Rock and roll emerged with social revolution, expressing the frustrations of an entire generation. Rap exploded as a voice for the daily injustices of inner-city life. Punk still sneers contemptuously from the sidelines — a rebellion simply biding its time. Eventually, though, each of these genres has had its assortment of sellouts — artists that compromised or entirely betrayed their original message to reap the benefits of commercial success. The question is how we should judge them.
Let's be honest: if someone offered up a million dollars to hold a pack of gum and grin for a camera, few of us would object too long or too vehemently. Most of us would suspiciously verify how we're being paid before we ask what either product tastes like. But as music fans, we seem to hold artists to a higher standard, taking sweet pleasure in vilifying our favorite media harlots moments before buying their new albums.
For everyone that criticizes Britney Spears for her shameless catering to popular demand, there are millions of little girls and old men buying her merchandise. In truth, she isn't the only good-looking woman in the country that can sing and dance. The key is that she's willing to do it, and with an air of wide-eyed innocence to boot. And when rapper Eminem mocks Christina Aguilera in a video, he proves the system works; a witty, merciless critic succeeds, doing what he does best, bashing a talented pop singer-sellout for doing what she does best. As Teddy Roosevelt once said, "Do what you can, with what you have, where you are." The context admittedly differed, but hasn't capitalizing on all available resources always been the American way?
In the end, when the bubble gum loses its flavor, the finest protest against the shallow world of 15 minute fame is not the disillusioned intellectual's search for contrived culture. It is not the alienating bitterness of elitist condescension. Rather, the ultimate statements come from artists like U2 or Radiohead that subtly critique the recyclable vapidity of pop culture by offering dynamic alternatives. Like a vegan suddenly discovering tofu, it is little wonder that so many of us devour these artists with relieved pleasure.
The punk scene, independent by definition, has had the hardest time accepting its illegitimate offspring. Bands like Blink-182 that revel in their casual, fun-loving natures have made the easiest transition into the world of pop while many bands like Green Day, fight tooth and nail the whole way. Green Day finally seemed to end its desperate struggle for identity with "Good Riddance," a song from their third major release "Nimrod." The mellow, poetic tribute to their new multidimensional existence heartily slapped audience expectations across the face. By defying their more energetic previous works, they surprised almost everyone — an act much more punk than any fast paced guitar riff.
All said, we seem to judge the actual act of selling out much less harshly than the cloud of hypocrisy associated with it. Maybe we like watching stars fall; maybe we just like to watch them squirm like regular people.
Either way, we seem to get quite the kick out of pinpointing their contradictions and inconsistencies. Much like Bill Clinton's lying often seemed to supercede his adultery in criminality, it's a band's unwillingness to admit its hunger for glory that creates disgruntlement.
"I'd sell out in a minute," says Coleman Richdale, a freshman bass guitarist at Princeton. "As long as you're not trying to hide that fact that you're selling out or trying to pass mediocre abilities off as real, artistic talent, it really isn't as big a deal as people make it out to be." He added, "At this point, the stigma we've attached to 'selling out, man' borders on cliche."
In other words: don't sell out, but if you must, fess up to it — then milk it for all it's worth.
Sanhita Sen is a freshman from Yorktown, Va.
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