Things move a bit more slowly here in the Nation’s Capital than they do out in the real world, so I am indebted to my good man Darren O’Shanassy for introducing me, during a recent extended (but far from unwelcome) visit to this part of the world, to the phenomenon of the mash-up, a thing with which I have hitherto had only a passing acquaintance.
For the benefit of those of you even more ignorant than myself, a mash-up is what you get when you find two (or more) pieces of music, preferably with very little in common, and bang them together with the electronic equivalent of scissors and sticky-tape, thus creating an entirely new song.
Upon hearing a quality mash-up for the first time, one’s reaction is threefold:
amazement at the sheer audacity of the idea of putting those particular songs together
admiration for the technical achievement involved - it must be so easy to get wrong, and, like bad jazz, so obvious
roll-around-on-the-floor gleefulness when a song element you have always loved - or perhaps hated - appears in an entirely new context, and fits there like a glove.
Sometimes the technical aspect is the thing. Twinning “Riders on the Storm” with Blondie’s “Rapture” was a great idea. Listening to it once is a treat. Yes, they blend perfectly. Who knew? And yet, once the novelty wears off, perhaps two minutes in, there’s really not much to get lasting excitement from. It’s a neat fit, but that’s really all it is.
At the other end of the spectrum, you have something like “Ray Of Gob”, where Madonna’s “Ray Of Light” is paired with a blend of signature Sex Pistols songs and a healthy amount of swearing, to create something much bigger than its separate elements. The first time you hear it, you cannot wipe the grin from your face at how ridiculously brilliant it is. Bits of Pistol guitar skewer Madonna’s vocals, giving a renewed sense of clarity, and purpose, to both. Then you listen to it again. And again. And you can’t imagine ever hearing the Pistols, or Ms Ciccone, any other way.
A bit of dirt and grit also work wonders for Kylie Minogue, when she is conjoined with The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” for a mash-up entitled “Who Fooled Kylie” (whereas Missy Elliott and Joy Division, as demonstrated by “Love Will Freak Us”, simply do not belong together: Missy’s voice, unlike those of Kylie and Madonna, does not obtain any particular benefit from the kind of abrasion perpetrated by arty, moody boys).
And don’t get me started on Hank Handy’s “Beatles Mash-up Medley”, three minutes of complete insanity that is guaranteed to induce epilepsy in those prone thereto, and a nasty meta-hangover in all others. (Although even that pales in comparison with “Intro Introspection” by Osymyso, which takes the first bits of every instantly recognisable song you ever heard on the radio, and runs them all over the top of each other, stars-on-45 style, until you can’t take any more, and then keeps going for longer than you thought humanly possible, until you really can’t take any more.)
Those Kylie and Madonna mash-ups, along with many others of equal merit, are the product of Mark Vidler, the humble genius behind Go Home Productions, who surely deserves a Nobel peace prize for bringing together, in a spirit of peace and harmony, people who are less likely to have anything nice to say to each other than, say, George W Bush and Osama bin Laden.
It’s a real shame, though, that mash-up mechanics like Go Home Productions are, for the most part, forced to give their handiwork away. It is only that way because, unlike in the art world, where any two-fisted artist can appropriate pretty much anything that he or she likes and sell the resulting work for unfeasibly large sums of money [qualification: I have nothing whatsoever against artists, and good luck to them all, I am merely using them to make a point, which is, admittedly, unfair], the music-publishing juggernaut seems to have the recording industry stitched up to within an inch of its life, ensuring that mash-ups must dwell forever in a twilight zone of legality. But it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and the mashers’ loss is your gain, for if you know where to look, or have good contacts, fine mash-ups are out there for the taking.
(I still haven’t found the mash-up Sasha Frere-Jones (link at right) wrote about in the New Yorker a while back which included Beck’s “Deborah”, which would certainly be something I would like to hear. At least once.)
