How pop learnt to join the dots

The 2010s hummed to the sound of historically distinct genres converging as we found new ways of listening

In his bedroom, my teenage son sits, ears encased in giant headphones linked to his phone, nodding to a beat no one else can hear. There would be little point asking what he is listening to; he probably wouldn’t be able to identify the track, picked out for him by a personalised algorithm gradually narrowing his taste down to a point halfway between overwrought emo singersongwriters and spaced-out psychedelic hip-hop.

Meanwhile, my wife is in her study, arguing with an artificial intelligence avatar over how to pronounce the names of classical composers. “Alexa, play Olivier Messiaen,” she says. “I’m sorry, I can’t find Olly Ver’s Messy Aunt in your library,” comes the reply. “Alexa, I said play Olivier Messiaen!! “Here is Oblivion by Leper Messiah.” “ALEXA!!!”

You can find me in my basement den, surrounded by redundant CDs and ageing vinyl, playing new mixes of a Beatles album at bone-rattling volume on a Bluetooth speaker about the size of a child’s toy drum. A dog-eared copy of the original 1970 album lies at my feet, now serving as a nostalgic memento, next to a dusty stereo so ancient it probably belongs in a vitrine in the British Museum.

This is music in 2020. Everything has changed and nothing has changed. Unheard of at the start of the decade, streaming now accounts for more than half of all recording industry revenues globally; more than three quarters in the developed world alone. Every bit of music ever recorded is now available on tap. If you should feel bewildered by charts packed with Auto Tuned rappers with facial tattoos mumbling impenetrable slang about prescription drugs, or Korean boy bands singing what sounds like five different Swedish pop bangers compressed into one, you can still tune into all your old favourites from the never-ending past. You can probably catch most of your old heroes in concert too, with holograms and tribute bands picking up any slack left by the retired or deceased, as time takes its inevitable toll on the original giants of rock culture. We lost too many great artists in the 2010s, including such visionary talents as Lou Reed, David Bowie, Prince and Leonard Cohen. But do we really lose anyone any more, as our idols shuffle off to that great playlist in the cloud?

Streaming feels like the definitive technological shift of our time, with profound implications not just for the way it is stored, delivered, used and monetised but also for the kind of music being made. The sound of the 2010s was the sound of historically separate genres converging. The decade’s greatest and most influential artists made music that was multifarious, open-ended and impossible to define as simply one thing or another.

In 2010, Kanye West’s My Beautiful Dark

Twisted Fantasy demonstrated such vast musical, harmonic and experimental scope that it was hailed as the Sgt Pepper of hip hop, kicking off a decade in which rap embraced melody and merged with the pop mainstream. Powerhouse R&B singer Beyoncé brought elements of rock, blues, reggae, funk, country, gospel and electronica into her 2016 masterpiece Lemonade, then delivered it as a dazzling long-form video with a powerful feminist political message. These were established superstars making music that blew open the parameters used to critically define them.

That genre-blurring instinct fuelled many of the decade’s most influential artists. Lana Del Rey’s super-stylised torch songcraft, the Weeknd’s solipsistic hip hop R&B, Bon Iver’s digitally fractured folk, Frank Ocean’s downtempo mutant soul and James Blake’s warped microbeat soundscapes all offered sound and style innovations that percolated throughout modern pop. This was music that joined dots. Daft Punk’s global smash Random Access Memories blended the force of electronic dance with the harmonic warmth of analogue disco. Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly fused heavy rap with the jazz and funk riches of socially conscious soul. Damon Albarn’s multimedia collective Gorillaz stirred all of the above into one big melting pot with room for world music virtuosos, punk rock veterans and anyone else who might spice the mix, from renegade Hollywood legend Dennis Hopper to the Lebanese National Orchestra for Oriental Music. A combination of commercial imperative, creative

incorporates rap flow and digital beat-making, and he performs with state-of-the-art effects that allow him to multitrack himself live on stage. The most streamed artist in the world and the most profitable touring musician ever, Sheeran could not have existed at any other moment in pop history. His only rival for streaming ubiquity was Canadian rapper Drake, whose simple loops, understated delivery and almost nursery rhyme melodies provided a template for a narcoleptic low-energy rap-pop sound that became arguably the theme of the decade.

One artist, though, stood almost entirely outside fashion. The British singersongwriter Adele scored the two biggest albums of the decade. Between them, 21 (released 2011) and 25 (released 2015) amassed worldwide sales in excess of 53 million. In 2015, Adele alone accounted for 4 per cent of the global CD market. Given the rise of streaming and precipitous decline in CD sales (down 85 per cent over the decade) it is probably safe to say no one will shift albums in such quantities ever again. Adele may be the last superstar of the physical music era. What is striking is that she could have thrived at any time, combining emotional songcraft with the kind of big voice that has powered musical entertainment since the dawn of recorded music,

Ed Sheeran is now the most streamed artist and most profitable touring musician ever

YOU AND ME, BABY Ed Sheeran at a fashion show in 2014; Adele, below, sold 53 million albums