Thursday, October 23, 2014

Capitalism’s Suffocating Music


Frank Bruni/The New York Times

Onstage before thousands of fans, Sam Smith sang “Stay With Me,” beseeching his partner in a one-night stand for a few minutes more, and I half wondered if the two of them needed the extra time to finish bottles of Miller Lite, because a printed plug for the beer hovered over his head.

Performing “Summertime Sadness,” Lana Del Rey told a lover to “kiss me hard before you go.” Would she be texting him later with a Samsung Galaxy, the smartphone for which the stage on which she appeared was visibly named?

And while I’d never thought about any car in connection with the musicians in the band Interpol, I came to picture them caroming from gig to gig in a Civic or an Accord. “Honda” floated over them as they gave their concert.


For every stage, a different sponsor. Behind every beat, a different brand.

This happened in early October. I was at the Austin City Limits Music Festival, and I was at the limits of my patience. I hadn’t expected all of these corporate come-ons, so pervasive in other precincts, to be assaulting me here of all places.

“Keep Austin Weird” is the Texas capital’s unofficial slogan, a clue to its proudly subversive soul. And a gathering of bare-armed, bare-legged lovers of song and smokers of pot on a gigantic field brings to mind Woodstock, not Austin Ventures, which provides financing to start-ups, and RetailMeNot, which distributes discount coupons. Those firms, too, were sponsors of stages.

Someone shoved a free sample of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal at me on my way in. Someone else handed out free beer cozies advertising Imperial, a brew on sale at the event. Plastered all over the place were posters for “Not That Kind of Girl,” the new memoir by a certain “Girls” creator. The festival had been misnamed. This was Lenapalooza.

I kept thinking of another writer, David Foster Wallace. His novel “Infinite Jest,” published in 1996, imagines a tomorrow in which time itself is auctioned off to the highest bidder and the calendar becomes a billboard. There’s the “Year of the Whopper,” the “Year of the Whisper-Quiet Maytag Dishmaster” and even the “Year of the Tucks Medicated Pad” — a 12-month paean to posterior discomfort, 52 weeks in honor of hemorrhoids.

Is that future so far off? While recording devices have liberated many of us from commercials on television, the rest of our lives are awash in ads. They’re now nestled among the trailers at movies. They flicker on the screens in taxis.

They’re woven so thoroughly into sporting events, from Nascar races to basketball games, that it’s hard to imagine an era when they weren’t omnipresent. But in a story earlier this year on the website Consumerist, Chris Moran reported that 20 years ago, only one of the major-league baseball stadiums had a corporate moniker, Busch Stadium in St. Louis.

In contrast, 20 of the 30 stadiums now have sponsors.

It’s the same with football, maybe worse. On the weekend after I got back from Austin, I went to watch the New York Jets play, and within five minutes of my arrival at MetLife Stadium, I was confronted with all sorts of sub-sponsors.
Continue reading the main storyContinue reading the main story

Continue reading the main story

Near the Verizon gate, I spotted a V.I.P. section called the Hertz suites and saw signs that identified JetBlue as the official airline of the team, Toyota as its official vehicle and the Microsoft Surface as the official tablet of the National Football League. I resolved to check out the restrooms for an official toilet paper. (Note to Cottonelle: I did, and there’s an unclaimed opportunity for you, if you can beat Charmin to the punch.)Continue reading the main story



Inside the stadium, the Verizon scoreboard was not to be confused with the Bud Light scoreboard or the Pepsi scoreboard.

When Americans talk about how crass contemporary life can seem, this advertising onslaught is part of what they’re reacting to. And their growing chilliness toward corporations and sense of capitalism run amok aren’t just about the salaries of chief executives and the tax dodges in play. They’re about the way hucksterism invades everything, scooping up everyone.

Matthew McConaughey is at his career’s summit, with a recent Oscar for “Dallas Buyers Club” and a splendid performance in “Interstellar” (to be released next month), and what’s he doing with this clout? He’s putting it behind the wheel of a Lincoln and peddling luxury cars the way BeyoncĂ© has pushed Pepsi all these years.

Sellers keep finding new, willing vessels for their logos everywhere they turn. Will we someday travel from San Francisco to Northern California across the Gulden’s Mustard Bridge, for a hike in the Wells Fargo Redwood Forest?

It’s a vendor’s world. We’re just pawns in it, even when all we want to do is hum a simple tune.

No comments:

Post a Comment