Fandom, Elvis Costello and Goodbye Cruel World
Not so recently, while moving, I disbursed about half of my record collection to friends and used CD outlets. Although I eschewed many records that I never cared for, such as Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, I also let a few cool gems slip from my possession. For instance, my copy of Elvis Costello’s Goodbye Cruel World. Even though the album is barely listenable, I knew that by giving it away I was sacrificing a crucial claim to fandom – Elvis’s worst record ever.
If a music fan is identified by a deep love of an artist’s work, why do I feel that by abandoning a horrible album I lose my identity as a fan? Ideally, the music that establishes my root claims to fandom is immaterial; it exists apart from the album and can be likewise appreciated. In this scenario, the simple enjoyment of an artist’s work is an adequate condition of fandom. Realistically however, there is an odd hierarchy that is established via the supporting and community minded activities of a fan base’s members. A tier one fan may have collected several of Elvis’s albums, whereas a tier two fan has collected these albums and refuses to sing any other artist’s song at Thursday karaoke. Tier three fans clearly uphold both of the above conditions but also maintain fan shrines on Geocities (remember that?), where countless links too odd paraphernalia are set to an ongoing loop of “Pump it Up.”
A proclamation of love is inadequate for establishing fandom, instead it matters how you prove love. This is usually an economic quality. When I sold Goodbye Cruel World, I forfeited a share of my investment in Elvis, I became less of a fan than everyone else who owns it. Why is appreciation quantified economic terms? I originally sought out Elvis because of hip tunes like “Radio, Radio,” and maintain that “The Only Flame in Town,” (The 12” single from Goodbye Cruel World, which I still own) is complete garbage. Is it the case that a *real* fan needs to love an artist’s garbage alongside their best work?
There is a fruitful distinction to be made here, the differentiation between an artist and their output. While the artist would prefer (usually) an absolute synchronicity between output, fan and self, where each thing feeds off of the other, the fan that fits this mould is rare indeed. Generally fans adhere to one of the above archetypes: A fan of the music, or a fan of the figure. The genuine music fan is devaluated in this hierarchy, because their feedback hinges more on an abstract claim: “I love this song!” is frequently countered with, “But do you have the album?” For me, this means that other Elvis fans will have to take me at my word. More distinctly, I will stress a bit more when I move and really wonder the implications of – “Do I really need this record.”
AT
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Can You Hear What I Hear?
Recently I read Meta Wagner’s article on listening to music in public, “A Lament on the Deafening Silence of iPods.”Wagner reminds readers that there was a time where people actually listened to their music in public—and I don’t mean in designated venues like concerts, but rather boomboxes, car radios, and block parties—vis a vis nowadays when people prefer to listen to their music on their mp3 players left and right. She briefly draws attention to the political/subversive undertones of the act of listening to music in public; however, she shies away from that political tone and points the reader toward music’s ability to connect people who otherwise wouldn’t interact with each other. I want to call attention to the subversive act of listening to music in public; when I play my music in public, I am making a statement about who I am and what I stand for, even if subtly. But if everyone around me is tuning out, what happens to that assertion of presence? There will always be people who complain about the loudness of the music of others (think back to the obnoxious lady on the bus staring down the youngsters and their music blasting through headphones), but they weren’t listening in the first place. They want to silence the music. Who will listen to the music?
This article particularly struck me because my iPod has become an intrinsic part of who I am: it never leaves my side. Oftentimes I tune in precisely because I want to tune the world out—like when I am writing. One time, a friend told me he refused to listen to music on the NYC subway because he would miss out on all the interesting conversations that take place in subway cars. He made me feel a little self-conscious, frankly; my white headphones were a sign of distinction and, dare I say, musical snobbery. But his comment made me realize that when we put our headphones on, we are doing more than setting up our soundtrack: we are tuning out the world around us, and in that act we are exercising the power to not listen to others. When we or the people around us blast their music, maybe that is what they want: to be heard. In the loudness of their music there is a subversive element, subversive because it demands to be heard. If music oftentimes reflects who we are, in playing music in public we are sharing it with others, and expressing it in a loud manner. It may seem rude, but it becomes an expression of self from which you can’t run away. When we listen to someone’s music across the subway car, we’re listening to them.
After that conversation with my friend, I try to avoid tuning out when I ride the subway—or in other public places. I want to listen to my surroundings, listen to the music play, because they’re looking for an audience.
LMS
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