The most important stories in music this year all concerned the industry. Nineteen ninety-one was a financial disaster for the record companies–sales were off about 10 percent across the board–and they moved in typical fashion to identify the problems. Was the $4 billion-a-year monolith worried about the decline in the CD catalog sales that have been welfaring the major labels for years? Concerned about how relative outsiders–David Geffen, say, or Charles Koppelman–managed to find and promote multimillion-selling artists (Nirvana and Wilson Phillips are two recent examples) right under the majors’ noses? Thinking about what kids are going to be interested in buying five years from now?
Nonetheless, it appears that the record industry will do anything to avoid lowering wholesale prices, which, depending on whether you’re a big chain like Sound Warehouse or Tower or a powerless mom and pop, range from about $8 to $12. Instead, the industry will chase phantoms, like used-CD stores (what are they going to do, pass a law against selling used CDs?) and continue their almost pathetic complaints against the record clubs.
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Speaking of industry weirdness, one of the odder movements at the moment is the campaign by something called the Jewelbox Associates and Manufacturers in favor of the “jewel box,” the plastic container most CDs come in. The trouble with the jewel box is that it inevitably leads to the cardboard longbox. Most American retailers refuse to carry unlongboxed jewels because they’re so easy to shoplift. And the longboxes, now being manufactured–and thrown away–at the rate of nearly one hundred million a year, are an environmental embarrassment.
I don’t think history is going to be on the Jewelbox Associates’ side on this issue. The heart of their argument is that something as delicate and expensive as the CD requires the hardy protection only a jewel box can provide. But the environmental argument against them is irrefutable, and in any case for me one of the biggest drawbacks of the jewel boxes is the way they have stymied your typical rock ‘n’ roll artist’s fondness for daring and sometimes extravagant packaging. The tiny five-by-five panel on the front of most CDs is a small canvas indeed compared to the great album covers. And few have noticed the opportunities the larger cardboard-and-plastic alternatives suggest. Certain record companies have put out elegant promotional boxes like little books, complete with fold-out design and custom artwork on the disc itself. The record-jacket-art nostalgia movement is taking hold–there was a “My Turn” column in Newsweek about it recently. An alternative to the jewel pack is a break for the environment and for Art as well.
Pet Shop Boys: Discography (EMI) This irreproachable greatest-hits collection is, of course, the sound track to a life very different from mine or, most likely, yours. Money is the sexual currency, sex the main mode of transaction; what we would call basic qualities–fidelity, love, need, friendship–occur only evanescently to the genderless characters in Pet Shop Boys songs. And it’s all done without cynicism or resignation. Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe are just trying to capture on record, as clinically as possible, their sense of the age: “Let’s make lots of money”; “I love you / You pay my rent”; “I would leave you if I could.” But remember, the Pet Shop Boys are pop artists–working against these ferocious pronouncements are exquisite melodies, a pristine, computer-driven backing, and Tennant’s remarkably controlled voice.
Robyn Hitchcock: Perspex Island (A&M) I’ve always admired Robyn Hitchcock, but I’ve admired his steady recording improvements even more. This friendly British eccentric takes his cues from the Byrds and Dylan musically and Aesop and Dali lyrically, and in the past he’s produced interesting but never world-class work. That began to change a couple of years ago with the plangent and beautiful Queen Elvis; now, Perspex Island, his best album, continues the transformation into radio-friendly protostar. “Ultra Unbelievable Love,” with its super “I’m gonna nail it down!” chorus, and the lovely “Birds in Perspex” are the standouts; much of the rest remains insular, and only Robyn knows what they’re actually about, but this is the album that should have made him a star.
Runners-up, for what it’s worth: R.E.M.’s kaleidoscopic but somewhat off-putting Out of Time, sure to be feted well at this year’s Grammys; but how does a group that has never even been nominated before suddenly warrant more than half a dozen nominations? Paul McCartney’s Unplugged (The Official Bootleg), a surprisingly listenable and pretty throwaway; McCartney reaches up in the air and grabs out classic after classic–“Be-Bop-a-Lula,” sure, but “Here, There, and Everywhere”? “Singing the Blues”? “Blue Moon of Kentucky”? Also, The Curse of the Mekons, a dense and demanding song cycle to accompany the end of the cold war.
