Despite the
claims of many in a streaming world, the album isn’t dead. Taylor Swift and Sam
Smith are just a few artists keeping it alive.
The
long-player is a relic, we’re assured on a daily basis. An artform that
stubbornly refuses to recognize its obsolescence and was stepped over by the
single on music’s evolutionary ladder, consigned to a sad extinction sometime
in the early 00s. Who, in this pop-ist, piecemeal day and age, wants to argue
that the album isn’t dead? That, in fact, it remains the ideal artistic form of
the 21st Century, not just the 20th? That’s some Luddite-talking stuff right
there, right?
And yet…
they stab it with their steely knives, but they still can’t kill the beast.
Maybe instead of Eagles, we should be quoting Pointer Sisters: we want a lover
– and an artist – with a slow hand. Take it from Anita: not everything great in
life is over in four minutes.
Is the album dead?
The
fortunes of the album are tied to that of rock’n’roll’s in a lot of people’s
minds. If one is in decline, then so is the other. That’s not an arbitrary
connection. When most of us think of the great albums, we think The Beatles’
Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, The Rolling Stones’ Exile On Main St… records
that had some kind of a thread, however loose, connecting 10-16 tracks,
reflecting a kind of glorious pomposity that is most familiar to the
Fender-wielding male. But we can’t wholly depend on them to keep the album
vital into the 2020s and beyond. It was an artistically contemplative pop
singer, Frank Sinatra, who essentially invented the album as we know it, so
it’s appropriate that it’s thoughtful pop singer-songwriters such as Taylor
Swift who are saving it in the 21st Century.
This writer
asked Swift a few years ago, after 1989 came out, why she remained so
album-focused when so many of her contemporaries see that as anachronistic.
“It’s just a personal decision from artist to artist,” she told me, “but I’d
really much rather write a novel than a bunch of short stories. And I’d rather
be known for a collection of songs that go together and live together and
belong together. These are essentially installments of my life, two years at a
time. And I work really hard to make sure that those installments are good
enough to also apply to other people’s lives in two-year periods of time.
Albums defined my childhood, and they’ve defined my life. And I just hope that
they will continue to define people in newer generations’ lives.”
Sam Smith
spoke in similar terms when they were between their first and second albums,
telling this writer they wanted to create albums that have an arc, while
feeling the freedom to go deeper in songs that aren’t designed to be anything
more than deep tracks.
“A whole body of music”
“When I was
writing my [debut] album, I was worried: are they just gonna care about getting
hits? I would be sending them songs which weren’t hits but were lyrically some
of my most personal songs – and those ended up being [the label reps’] favorite
songs on the record. They were interested in creating an album, too, and I felt
so lucky for that, because not a lot of people make albums anymore – concept
records – stories from start to finish.”
They
continued, “That’s what Beyoncé did with her record and what Adele does with
hers. And I think the key in what I’m saying is that we want people to listen
to [entire] records, to a whole body of music. I want you to buy into my life,
not just one subject in my life.”
The
conventional wisdom is that it’s only aging rockers who are tied to the
albatross of the aging album format. But in a lot of cases, the opposite is
true. A few years ago, Stevie Nicks spoke to me about what was then to be
Fleetwood Mac’s first tour in years, and about the age-old expectation that
there would be a new album to go with it. She’d already moved on from that
model; they had recorded two new songs to put on the digital services, and that
would be it. Why bother, she thought?
The master sequencer
“You know,
in this day and age, nobody is sitting around waiting for an album from
anybody,” Nicks told me. “And that’s unfortunate. That’s not how we want it. If
we had felt that there was a reason to rent a house… for eight months to do a
record, we would have. And if I make another solo record, it’s not gonna have
14 songs on it. It’s probably gonna have eight songs on it, because it doesn’t
seem that the world wants 14 songs now.
“In fact,
it seems that the world really only wants two or three songs. So, we’ve turned
our heads around a little bit because of the way the music business is, not
because of what we want to do. If the world was different, we’d be in making a
record right now. And believe me, we wish that it was that world. We really do.
We’re really sorry for all the people that don’t get to understand and know and
be in love in that world.”
Nicks went
on to reveal that she hadn’t given up on the “long form” as an ideal. She’d
just transferred that concept to the arc of a live show, and she boasted about
how she, more than any of the other band members, cared about and was great at
figuring out the order of how a concert should go. “I’m the master sequencer,
and even though everybody hates to admit it, I am,” she said. And then, as
proof, she added: “I sequenced Rumours.”
A beginning, middle, and end
Here’s a
secret: if you ever want to engage with a quality recording artist on a deep,
geeky level, chat them up about how they sequenced the songs on their album. It
rarely makes for a good quote in an article meant for the general populace, but
artists have almost always spent way too much time (which is to say, exactly
the right amount of time) thinking about what makes for a great beginning,
middle, and end.
Placement
adds an additional level of intrigue, for those of us who are still prone to
plumbing the mysteries in and artist’s mind. Why did they choose this closing
track to be the album’s final artistic testament? Was placing two sonorous
ballads together a clumsy mistake, or a brilliant attempt to sustain mood and
theme? Is burying the obvious hit deep into an album’s running order a sign of
cockiness, or an attempt to place it at a proper mid-point in a narrative; or
is it an obvious giveaway that they just mistakenly thought it sucked?
Context matters
Now, there
is somebody who thinks albums still matter. And to say that albums matter is to
say that context matters. Never mind Sgt Pepper, which probably any of us can
agree, benefits from one of the great sequences of all time. Look at “The White
Album”, which has a longstanding reputation for being the very opposite of a
concept album in how disparate all its threads feel. But one could argue that
“Revolution 9” and “Goodnight” are both all the more powerful for having their
album-ending avant-garde/lullaby extremes juxtaposed with one another.
You can
trace the origins of the album-as-artistic-statement back to the desire to
sustain a single mood, or theme, and trace it back to Frances Albert Sinatra.
The deluxe 60th-anniversary reissue of Frank Sinatra Sings For Only the Lonely
is a timely reminder of just what an innovator The Chairman was in the mid-50s,
devoting entire LPs – when the LP format had barely been born – to romantic
misery, as he did not only on this heavily orchestrated classic, but also on
the bare-bones In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning.
Of course,
Sinatra didn’t build the greatest musical legacy of the 50s (or at least tie
with Elvis) purely on quieting down the bobby soxers who’d once screamed for
him with abject depression. There were upbeat concept albums, too: Come Fly
With Me (songs about travel), Songs For Young Lovers (songs about, well, young
love), Come Dance With Me (you get the idea) and, in later years, he delved
into expansive, prog-rock-level conceptual mania with Watertown and Trilogy. If
you have an issue with albums as music’s greatest artistic medium, Frank’s
ghost would like to have a word with you in the alley behind the Sands casino.
The concept of the concept album
But Sinatra
was not the first artist to collate songs by theme. Many would point to Woody
Guthrie’s Dust Bowl Ballads. And if you think the LP was years away from being
invented in 1940, know that this was released as a pair of three-disc sets of
78rpm discs. The word “album” is not synonymous with 12”/33 1/3 vinyl. Artists
we think of as folkies or easy-listening crooners were penning concept albums
long before Tommy, even if they weren’t grist for Ken Russell or Broadway
adaptations.
Somehow
though, the album form has come to be associated with a pompous way of thinking,
leaving may with mixed feelings about the arrogant peak of the thematic album
in the mid-70s. Some may think Rick Wakeman’s album-length adaptation of Jules
Verne’s Journey To The Centre Of The Earth is indulgent, but you’d also have to
pry it out of the cold, dead hands of many fans.
Looking at
it another way, The Who’s Quadrophenia is the apotheosis of rock grandiosity
that actually rocks. But maybe this was the beginning of the end of the idea
that concept albums were all that mattered by the time Pink Floyd titled their
1981 best-of A Collection Of Great Dance Songs, as if to completely take the
piss out of themselves.
The album isn’t dead
As Sam Smith put it, there’s a sense in which almost any good album is a concept album, even if it appears to be a simple collection of songs. Telling a story or not, musicians will always feel the urge to find the throughline in what they do. They’re even better curators of their own work than we are, even if streaming has made every man a taste-testing king. There are still plenty of us left who want a full meal, and now it’s the job of the Swifts, Smiths, and Beyoncés of the world – and maybe a few ambitious, old-school rockers – to satisfy both the grazers and the gorgers.
By Chris
Willman, October 2023
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