Talking 'Bout My Generation

Even though Grammy night is already two weeks removed, the annual awards show’s ill-wrought performances by P. Diddy and Kid Rock still make me cringe. It’s too bad that the Grammies—which should be a showcase of the best talent in pop culture—have become just a sad confirmation of the fact that in the past several years, popular music has taken a severe turn for the worse. There was a time, not long ago, when the Grammies—and the music they awarded— didn’t suck.

Maybe I’m getting old, but Ja Rule and Creed just don’t seem to fill the shoes of Biggie Smalls and Nirvana—or, for that matter, Hendrix and the Stones. And Nelly’s popularity notwithstanding, “it’s gettin’ hot in here, so take off all your clothes” doesn’t hold up as the anthem of a generation next to “the answer, my friends, is blowin’ in the wind.”

How long are fake breasts, sleazy facial hair and sugary tunes going to appease us before we want something more? How long are entertainers like Pink and Britney Spears going to speak for our generation before we find something important to say? When our kids ask us what kind of music we listened to, I dread to think that the answer might be “P.O.D.” or “Insane Clown Posse.”

Not too many years ago unique personalities, meaningful lyrics and intelligent principles characterized popular music; today, it has become little more than a confused collection of commercially viable formulas tailored to every imaginable demographic of American youth.

Music has always been an industry, but these days, that’s all it is. From the manufactured rage of groups like Korn and Limp Bizkit, to the greasy puppy love of boy bands, the shameless narcissism of divas like Mariah Carey and the pseudo-bohemian Urban Outfitters rock of the Hives and the Strokes, the product is the same: a few catchy tunes and a sterile, hollow image.

With the possible exception of Eminem and a few veteran rappers like Snoop Dogg, it just seems like music has become a means to an end rather than art for art’s sake. Musicians are preoccupied with staying in the spotlight rather than with writing music. We’ve granted them a measure of fame they don’t deserve. What should have been 15 minutes of popularity has turned into almost a decade of painfully saccharine cliches.

Today, our country is on the brink of war, and protesters play songs from the sixties because today’s artists can’t produce anything fit for people above the age of 14. Instead they have to settle for the poetic, though somewhat obsolete words of “The Times They Are A-Changin’.”

If only they would.

—Joshua S. Rosaler is an editorial comper.