Who remembers Brixton in the 1990’s and the early Noughties? This was before black music was called urban, and before Peter Andre was trying to sound like Usher- this was the heyday of sultry TLC, sexy Keith Sweat, and the ballads of Boys II Men. Mary J Blige was not yet in her self-help Oprah mode- she was caught up in the drama and we loved it. Gangsta rap was not quite so gangsta- Jah Rule’s vocals were blended in with Ashanti’s on “What’s Love” and it was Trevor Nelson’s Lick charts which really were The Lick. This was the era of Jay Z – he was not yet Hova or Jigga. If BET was the Holy Grail, Brixton was Mecca. Z bar was one of our favourite haunts, I have memories of Friday nights there spent close to the speakers with a glass of Appleton and Coke (Courvoisier was not yet popular). The air was often fragrant with sweet sensi. We often migrated after a few drinks, when a nubile, promising night was on the verge of becoming geriatric to The Fridge where DJs actually scratched hip-hop records and didn’t reel punch buttons on a laptop linked to an Itunes playlist. We, for reasons I should not confess, were also legless. Brixton, then, had a latent sense of excitement and freedom.
Nowadays, I would not know Brixton if the riots came back and hit me and punched me as hard as a police man’s baton on an unsuspecting Rasta. Plan B churns out a series of rock concerts on an almost weekly basis. Their “exciting new music programme” seems to exclusively feature funk and disco and their music promoters who promise a South London night-time renaissance appear to feature mainly techno and house, with ole-skool hip hop that appeal only to a very select crowd (usually posh yuppies who want to appear cool). Yes, Erykah Badu and Bunny Wailer are playing this summer at the O2 Academy, but this is amidst the choking excess of young indie bands that have become suddenly in vogue. The Fridge Bar still plays RnB but it is dwarfed by The Fridge which caters mostly to a audience. Mass, to its credit, does a fair mix but it is still primarily a live music venue churning out angsty rock and techno hits.
This phenomenon is not unique to Brixton. In central London, clubs that once churned out Usher, Justin Timberlake and Missy as the music of choice are now keeping it confined to the VIP rooms, allegedly because they do not wish to attract a “certain clientele” for fear of brawls. There is no rnb on the X Factor or on Britain’s Got Talent. RnB singers do not headline festivals or concerts. Trey Songz and Jodeci sing at the Indigo2 instead of the main stage at the O2. It is clear to see that there has been a palpable demise in the popularity of rnb but what has caused this paradigm shift?
The people who do not like it (who coincidentally have no rhythm whatsoever) say the combination of predictable, sickly lyrics about sex and love, set against an electronic, mass produced, churned out beat is enough to cause a chunder-fit. Others blame it on MTV for promoting very specific type of songs, which led to listener fatigue. Some say that the introduction of a softer genre of hip-hop (Lupe Fiasco, Kanye West) made rnb irrelevant. Industry loyalists say that the mass production and mass marketing came at a price. Young people are drawn to the alternative and to the rebellious- rnb simply became too ubiquitous. This failure of rnb to appeal to the “cool” kids was evident at the Capital Summertime Ball- the rnb fans were the pop fans- young, immature, squealing kids- too green to appreciate good music. The new school rnb is like bubble gum- chewy and sweet at the moment, but never quite assuaging that biting, griping hunger pang and doing very little to satisfy.
I think that is fair to say that RnB is largely responsible for its own fate, it has committed its own suicide- openly. It is hard to imagine that the R&B began its life as rhythm and blues- birthing songs like Otis Redding’s classic- I’ve Been Loving you Too Long, and Percy Sledge’s iconic- When a Man Loves a Woman. Even when rnb paired with hip hop in the early 1990’s the songs were still meaningful- Nas and Lauryn Hill’s if I Ruled the World was virtual poetry in my eyes. From its halcyon days in the 1940’s to mainstream dominance in the 1960’s with the emergence of Motown which featured the prolific Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson and Aretha Franklyn to Chaka Khan and Sade and then through to R. Kelly (before THAT case), Mary J Blige and Toni Braxton in the 1990’s, rnb used to be fiery.
We have now got to the point in rnb when a chart topper is a song that has the title of a goofy OMG- ohmigod- the teenage, illiterate, expression of surprise that could be attributed to anyone or anything. Gone are the days of classic soul ballads: we now have Tiny Tempah’s Frisky to replace these classics. Is it then any surprise that now in the top 100 Billboard charts there are virtually very few rnb songs? The blues in rnb seem to have been replaced with bass- voices are now secondary to the beat. The disdain I have for the electric machine music is only matched by the disdain I have for the industry puppets who continue to be manipulated by media giants. The continual emphasis on cookie-cutter, identikit image over vocals makes the genre weary.
R&B has become a modern day bastard, a whore of a genre in that it has lots of its confidence and mojo and has now cross-bred with so many other types of music, it is fair to say that it is now a cockeyed deformity of its own self: it is not now possible to distinguish it from contemporary pop and the recent tag of the genre as “urban” has contributed to this homogenisation. Rihanna’s Te Amo, for example, is on the Billboard chart as an rnb song although the beat is undoubtedly latin. If the definition of the genre is so fluid and nondescript, it is no surprise that its heartbeat is so embarrassingly weak. All the gloss and ice and bling and video hos and lasers can’t hide the fact that rnb is no longer bringing something new to the table: there is nothing delicious to savour. There is no fresh subculture, no pride, no new style. Same old same old. There are very few charismatic acts. No swing. No rhythm. No syncopation. No blues. In fact, I think it is fair to say that rnb is becoming strikingly commercial and dance-focussed, a smoother version of house.
I am no sooth-sayer however. Like Timbaland, I agree that Coldplay and Radiohead are “ill” but I hesitate to say that this is the end of rnb like Nas predicted the death of hip-hop. A few artists continue to surprise me. Like Janelle Monae who crosses categorisation and who is truly inspirational. Like Erykah Badu, whose album defies the gravity of contemporary music. Like Maxwell and Sade whose albums are critical and commercial successes. The future is bleak, but not one without bright sparks. I just hope that somebody, somewhere, will see it fit to resuscitate.
