OK, let’s clear the air first: we’re not ‘60s hippies; war-protesting, student-activists from the ‘70s; or communists. (Not that there’s anything wrong with any of them.) But we’ve always found it in very poor taste for artists to license their songs for commercials. Those of you that have been reading “5” for a while are quite aware of our position. Bottom line: unless you’re broke, we see no reason for an artist to mess with the bond their music has forged between us to sell us carbonated sugar water or maxi pads. (Not that there’s anything wrong with either of them.)
In the last decade or so, classic tunes and otherwise have been popping up in ads for everything from soup to photocopiers to jeans to cars. (It’s especially sad when they strip and dispose of the lyrics and just use the melody, as in Campbell Soup’s use of Prince’s “Starfish and Coffee” or worse when they clearly subvert the original meaning of the song to sell you some denim as done with Credence Clearwater Revival’s “Fortunate Son”.) This has become so commonplace these days that when news of Wilco’s music being featured in Volkswagen ads reached us, we just shrugged. Who’s got the stamina to argue about this anymore?
But what finally shook us up was “Yankee Hotel Paycheck,” a Pitchfork article by Chris Dahlen that proposes that we not only not be tolerant of these situations but that "artists should embrace the idea of partnering up with corporations to ensure artistic development and career security." Huh?! What?! Come again?!
That this concept is wrong on so many levels pertaining to artistic individuality and the artist’s ability to establish a true audience allegiance—should we really believe in you if all you’re trying to do is sell us some moisturizer?—is just the tip of the iceberg. What it advocates, purposely or not, is to remove whatever creative independence is left out there and for its practitioners to join the assembly line with the rest of us. Hell, at one point Dahlen even states, “Working for the man is good enough for the rest of us. Shouldn't it be good enough for rock stars?” No, sir. Because, at the very least, what kind of hope or escapist daydream could we aspire to indulge in if the lives of our artistic heroes became as monotonous, repetitive and ultimately, unfulfilling, as many of our own? Like the Wilco song says, “What would we be without wishful thinking?”
