2004: The Year in International Pop

The Boss and the Wannabe Boss: Bruce Springsteen shakes hands with Sen. John Kerry at a rally in Madison, Wisconsin. AP Photo by Stephan Savoia

2004 was the year pop got political. Not since Pete Seeger’s Vietnam lament Waist Deep in the Big Muddy were so many artists roused from their usual solipsism and complacency to voice their antipathy for the American presidency.

There was Bruce Springsteen stumping for Democrat dullard John Kerry in the run-up to the November election. Aw look, the Dixie Chicks, sharing a stage – and an anti-Bush mandate – with strummer James Taylor. And who’s that obnoxious dude playing kissy-kissy with Hilary Clinton at the Democratic National Convention? What – rap mogul Sean “P. Diddy” Combs? Yes in-Diddy. Many of us watched with slack-jawed disbelief as Combs flogged a line of T-shirts exhorting people to “Vote or Die!” When did he start caring about anything other than the bling? (You had to know something was up after Diddy brought a copy of the U.S. Declaration of Independence to his annual White Party in July.)

Anti-Republican rhetoric emanated from Steve Earle, Moby, Green Day, Jadakiss, Dave Matthews, John Mellencamp – even Slim Shady, who stopped maligning his Mom long enough to disparage Dubya in his single Mosh. Non-Americans also weighed in: hammy British crooner Robbie Williams called Bush an “idiot,” while Ozzy Osborne, a man who once bit into a bat, ran a video montage during his 2004 concert tour that likened Bush to Hitler. The Bush camp, on the other hand, got vocal support from luminaries like Alice Cooper, Ted Nugent, Toby Keith and noted political scholars Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson, though none of them were moved to rhapsodize about the incumbent in song. As the results bear out, it was entirely unnecessary.

That said, the chorus of fervent agit-pop was a faint murmur compared to the foofaraw over the baring of singer Janet Jackson’s breast during the half-time show of the Super Bowl. The Feb. 1 incident not only launched an indecency investigation by the Federal Communications Commission, but Jackson’s “wardrobe malfunction” became a byword for the moral rot that, if you believe the Republicans, has infested American society. Given the prominence of so-called “moral values” in the U.S. election, one could argue that Janet’s boob put another boob back in the White House. (Did you know that Jackson released an album this year? Yeah, we forgot, too. Funny, that.)

The second-most infamous live event of the year: Ashlee Simpson’s bungle on Saturday Night Live. Jessica’s sister didn’t reveal anything as scandalous as skin; she simply exposed the nasty secret of pop-music performance: lip-synching. While the band struck up the opening refrain of Simpson’s song Autobiography, the audience heard the disembodied vocal track for Pieces of Me (which Simpson had performed earlier in the broadcast). Wholly confused, Simpson went into a panicked, I-have-no-clue-how-to-deal-with-this jive before bolting offstage. She first blamed her performance “malfunction” on her mutinous bandmates, then on her acid reflux, ultimately failing to acknowledge that she has trouble carrying a tune.

Tennessee rapper Young Buck can’t carry a tune either, but as he demonstrated at this year’s Vibe Awards, he’s quite handy with a shiv. The scene: rapper Snoop Dogg and jazz/R&B; legend Quincy Jones are at the podium, about to confer the lifetime achievement award on hip-hop producer Dr. Dre. Down in the audience, a dubious dude named Jimmy James Johnson approaches Dre. Looking like he wants an autograph, he sucker-punches him. Within seconds, Johnson is soundly thrashed by members of G-Unit, 50 Cent’s posse. Young Buck, convinced that the bloodied assailant still hasn’t understood the gravity of his actions, pulls out his knife and sinks it into Johnson’s chest. The young rapper takes a powder for four days, then turns himself in to police to face charges of attempted murder and assault with a deadly weapon. Sure, the $500,000 bail is hefty and he might spend some time in the clink, but has a criminal record ever hurt a rapper’s album sales?

DJ Danger Mouse is no doubt wishing that his criminal foray could have been a bit more lucrative. In February, the New Yorker released 3,000 copies of The Grey Album, a pioneering, copyright-flouting remix experiment that combined the vocals from Jay-Z’s The Black Album and the backing tracks of the Beatles’ White Album. Jay-Z was perfectly cool with the idea, having released an a cappella version of his album to fulfill the needs of would-be remixers. The Fab Four’s record label, EMI, was less, shall we say, obliging. They served Danger Mouse with a cease-and-desist order, a draconian tactic that inspired a torrent of online file-swapping and elevated The Grey Album to cult status – without making Danger Mouse any more cheese.

While mainstream American hip-hop continues to exalt the thug, the bristling British rap scene is exporting rhymers of a more mature bearing. Dizzee Rascal followed up his breakthrough Boy in Da Corner with Showtime, an explosive record that suggests he might become Britain’s most lethal hip-hop franchise. Mike Skinner, a.k.a. The Streets, also delivered a smashing sophomore disc. Disarming in its simplicity and ease, A Grand Don’t Come For Free gave us Fit But You Know It, possibly the most beguilingly goofy single since Don’t Worry, Be Happy.

Thin White Dukes: Scottish group Franz Ferdinand rock it retro style. AP Photo by Andrew Medichini

The British press has a penchant for hyperbole, which is the only viable explanation for the entirely unjustified worldwide success of new-wave throwbacks Franz Ferdinand. Given the amount of purple prose expended on the UK quartet, you’d think XTC and Wire never happened.

It’s a shame about Ray – Charles, that is – who died in June at the age of 73 of liver disease. There’s little point in rhyming off Brother Ray’s achievements; we all know the profound imprint he made on pop, jazz, blues and country music. Other notable passings in 2004: Jerry Goldsmith, who composed scores to such films as Chinatown and Poltergeist, as well as the theme to Star Trek, died in July at 75 after a battle with cancer; Rick James, known for his indestructible funk anthems, as well as his drug habits and unsavoury attitudes toward women, died of an apparent heart attack in August at the age of 56; British DJ John Peel, who did more to advance underground music than any other radio personality, died in late October at the age of 65 of a heart attack; Jamaican producer Clement “Coxsone” Dodd, who recorded reggae mainstays from Bob Marley to Lee “Scratch” Perry, died of a heart attack at the age of 72; and rapper Ol’ Dirty Bastard, a founding member of the Wu Tang Clan and an all-around odd customer, died in his studio in mid-November at age 35.

People die; so do ideals. Say what you want about its status, in 25 years, U2 had never licensed its music to advertisers. That changed in 2004, when the world’s biggest band became the world’s biggest pitchmen. They signed a deal with Apple to appear in a commercial to promote their new song, Vertigo. In so doing, they were also pushing the new limited-edition U2 iPod, which sports a snazzy red dial, the band members’ autographs on the back and entitles buyers to a $50 US discount on The Complete U2, a $149 US iTunes download package. U2 manager Paul McGuinness told Rolling Stone that what made the spot so attractive was the exposure, saying, “the amount Apple will spend for airtime [for the commercial] is out of reach for the record business."

And finally, Bono: whether he’s pushing product or Third World debt relief, he rarely shirks the limelight. He was unusually sheepish this year about his political aspirations. Asked whether he’d consider public office, Bono averred, “I don't think I could live with the pay cut or moving to a smaller house.” One thing’s for sure: that sort of candour has no business in politics.

Andre Mayer writes about the arts for CBC.ca.