And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards so many iTunes playlists?
In the polymorphous world of indie rock, the past few years have witnessed the emergence of a number of artists widely feted for their wanton extolment of the myriad joys of, well, surfing. Channeling the spirit of early sixties era American pop, these groups have charted a jangly, upbeat soundtrack for a decidedly downbeat time. Given the bleak nature of nearly every recent prognostication, the disconnect between such songs and reality has become a bit alarming. Where do these people live? With Ina Garten? Well, strangely enough, New Jersey and California, but, nevertheless, the observant listener would not be surprised if, in some distant studio, a backlash was beginning to form.
In response to the proliferation of so many sun-soaked songs, a very loose collection of black-clad, somewhat philosophically-aligned artists has begun to amass on the distant musical horizon. These are scary times, and, one might argue, they warrant a scarier soundtrack. Well, have no fear. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Labeled alternately as “witch house” or “drag,” this sub-sub-sub-genre’s artists (SALEM, Balam Acab, White Ring and oOoOO, to name a few) are anything but a cohesive cohort. They do not sound alike, and they often draw inspiration from disparate and altogether unlikely sources. For example, when is the last time you heard an electronic artist reference Houston’s cough syrup-fueled, chopped-and-screwed hip-hop scene? However, in an independent music world increasingly noted for the utter meaningless of its endlessly fractal nomenclature, these artists’ categorical assignment is hardly as important as what their albeit minor rise might signify for independent music as a whole.
Of course, these artists provide a much needed counterpoint to the recent spate of largely suburban, irrepressibly sunny jams. However, they also represent a novel fusion of minor-key, synth-driven compositions and rap sonics. Much has been made recently of the internet’s impact on the dissolution of hard-won commercial musical boundaries, and in the songs of SALEM or oOoOO, you can hear a certain by-product of this deconstructive trend.
Furthermore, in their recontextualization of certain heretofore distinct musical signifiers, these songs further evince the radial and wide-ranging nature of the modern American playlist. Shawn Fanning: Behold your progeny. To even see a potential connection between rap and electronic music, one need be conversant in both forms. While rap/rock fusions are nothing new, SALEM et al are decidedly different from their boundary-defying antecedents. Rather than imposing rock structures and upon a rap song or simply layering rap vocals over snippets of a sampled rock soundtrack, they have rather divined a mystical middle ground between two seemingly diametrically opposed musical forms. Specifically, these artists represent the un-ironic appropriation and dissemination of the sounds and structures of a largely underground, regional rap scene for mass consumption by an American hipster public all too willing to embrace such polyglot auteurs.
Consider their handiwork: a great many of these songs employ the very same bone-rattling bass and 808 drum machine beats characteristic so many southern rap tracks, but feature, as you might surmise, little to no rapping (SALEM’s songs do feature the occasional narcotized rap verse). In its place one finds modulated vocals, dense synthesizers and a ghostly, nocturnal musical landscape reminiscent of The Knife’s genius 2006 release, Silent Shout or more recently, Karin Dreijer-Andersson’s solo debut, Fever Ray.
Sure, this music will never be popular, and it certainly won’t change the world, but it’s at least not totally unmoored from our modern condition. In its spectral, primordial rumblings, one almost feels the unease and discomfiture of the times. Furthermore, while these songs might appeal disproportionately to my inner-goth, their craft and construction also represent something of promise in an independent music world regularly mining a circular set of all too familiar influences and increasingly content to traffic in a style and sound that pair a little too well with a non-fat latte. What now, Howard Schultz? It just might be the season of the witch.
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