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As the worldwide pop mashup scene enters its fifth year, the signs of middle age -- forgetfulness, a decline of style, the occasional stretch mark -- are everywhere. Trends and fads die at the hands of their own success, and the mashup scene feel closer to an end than the beginning. To its credit, mashups have rekindled that ol' indie spirit that once gave pop music the only heart it ever had. The scene has also moved as fast as an overeager prom date: It took eight years for rap to work from NYC clubs to The Sugarhill Gang, yet "The Grey Album" could stand tall in any argument over the best album of 2004.
Over the past two years I've collected about 130 mashups, and listened to about 3x that number in the process. I'll let somebody else write the annotated history. Here's my four points:
- Lots of mashers dissed "The Grey Album" for overusing technology and taking the Cuisinart approach to the backing music. A traditional, high-quality mashup uses two tracks with a minimum of beat/pitch shifting and a not-so-obvious merging of melodies -- say the best of Mark Vidler, or DJ Crook Air's Junior Senior/Lauryn Hill combo. The very best mashups use even more, but keep the song as a whole from turning into techno-goulash.
- Hip-hop started out as essentially mashups of classic hooks and backup music with new lyrics, and its popularity guarantees plenty of raw material for the future. The reverse has been rare, but with hip-hop moving to more sophisticated productions, maybe that will change.
- Britain was the cradle of the mashup world, but San Francisco has become a hotbed of the best new American work.
- The mashups I keep coming back to tend to be the ones that are not just good, but have a sense of humor.
I’ve been spacing out as of late, because of this little problem.Let’s say you buy a house, a brick cottage from the 1930s in need of a few updates. Which goes first – the wallpaper:
Or the carpet, which covers 80 percent of the living area, and may/may not conceal a wood floor in need of refinishing?
Oh, and you have three days before your stuff arrives. And you're working those three days.
If you were lucky enough to be a student at the University of New Brunswick a few years ago, matriculating along the banks of the St. John River, you could spend your free time in the many coffee shops and open bars that spill out of Fredericton much as they do any North American college town. You might have even taken in the entertainments of a performer known as Petunia, whose real name is Robert, a musician whose act was dominated by the kazoo and the yodel. Petunia, while given over mostly to light comedy, had some mad kazoo skillz that occasionally shone through, such as on her rendition of "La Vie En Rose." The yodeling skills were not as appreciated, and as one reviewer said, were "apparantly (sic) picked up from watching The Price is Right."
I'm willing to bet hard-earned money that at the end of that sentence a sound popped into your head, a yodel that has been buried in the subconscious of millions of people around the world. It is the most famous yodel of all time, a lilting, driving, circular phrase that is both instantly recognizable and completely anonymous:
"Ah-de-lu-de ah-de-li-do ah-de-lu-di-ah,
ah-de-lu-de ah-de-li-do ah-de-lu-di-o"
That sound comes from "Cliff Hangers," a game that's been on "The Price is Right" since 1977. According to those who know, the sound came from a record called "Swiss Mountain Alp Music, Circa 1975-'76," and to the best of my knowledge, has yet to find its way onto the Web in unadulterated form. "Cliff Hangers" is a stupid, stupid game. For those whose "TPIR" memories are obscured by strep-throat fevers: Players have to guess the price of everyday items, and if they're wrong by more than $25 (an amount which has not changed in the 28 years that the game has been played) the mountain climber crashes into the ravine apparently filled with broken glass. Despite its inanity, that yodeling has become a universal code for waiting. It's not in the same league as its more famous "Jeopardy!" theme, but it gets a fair share of references, with a more subtle syntax. The "Jeopardy" theme suggests cheery impatience; "Cliff Hangers," despite the yodel, is more blase, even sarcastic, a musical tag for waiting with the knowledge that the end can only mean falling off a cliff.
As it turns out, "TPIR" has spawned a litany of aural cues that have spread throughout modern culture. I can't go to my gym without hearing the original theme song set into a thumping dance groove, popular about four years ago. Others have noted the appropriateness of the loser's refrain -- "Buh-bump-a-nahhhhh, wahhhhhhhh" -- for many of life's little messes. And while children today may never be drilled with a singular set of sounds as we were, they will still be able to enjoy "Cliff Hangers" for generations to come.
In 1994, I stole a column title from H.L. Mencken and ran with it in The Maneater. "The Free Lance" lasted only a semester after I finished living at the paper as editor. As the 50th anniversary of the paper comes around, I thought I would find out what everyone was up to. Including me.
Let's begin with the people I keep in touch with, in the same way the IRS keeps in touch with me once a year. There's Theo. A true Renaissance man, parts of whose life are shrouded in more mystery than the continung appeal of Carrot Top. There's Sybil, whom I met in high school and now commands much of greater Gotham. I haven't caught up with G.H. lately, as she's been busy scouring words unfit to print. Two of the old gang work around the District; one is in my building, and the other across the state line. And I haven't spoken with Scott in quite a spell, but the movie career is coming along.
Sometimes I find it all odd, this mini diaspora. On average, when some of us catch up, we talk about the past way too much, including those missing in action. Maybe some will pop up again.
