n my last column, I analyzed the obsession with authenticity of a certain segment of music: the "conscious" branch of hip hop. I described how artists like Common and the Roots adhere to a rockist set of values as a means of constructing authenticity, emphasizing art for art's sake, the album as a cohesive creative work, and a technical proficiency with musical instrumentation. Common's case is only one of the most obvious and hypocritical, indicative of a larger concern in popular music (using that term as loosely as possible) -- how to make it "really real," authentic, true, and therefore relevant.


It's not an easy task in a short-attention span culture where only an appeal to Puritan guilt-masochism can keep our fingers off the clicker long enough to absorb something that challenges our worldview. In the world of entertainment, nothing is universal -- there is no overarching truth. Make that money, get out before you're thrown out, it's the next novelty's turn at the plate. Strike out or hit a home run, however you can (corked bats allowed if you can pull it off). It’s a small wonder, then, that the lingering values of the time when "music mattered" have grown and mutated into new forms in such a climate. Realized fictions and fictionalized realities... is it too much to ask for something that stands the test of two goddamn months?


Big name artists know the value of appealing to something solid and universal. Britney and Xtina have been able to sell multiple albums and achieve success for years, long after their target demographic has passed puberty. Hence the stylistic changes towards "adult" skankiness. But there were other changes in going from blonde-next-door to snake-wielding diva-whore. Both Britney and Christina boasted co-songwriter and co-producer titles for their respective opuses, an adaptation concurrent with the advent of more-authentic shemo from Avril and Vanessa Carlton. Sure, Avril and Carlton still reap the benefits of marketing teams and focus groups, but did you know that Vanessa is a classically trained pianist? That Avril wrote her own songs? It's all a game, but it's one people are willing to play.


Of course, hip hop is no stranger to the authenticity joust, and fogies like Common aren't the only ones adhering to a system of authenticity. Nascent megastar 50 Cent blew up the charts with two things: the Eminem seal of approval and nine slugs in his face. If you can find a single article about 50's rise that doesn't mention him catching a bullet in his teeth and spitting it out, please email me. A brush with death will do wonders for any questions of credibility, and 50's rise has coincided with the decline of hip hop's previous pop star, the fake thug wanksta Ja Rule. Through their much publicized mixtape battles, 50 and crew have repeatedly taken Ja to task for making love songs while sporting Tupac's look. He's a fake, a fraud, a wanksta -- in a word, inauthentic. And it's true. Ja busted out on the scene demanding that "Bitch better have my money for show," and then rakes in the big bucks crooning "My bay-baaaaay" to another reality-obsessed pop star, J. Lo. He's no thug. Never mind that 50's multiplatinum status has more to do with white teenagers buying his record than hardened ghetto toughs. In the authenticity game, 50 has achieved a credibility that Ja Rule couldn't manufacture with a thousand bandanas. And in hip hop, street cred is everything: the video for "In Da Club" contains a loose story line where 50 is conceived and trained in an underground lab by Eminem and Dr. Dre -- when will Diane Warren or the Matrix cameo in the next Avril hit?


Popular rock's battle with authenticity hasn't really escaped the shadow of Nirvana. Through journalistic mythologizing, grunge was built up as rock once again achieving on par with the more authentic 60s and 70s. The ANGST! The EMOTION! The PAIN! It was real, simply waiting to be articulated by a scrappy group of anti-fashion Seattleites. This was still a game though: as flannel took over the runways and ripped jeans became Gap-couture, Kurdt had to blow his brains out to prove he wasn't some shallow pop star, and even that didn't work. And the legacy? A billion boring whiners, wallowing in 14 (or more) shades of grey. Some sample lyrics from the latest chart-toppers in rock: From Trapt's "Headstrong": Back off, we’ll take you on / Headstrong to take on anyone." From Chevelle's "Send the Pain Below": "I liked / Having hurt / So send the pain below." I struggle! I hurt! I matter! I am real!


And the indie scene that's supposed to be the viable alternative to chart-driven pap? Too caught up in civil wars of dues-paying and pissing-contests to matter. Is that mesh hat ironic? Are you wearing it because it's cool? Were you the first of your friends to don that construction company hat, or are you just a pseudo-trendy wannabe? Or maybe it's post-ironic, so bad-it's-good-that-it's-bad-that-it's-good-again? Throw all the firecrackers at the Locust that you want, but your authenticity obsession keeps YOU in a incestuous scene of people that spend so much time trying to rip back curtains and expose the great and powerful Oz that the music becomes just another piece of evidence of rampant hipsterism. They've already internalized the Emerald City emperor. I record on a four-track! I've played my local scene for five years! I opened for Steven Malkmus! I had that fucking hat first!


Jean Baudrillard describes hyperreality as the condition in which culture must continually replicate "the real" in order to stave off a cultural schizophrenia: when we realize that nothing we are is "authentic." Our cultural artifacts are mass-produced, disposable, replaceable -- THEY DO NOT MATTER. Yet we must pretend they DO to keep the ball rolling, to keep people happy, fat, and buying things. Authenticity is just another commodity, something easily marketed and purchased. New! Improved! With stain-fighting action! Authentic! Real! With co-songwriting kung-fu grip and lo-fi-production missile action! After Western civilization killed off God, history, and art, we needed something to fill the void. Easy-Mac helped, but it left me feeling used the next day. Give me something that matters!


I believe that music can matter. I even believe that music can have "authentic" meaning, can deliberately transmit carefully crafted messages effectively. But it's not easy, and as soon as you hold a mirror up to it, it looks stupid. Trite. "Hail to the Thief is pretty fucking obvious, don't you think, Thom?" The game begins again and everyone is a loser. No one's perfect, no one is real or authentic, no one is JUST THEMSELVES. Our language dictates our thoughts. Our class dictates our future. But this isn't a reason to abandon hope! There's still beauty out there, there are still things that are important, there are still gigabytes (how inauthentic!) of wonderful music that might still touch you in that special way. Is it real? Is it cloying? Is it ironic? Who cares? The wheel spins round and round and never stops. It's all fake, it's all bullshit, it's just another marketing tool for pop princesses, gangsta rappers, nu-metal lunkheads, and indie scenesters alike. Push it aside. Maybe you were manipulated into liking that song, but you still liked it, right? THIS is as close to real as you get.


Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some T.A.t.U to listen to.