Ah, pop music. There’s serious money in unserious music. And wherever there’s money, people sense importance.
After a professional football game, which involves around one hundred illiterate and innumerate neanderthals, looped on steroids and ADHD medicine, shoving each other on a striped lawn over possession of a malformed basketball for a few hours, dozens of likewise illiterate and innumerate sportswriters and TV hair farmers push microphones into the players’ faces and ask them their opinions, more than occasionally about topics outside their field of expertise — said expertise solely consisting of fooling a piss test. Such is the end result of lots of money applied to trivial things.
People ask pop singers who should be president, which is much the same. And if a person has a million-seller, you can be sure some intellectual holding down a chair and a sinecure at a university or a magazine will invest that success with the veneer of seriousness. Lady Gaga’s meat dress means something, I can assure you. It wouldn’t mean something if she was playing Debbie Boone covers at the Ramada Inn, but a vapor trail of zeroes makes Goofy into Laika.
I have suffered from the syndrome myself, when I was much younger. I thought pop songs were important. You can get your fun out of taking all the fun out of things if you try. All-night arguments about whether the Dave Clark Five were superior to the Monkees can fill your life with meaning. It’s sad and pathetic meaning, like worrying over a State Senate election, or arguing on the Intertunnel, but it is meaning.
If you see it as just fun, you can make more fun out of it, without worrying overmuch. Mashing E.L.O. and The Supremes together isn’t going to cure cancer, but hey; it isn’t going to cause it, either. Enjoy.