This article is about what recordings are made of, and about what happens to those recordings when they are disposed of. It inscribes a history of recorded music in three main materials: shellac, plastic and data. These materials constitute the five most prevalent recording formats since 1900: 78s, LPs, cassettes, CDs and MP3s. The goal is to forge a political ecology of the evolving relationship between popular music and sound technology, which accounts not only for human production and consumption but also material manufacture and disposal. Such an orientation is useful for developing an analytical framework that is adequate to the complexities of the global material–cultural flows in which the recorded music commodity is constituted and deconstituted. It also strives towards a more responsible way of thinking about the relationship between popular music's cultural and economic value, on the one hand, and its environmental cost, on the other.

When musicians ‘cover’ a previously recorded song, they provide an intertextual commentary on another musical work or style. This paper considers several ways in which such commentaries engage constructions of authenticity, focusing on two covers by the Pet Shop Boys: ‘Where the Streets Have No Name’, originally by U2, and ‘Go West’, first recorded by the Village People. I analyse the musical sound, performance style, and lyrical themes of each pair of songs, as well as the discourse surrounding their production and reception. I also consider how scholars have theorised authenticity in the interpretive traditions engaged by these songs. I argue that the Pet Shop Boys’ version of ‘Where the Streets Have No Name’ is subversive, poking fun at certain common ways of expressing authenticity in 1980s rock, while their cover of ‘Go West’ repositions disco - a genre that has widely been construed as inauthentic - as a type of ‘roots music’ for the gay community of the 1990s.

Radio is commonly referred to as a ‘secondary medium’ in the broadcasting industry. The phrase conveys the industry's pragmatic view that no one cares whether you listen to radio so long as you do not turn it off. Since it has been displaced by television, radio is expected to accommodate itself technologically and discursively to every situation. Are you brushing your teeth, turning the corner, buying or selling jeans or entering inventory into the computer? So much the better. Your broadcaster respects the fact that these important activities must come first. Radio is humble and friendly, it follows you everywhere. In any event, television makes more money.

I spent the summer of 1990 studying the work of disk jockeys involved in the ‘House’ club scene in London, Manchester and Belfast. What I was initially intrigued by was how a popular music genre could develop such a following, indeed, some notoriety, without the traditional trappings of ‘rock 'n' roll’ (‘star performers’, ‘groups’), and without a manifest ideological stance adopted in relation to mainstream lifestyles. I came to conclude that a shift of meanings had occurred in the activity of mass dancing to records during the late 1980s, a shift which has created a new and central role for disk jockeys.

Writing about popular music in 1977 from what I would describe as a ‘classical’ Marxist perspective, Steve Chapple and I proclaimed unequivocally that:

The position of the music as an increasingly important cultural commodity within a consumer economy weakened any of the explicit anti-materialist content of the music.… Musicians and the creative personnel within the industry were integrated into an entertainment business now firmly part of the American corporate structure. (Chapple and Garofalo 1977, p. 300)

In 1981, four short years later, British sociologist and music critic Simon Frith described the structure and functioning of the music industry in much the same terms that Chappie and I had put forth, but his analysis shifted the emphasis considerably. Declared Frith:

Cultural commodities may support the contemporary power of capital, but they have their civilising moments, and even as the most effortless background music, rock is a source of vigour and exhilaration and of good feelings that are as necessary for the next morning's political struggle as for the next day's work. My argument is that rock fun is as much a quality of the music's use as of its form. (Frith 1981, pp. 264–5)

Attempting to avoid what he saw as an economically reductive position, Frith de-emphasised the role of monopoly corporations in controlling the marketplace and shaping popular culture. In the tradition of ‘cultural’ Marxism, he focused instead, and somewhat optimistically, on the power of the consumer to reappropriate the music in unintended ways, to ‘resignify’ its meaning, if you will.

This article looks at audiocassette tapes that are produced and circulated within the Bay Area underground hip hop scene as subcultural artefacts through which an understanding of the key activities, ideologies and sensibilities that mark subcultural identity can be grasped. Using du Gay's circuit of culture (1997) as a template for organising ethnographic data, the article demonstrates the ways in which subcultural meanings are encoded into the activities surrounding the commodification of underground hip hop cassettes. Ultimately, it argues for a reading of audiocassette tapes as unique technologies that simultaneously embrace the progressive politics of subcultural inclusion while defending subcultural boundaries against mainstream co-optation.

Indie pop, like rock and other independent genres more generally, has had a complicated relationship with mass culture. It both depends upon and simultaneously deconstructs notions of authenticity and truth. Independent genres have invited scholarly analysis and critique that often seek to unmask indie as ‘elite’ or to show the extent to which indie musics are, ironically, defined and shaped by consumer capitalism. Using songwriter Stephin Merritt's music and career as a case study, this essay explores the kinds of authenticities at work in indie pop. Indie pop, I argue, is a genre especially adept at generating ‘personal authenticity’. It is useful to turn to the concept of kitsch, understood here as an aesthetic and not a synonym for ‘bad’. Kitsch functions to cultivate personal attachment in the face of impersonal mass culture; it is this aesthetic, I argue, that indie pop has cultivated through its lo-fi and often nostalgic sound world and through its dissemination, which has relied upon dedicated collectors. The ‘honesty’ of this music does not arise from an illusion of unmediated communication, but instead from the emphasis on the process of mediation, which stresses the materiality of the music and the actual experience of listening.

The synthesizer is ubiquitous on the Arab–American musical scene. Heard at every party, and on every recording, the synthesizer sings the lingua franca of international popular music. While the facade and the body of the synthesizer consist of neutral, slick, black plastic and metal technology, the soul of the instrument, when played by Arab–American musicians, is capable of a completely indigenous, if synthetic, musical idiom. In this article I draw on my experience of six performers of the Arabic ‘org’, commonly known today as ‘keyboards’, to present a sketch of a modern musical tradition.

The purpose of this paper is to provide some historical perspective on the so-called loudness war. Critics of the loudness war maintain that the average volume level of popular music recordings has increased dramatically since the proliferation of digital technology in the 1980s, and that this increase has had detrimental effects on sound quality and the listening experience. My point is not to weigh in on this debate, but to suggest that the issue of loudness in sound recording and playback can be traced back much earlier than the 1980s. In fact, loudness has been a source of pleasure, a target of criticism, and an engine of technological change since the very earliest days of commercial sound reproduction. Looking at the period between the turn-of-the-century format feud and the arrival of electrical amplification in the 1920s, I situate the loudness war within a longer historical trajectory, and demonstrate a variety of ways in which loudness and volume have been controversial issues in – and constitutive elements of – the history of sound reproduction. I suggest that the loudness war can be understood in relation to a broader cultural history of volume.

Writing on music video has had two distinctive moments in its brief history. The first wave of treatments tended to come from the culture surrounding rock music and from those who were primarily interested in music video as something which produced effects on that music. Here, two claims were most common, and generally expressed in the terms and the contexts of rock journalism:

(1) that music video had made ‘image’ more important than the experience of music itself, with effects which were to be feared (for example, the potential difficulties for artists with poor ‘images’, the risk that theatricality and spectacle would take precedence over intrinsically ‘musical’ values, etc.);

(2) that music video would result in a diminishing of the interpretative liberty of the individual music listener, who would now have visual or narrative interpretations of song lyrics imposed on him/her, in what would amount to a semantic and affective impoverishment of the popular music experience.

In the autumn of 1994, a Rolling Stone special issue on ‘Women in Rock’ proclaimed that ‘A change has come to rock & roll’. This pronouncement – which acknowledged women's traditional under-representation in rock music while consigning it to history – was hardly a new one. The ‘discovery’ that ‘an unprecedented number of female performers were now carving out a substantial place for themselves in the rock world’ has been a recurring staple of music journalism for at least two decades (Garr 1992, p. xi). Yet women's participation in the rock music world continues to be noteworthy, defined by their status as numerical minority and symbolic anomaly. ‘In rock as in life, what is male continues to be perceived as known, normal and natural, whereas what is female is taken to be a mystery in need of explication’ (Udovich 1994, p. 50).

With the publication of the article ‘Cycles in symbol production’ (Peterson and Berger 1975) a discussion started concerning the advantages and disadvantages of the production of cultural goods under market conditions. The analysis by Peterson and Berger showed a negative correlation between concentration in the recording industry, on the one hand, and the diversity and innovativeness of the music, on the other. Repetition of the analysis using data from the 1980s (Burnett 1990; Lopes 1992) has shown that for this period Peterson and Berger's hypotheses should be rejected. Is there a connection between concentration and diversity and innovation? Are there cycles in symbol production? There seems to be no conclusive answer. In this article, I will attempt to clear up this matter. First, I will repeat the analysis of the relation between concentration and diversity/innovation, using the same model as Peterson and Berger, but with different definitions for the variables concentration, diversity and innovation. Then I will suggest a new model, which can be helpful in uncovering other factors influencing diversity and innovation in the music industry. I will come to that later. Let me first give the reader a brief overview of previous research.

This morning I unintentionally stumbled across the annual Cherry Blossom Parade in Washington, DC. It was probaly little different than any other American public parade, full of decorated floats and oversized balloons interspersed between uniformed marching bands from high schools all over the country. What caught my attention was the ‘foreign’ element in the parade – three groups that represented Japan, land of the cherry blossom. Two of these groups were local martial arts associations: one representing the Ryuku Islands, the other, Okinawa. The men and women of both contingents, obviously multiethnic, were dressed alike in stereotypical Japanese martial arts costumes (complete with coloured headbands). Participants paused every few steps to demonstrate kicks and poses, then proceeded on to the sound of traditional Japanese music played through loudspeakers. The third group was the official Japanese delegation, flown over especially for the parade. I'm not sure what I expected – perhaps a float of graceful kimono-clad Japanese women waving cherry blossom branches to the ethereal sound of the shakuhachi. Instead, to my surprise our ears were assailed by a familiar John Philip Sousa march played with gusto by a Japanese high school band. The only difference between this band and its American counterparts was that the musicians did not wear unisex military uniforms: all wore fuchsia pink school blazers, with long white pants for the boys and short white skirts for the girls (Sarkissian 1994).

The study of music and national identity has been limited, in my view, by some underlying assumptions. The first is connected to some influential ideas on nationalism, while the second has to do with long-standing ideas about the relation between music and identity. On nationalism, many approaches place too much emphasis on the homogenising tendencies of nationalist discourse, whereas, in my view, homogenisation exists in a complex and ambivalent relationship with the construction of difference by the same nationalist forces that create homogeneity. In a related fashion, with respect to music and identity, several studies of Latin American musical styles and their socio-political context – for example, ones focusing on the Dominican Republic, Haiti and Brazil – display a tendency to set up a model of homogenising elites versus diversifying and resistant minorities.

One of the ironies of popular music studies is that the music that is the most popular, in terms of contemporary chart success, is rarely discussed by academics writing in the field. In this article I want to suggest that this is because some forms of ‘mainstream’ chart pop music, and the discourse of the magazines that promote this type of music, pose a threat to the certainties of both gender and genre that underpin ‘serious’ popular music. The music I am concerned with here is that provided by ‘boy bands’ like Boyzone, Westlife or Five, and ‘girl groups’ like The Spice Girls, Atomic Kitten or Precious, as well as mixed-sex groups such as Steps, SClub7 and Hear'Say, and singers such as Britney Spears and Billie – music that is the mainstay of magazines such as the UK publications Smash Hits, Top of the Pops and Live and Kicking. I shall argue that this music, and the way of enjoying music promoted by the magazines that support it, can best be understood in terms of a carnivalesque disruption that challenges all stable ideas about what makes music good, and what popular music should be about. Furthermore, I shall argue that, just as this music is perhaps the only form of popular music to have a predominantly female audience, the threat that it poses is the threat of the feminine, and of female encroachment into what is still predominantly a male, and masculine, world.

Since the early 1980s Indian diasporic communities have attained sufficient size, affluence, self-awareness and generational distance from South Asia to have created a set of popular music styles that are autonomous and distinctive rather than strictly derivative of Indian models. While the bhangra music of British Punjabis has attracted some scholarly and journalistic attention, chutney, a syncretic Indo-Caribbean popular music and dance idiom, is little known outside its own milieu. This article constitutes a preliminary socio-musical study of chutney.

In recent years popular music scholars have paid increasing attention to musical sound. From Robert Walser's landmark work on heavy metal (1993), to Alan Moore's important analysis of rock style periods (1993), to a number of shorter studies (Whiteley 1990; Josephson 1992; Bowman 1995; Ford 1995; Hawkins 1996; Edström 1996), more and more scholars have recognised that all levels of scholarly focus must be pursued if we are to gain purchase on the phenomena of popular music. With no exceptions of which I am aware, all the popular music scholars concerned specifically with musical sound seek to explore the connections between sound and its social contexts. My goal here is to show how attention to musical perception can forward this project and to argue that perception is best understood as a kind of social practice. The act of perception constitutes musical forms and musical meanings in experience. The act of perception is where the rubber of sound meets the road of social life, and by treating perception as a practice we can draw more intimate connections between songs and subjects, sound and society, than would be possible if we were to start from musical structures and then search for linkages to social context. None of this, of course, is to deny the value of studies focused on musical structures, performance events, broad social contexts or large-scale social history, but to argue that the constitution of musical perception by musicians and listeners deserves greater attention and to suggest how this kind of scrutiny might serve the larger aims of popular music studies.

In the early 1970s, in the American Island State of Hawaii, popular music began a transformation that was, to some extent, similar in form to what occurred on the American mainland ten to fifteen years earlier, when popular music first merged with the civil rights movement and then with the anti-Vietnam movement. Hawaiian popular musicians, reacting to the commercially slick music of the tourist trade and the Wai Ki Ki nightclubs, reached back to embrace the few ethnic artists still alive and performing. They searched their island past for traditional material and, as the movement consolidated, merged this material with their own pressing social and cultural concerns to create a new type of music – part contemporary, part traditional and all wrapped in a cloak of strong social protest against non-native Hawaiians who they saw as having nearly totally destroyed their culture, their selfidentity, their pride and their sacred land. As Haunai-Kay Trask (1982, p. C2), a spokesperson for the movement, put it:

Any society that has experienced the kind of impact the Hawaiian culture and Hawaiian people have experienced wind up being on the bottom because they are inundated with another culture … High rises, fancy clothes, and freeways – that's what United States culture stands for. It's grotesque. They have no feeling for the fragility of life. Or flora or fauna. Part of me hates the haoles with a passion, but part of me doesn't care. They're just stupid and I want them to stay away.

It has become an annual ritual on Israeli television that, near Independence Day, several intellectuals are gathered in the studio in order to discuss the question whether there is an authentic Israeli culture and what exactly is its nature. Soon enough, popular music turns up as a major subject. It seems that popular music has become one of the few areas in Israel in which a vivid scene of cultural activity takes place, without public funding, and which plays a role in shaping a sense of identity for various groups.

When a stereophonic track is heard through headphones or over loudspeakers, the image of a virtual performance is created in the mind. This virtual performance, which exists exclusively on the record, can be conceptualised in terms of the ‘sound-box’ (Moore 1993), a four-dimensional virtual space within which sounds can be located through: lateral placement within the stereo field; foreground and background placement due to volume and distortion; height according to sound vibration frequency; and time. From the mid-1960s, the increasing shift from mono to stereo meant that producers and engineers had to contend with the notion and potential of a song's sonic arrangement or mix, resulting in a disparity of sonic placement and a diverse range of sound-box configurations. By 1972, a normative positioning of sound sources within the sound-box was established, which we term the ‘diagonal mix’. This article focuses on the consolidation of this norm by means of a ‘taxonomy of mixes’ and the utilisation of visual representations which detail the sound-box configurations of a variety of pop/rock, easy listening and psychedelic tracks from 1966 to 1972.