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Rockism is dead. Long live rawkism.

Sure, it dwells in pockets here and there, like Japanese army holdouts in the Philippine jungle, but when the more hardcore elements among the performing set speak of “authenticity” there’s the distinct tang of sour grapes in the air. Someone once said that inside every revolutionary beats the heart of a frustrated civil servant. Given access to a high tech studio and a massive production budget, even the most committed brick tossing rockist ideologue will start making heretical inquiries about overdubs, session musicians, and canned orchestral effects. Even The Clash, “the only band that mattered” (a profoundly rockist description, if ever I’ve hear one) fucked off to L.A. to record their sophomore album, where they conspired alongside Sandy Pearlman to panelbeat their raw sound into a smooth surface lacking anything for a listener to grab hold of (apart from the first three tracks on the LP, which echoed the band’s early fire in a bait-and-switch kind of way).

For the most part, though, rockism has become a convenient shibboleth to dangle whenever someone raises uncomfortable questions about art versus artifice. Besides, what does “authenticity in music” mean these days? Does it mean authenticity of craftsmanship, where performers are expected to “play their own instruments” and eschew technological wizardry? Or does it refer to authenticity of vision, where music acts as the performer’s position statement vis a vis the world at large? I’d argue that the masturbatory -- though musically skillful -- wank of a heavy metal guitar solo is less sincere and more of an assembly line product than the socially aware dance pop of Pet Shop Boys’ “I’m With Stupid.”

The old notions of authenticity are obsolete. What we have now is “rawkism,” a concept less grounded in musicianship than in marketing, the branding and promotion of acts to present an illusion of a way of life to be lived vicariously by the consumer. I was flipping through one of issues of Spin my wife left lying around and came across a writeup on Amy Winehouse, apparently an indie darling of the moment in some circles. Fully three-quarters of the text was given over to a discussion of her notorious, boozy, bad-girl lifestyle, and even the parts dealing with her music were couched in context of her personal life. I’ve never listened to Winehouse’s stuff (and the article didn’t make me feel any desire to), but I was struck by the way the writer foregrounded the aspects of the musician’s “rock and roll” lifestyle.

It’s a common enough occurrence. Watch any VH-1 special on heavy metal (and there are dozens of them, repeated ad nauseum) and you’ll notice that the most insightful remark about the music one encounters is some pudgy hipster comedian hollering “They RAWKED!” before launching into a bunch of anecdotes about the band members sniffing coke off a stripper’s ass in some club on the Sunset Strip. It’s not just limited to the metalheads, either. When I used to read Raygun (I know. I’m sorry.) back in the 90’s, every interview with an indie or alternative act would feature a leading question or three about the performers’ partying or drug use. It’s what musicians do, after all. They wouldn’t seem authentic if they didn’t indulge, you know?

Getting back to Spin, the magazine now features a section dedicated to the various club scenes around the country, complete with MySpace-style photos of pretty people living the wild life. It’s a prepackaged dream of hedonistic adventure being sold with music operating as a mere vector. In reality it’s just a rehash of eighth-graders’ stories about getting shitfaced in the woods, but gussied up with a liberal dose of stardust.

There’s also the “heart on one’s sleeve” school of marketed authenticity, where a posture – real or feigned – of sincerity or compassion provides an aura of marketable saintliness. Try pointing out to a Springsteen fan that the people who made the record a hit largely ignored the message of “Born in the USA”, and how the song became the score for Reagan Era triumphalism. “Oh, but Bruce cares. He’s better than that.” Maybe so, but the man also made a mint off Americans’ reactionary impulses, even if that was never his intent. There’s no excuse for the “Dancing in the Dark” video, either. U2 and The Clash also fall into this category, where rock stardom and religious-like devotion intersect.

I don’t need the people who create the music I listen to be inspirational figures, any more than I need the person who assembled Super Lumina’s manifold to have been an especially upright individual. It’s the quality of the end product that matters. I respect Crass’s politics, but if there wasn’t something about their music that captured my attention, they’d be in the same category with countless other anarcho-punk acts I sympathize with but can’t bring myself to listen to. If the aesthetics and politics align, so much the better, but “authenticity” or sincerity alone is just not enough.

The rockist versus poptimist struggles are like the ant wars that happen in my driveway every summer. They are fascinating to watch, but of little consequence to anyone outside their tiny little world. Should it threaten to spill over into my personal space, a diluted bleach solution puts an end to the matter right quick.

For the record, anyone who thinks Coldplay’s “Clocks” is a better song than The Monkees’ “Pleasant Valley Sunday” needs to be shunned.

bis – Action and Drama (from Social Dancing, 1999)

XTC – This Is Pop? (from White Music, 1978)

Carter USM – Do Re Mi So Far So Good (from 1992: The Love Album, 1992)

The Rezillos – Top of the Pops (from Can’t Stand the Rezillos, 1978)