Generally speaking, modern music tends to reflect the mood of the times, from rebellion in the '60s to hedonism in the '70s to excess in the '80s. But rarely has the music business–the industry rather than the songs themselves–so notably mirrored the world's political turmoil, fear, and economic hardship.
So why is so much music so damned good right now?
Oddly, only a few songs have directly addressed the threat and arrival of war with Iraq, and those that exist are rarely played on commercial radio stations, most of which are owned by an ever-smaller number of ever-larger corporations. But 2003 has already produced at least four or five exceptional albums, and more arrive in the weeks to come: Audiences won't need to lower their expectations to enjoy forthcoming releases by The White Stripes, The New Pornographers, Pernice Brothers, Clem Snide, and more.
In a tense and uneasy world, the music is getting better and better.
All this terrific music coming out at once may be mere coincidence, or it may have been spawned by creative inspiration wrought by troubled times and complicated emotions in real life–rather than the phony, whiny angst so prevalent on the popular-music landscape in the complacent '90s.
Then again, it could just be that the music industry's losses, brought about in part by file-sharing and rampant CD burning, are simply making it more convenient than ever for music fans to locate the good stuff. After all, it's never been easier to hear or read about a good band, download a track or two, and be hooked on something new inside of 10 minutes.
The music industry's largest and most important gathering, South By Southwest (held March 12–16 in Austin, Texas) presents that enviable opportunity writ even larger: The festival assembles more than a thousand bands on 50-plus stages in an exhausting rush of noise, crowds, barbecue, beer, and buzz. Of course, attending more than a tiny fraction of the concerts is impossible. But this year, thrills abounded in unexpected places, which were accessible with little effort beyond logistical juggling, a bit of research, a lot of walking, and the occasional frustration of endless lines.
A few of SXSW's brightest highlights showcased acts making good on second, third, or fourth chances. It's common knowledge that record labels release a massive heap of titles in the hopes that a handful will succeed commercially; a vast majority will be relegated to closeout bins, warehouses, and used-record stores. Bands with failures on their résumés often find it harder to attract attention amid the constant influx of new faces, which isn't exactly fair: How many professions judge workers' worth based on their performances as 19-year-old neophytes?
So it shouldn't come as a huge surprise that two of SXSW's most talked-about performances featured bands that somehow survived corporate struggles and commercial indifference to resurface, stronger and better than ever. Three months ago, it was hard to imagine throngs of disappointed fans being turned away from a heavily hyped Nada Surf concert. But the group, which found a novelty hit with 1996's "Popular" and disappeared after its so-so follow-up album, drew a massive crowd to an ill-prepared club still reeling from post-Great White fire-marshal restrictions. Why Nada Surf? Because in a world where buzz (both good and bad) travels faster than ever, word had gotten out that Let Go, the band's independently released third record, is one of 2003's best so far.
The Irish band The Frames has experienced more major-label flameouts than Nada Surf, releasing solid, dramatic rock records for three different massive companies before settling in on a tiny label with its subtlest (and best) album, 2001's For The Birds. It feels strange to bestow words like "revelation" on such a long-suffering outfit, but The Frames overcame technical mishaps, a characteristically chatty industry crowd, and the pummeling background noise of a nearby rock show to put on one of the festival's most mesmerizing performances. Led by charismatic singer Glen Hansard, the group was versatile to the point of contradiction: poetic yet playful, fearlessly melodramatic yet pleasantly good-natured. In an epic rendition of "Star Star," Hansard seamlessly incorporated elements of Wham!, Willy Wonka, Bob Marley, Jeff Buckley, Beck, and more in ways that ranged from amusing to riveting.
Other bands made impressions in different ways, from the Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players' winning gimmick (Mom, Dad, and their 9-year-old drummer/daughter play songs inspired by slide shows they rescued from estate sales) to the powerhouse rock racket of Visqueen and The Velvet Teen. Quasi put on a thrilling afternoon show, while Carissa's Wierd compensated for poor spelling with a lovely tone of epic melancholy and a well-placed cover of Avril Lavigne's "Complicated" (with ace guest vocalist Ben Gibbard of Death Cab For Cutie and The Postal Service). Seattle's Jesse Sykes & The Sweet Hereafter sounded poised for a major breakthrough, meeting at the sad-and-beautiful midpoint between Cat Power and Cowboy Junkies in two separate appearances that highlighted the group's expansive sonic palette and slow-burning warmth.
Those seeking star power didn't have to look far: A surprising abundance of solo singers exuded it, from a reinvented Ian Moore (whose radiant Jeff Buckley-isms erased memories of what had been a so-so career) to Jeff Hanson (whose eerily high voice recalled a female Elliott Smith) to Phillip Roebuck (whose one-man-band rig didn't overshadow his fine songs). The winning roots-pop confections of Patrick Park and Sondre Lerche both made strong impressions, too.
There's an old truism about critical acclaim: that it means putting out music beloved by people who got it for free. So it makes a perverse amount of sense that, in an age when music is more freely available than ever, so much of it is sounding downright remarkable. That may not do much for a struggling music industry, but it makes fleeing the world's troubles through music–and strolling through South By Southwest–more rewarding than ever.