. I’ll see y’all next week.