Halftime Collectivism

    

     Popular music as social cement, promoting obedience and cathartic reconciliation was noted by Theodore Adorno in his writing “On Popular Music.”  Two mass behaviors toward music were outlined; an obedience that follows rhythm, sensitized to individualized interruptions and susceptible to authoritarian collectivism, and emotionality that is lured by frustration toward catharsis, reconciling the listener to social dependence.  These two social functions of music are capitalized on in the Superbowl Halftime Show. 

    Since Michael Jackson’s 1993 performance, popular music has been singularly featured at the event, and after the 2019 NFL partnership with Jay-Z’s Roc Nation, the artists’ performances for the halftime show have held a culturally Marxist overtone.  Since 2020, the halftime performers have been latin/Hispanic and black performers, exclusively.  Political predominance has centered the stage, with J.Lo’s imagery of protest against ICE in 2020, Eminem’s knee for BLM in 2022, and Lamar’s “commentary on systemic racism” in 2025.  Cultural Marxism has claimed the halftime show as a site-of-struggle against western hegemony at the Roman-games reincarnation that is America’s sport. 

     “Concentration and control in our culture hide themselves in their very manifestation.  Unhidden they would provoke resistance” (Adorno, pg. 68).  Adorno’s summation of pop music is that it commands its own listening habits, promotes like-dislike behaviors, and is ultimately, a standardized production that presents itself as “natural,” offering pseudo-individualization within cultural mass-production and large-scale economic concentration.  As the quote mentions, this concentration of control attempts to hide through the illusion of choice.  Currently, the illusion of choice seems to be between pop; pre-Roc-Nation halftime show acts like Maroon 5, Justin Timberlake, and Lady Gaga, and pop with cultural Marxist overtones; acts like Kendrick Lamar and this year’s Bad Bunny, who purposefully integrate political messaging into their performances.  Lamar’s main song of last year’s show featured a combative “diss track,” the title featured in the only audible repetition of the song: “they not like us.”  With all the performative cultural messaging, for those without the “inside knowledge” of the track, the assumption of the message would be that it was solely about race. 

    This year, Roc Nation decided to further promote cultural Marxism with Bad Bunny, who has until now refused performances in America as a protest against ICE, will perform only Spanish-language songs, and will “bring a lot of his culture.”  What is unique about this performer is his *actual* affiliation with Marxism via the company that financed his career, Rimas Entertainment, which was co-founded by Rafael Ricardo Jimenez-Dan, a vice minister during the Chavez era in Venezuela (as reported by Armando.info and musicbusinessworldwide.com).  The Chavez era was an authoritarian, Cuban-aligned regime that was hostile to the United States. 

    Now that more folks are primed toward the anti-western, neo-Marxist ‘resistance’ culture that currently flows from the hidden concentrations of control, the new obedience is formed through the illusion of independence and resistance.  For Adorno’s second type of mass behavior, emotional catharsis is now encouraged through the anticipated “party vibes” of Bad Bunny’s performance, where you can Latin-dance away your capitalism-fatigue and frustration. 

Do you think Adorno's two types of behavior toward music in general are accurate?  One as the rhythmically obedient and susceptible to authoritarianism, the other as emotional catharsis of frustration?

18 Minutes of Protest

 Alice's Restaurant Massacre

    I believe the last thing someone wants to do is spend 18 minutes of their lives listening to an active protest about the Vietnam war. Especially post-war, but that's exactly what you'll unknowingly be doing when you listen to "Alice's Restaurant" by Arlo Guthrie. 

I was probably 10 when I first heard this song. I remember being annoyed when my dad forced us to listen to it in the car on our way to visit our grandparents. Surprisingly it's a song that has stuck with me my entire life, the catchy "you can get anything you want at Alices Restaurant" called to me as a kid. But now I see that catchy phrase as a symbol of community, particularly during a time period when belonging, freedom, and shared values were called into question. The line definitely suggests "you'll find something here, something that you won't get from the "government" system". 

To give you a bit of a backstory, the song is a mostly-true satirical retelling of his Thanksgiving arrest for littering which ended up making him ineligible for the Vietnam war draft. The irony of the whole deal is that a system who is willing to send young men into a massively controversial war is deeply concerned about a single instance of trash in the woods. If you're willing to give it a listen, it's a valuable insight to what men may have been experiencing emotionally during this time frame. 

The most interesting thing about this particular song to me is that it challenges the system in more ways than one. It's a song... but not really. It's more like a folk storytelling session, and at 18 minutes in length it definitely challenges the social norms of music expectations. It does follow Hadju's ideas about music becoming the soundtrack to a crises: Alice's Restaurant reflects Vietnam War anxiety, draft resistance, and a generational distrust of institutions. But the most important question that the song asks today, post-war? If you can get anything you want at Alive's Restaurant, what does that say about what we're missing everywhere else? 

They Just Don't Make Music Like They Used To

Today's music, many love it, others hate it. "They just don't make music like they used to" seems to be a common statement of today. Now more than ever, there is a big debate over which songs fit into which categories, and many overlap. For example, songs labeled "new country" now feature rap artists and a more pop feel than the old western country songs. 

Opinions on what is considered a category of song may change throughout the years, but the culture of songs continues to grow. As L.B. Bermingham states, “Culture always builds on the past.” This continues to be true, especially in the music department. It’s always interesting to listen to music categorized by year. For example, 70's music is comparably different from 80’s music. Although they can be seen as similar since they are 10 years apart, the majority of songs from each era have a distinct sound, which places them in their respective category. The sound quality, lyrics, and meanings all evolve as time goes on. What is popular now will soon be what is known as outdated and a part of the 2020’s music. 

An aspect of music that is particularly notable is the use of older tunes in today’s music. Many mash-ups have been created with similar-sounding songs because they flow together with similar rhythms and beats. Some songs even have the exact same sound as other songs do. Even though this is not an uncommon occurrence, the public still seems to enjoy a song that sounds the same as others. Even if a new song sounds like an old one, there will be someone out there who enjoys it. Why is this? Is there a bigger emphasis on the artist and more people like the person rather than the music? Is it the feeling of familiarity that makes the song liked? Is repetition from song to song a good thing and possibly a good idea? Who knows, but there is something to be said about the success rate of songs when copying a popular tune with similar sounds. 

A question to consider is at what point does a song become too much like another in order to be reprimanded? Should there be a penalty for similar-sounding songs, or is that just the nature of music?

Noise to Nostalgia

Each summer I attend a church girls' camp as a leader. It’s demanded that I attend the camp, not because they don’t have enough leaders, or because I’m the coolest leader there (I am, but that’s not why they want me), but it's because the girls and I have a stupid tradition. I wake them up in the morning.

Each year I bring my giant suitcase sized portable speaker and blast the girls awake with the same song: “Life Is Better With You” by Michael Franti. 

Same song. Same early hours. Same tradition year after year. Every morning there are groans, dramatic sighs, and at least one sleeping bag pulled completely over their heads in protest, yet they now associate that song with its upbeat tempo and encouraging words as the epitome of girls camp nostalgia. The older girls warn the newer girls of the waking up protocol and it’s now accepted and expected as our ritual. The song hasn’t changed in more than 8 years, but the perspective of what the song represents helps the girls shift into a mindset of belonging. They are experiencing the early wake up together, they are blasted by the repetitive tempo and rocked to their core as a collective group. They are all tired together and yet, because they’ve experienced this ritual together for years…it now brings the fond memories of the one week we spent together in the outdoors with bugs, hikes, sunshine, little sleep and a shared message that “Life is Better” because they are here with us. Often, when we play the slideshow of photos from the week and pair it with that song, the room feels joyful and collective. The song has become a part of girls camp. It no longer communicates annoyance. It communicates belonging and shared experiences, which feels pretty special.

This week’s readings were so timely. I just returned home from New Orleans and each night while traveling I had the opportunity to soak in the local music and culture there. Every street corner had performers, musicians and bands playing. It was amazing. I am not typically a jazz fan…don’t get me wrong, I appreciate jazz intellectually, but it is not what I reach for in my everyday listening. Yet in New Orleans, listening to live jazz in the city where it was born felt entirely transcendent. I wasn’t just listening to music. I was hearing soul, history, and culture. The genre that I usually skip on the radio felt meaningful and inspirational. With a backdrop of French, Caribbean, African and Creole influences in the architecture, food and general vibe, the music took on a different experience for me. This begs the question: What extent does music create meaning on its own, versus, how much of that meaning comes from the context, place, and relationships surrounding it?

This question becomes even more personal when I think about my son, who is in all state jazz choir. Jazz is still an acquired taste for me, but I love listening to him sing it. I hear effort, identity, and growth when he’s learning to scat with asynchronous rhythm. I love the music that he’s crooning, not because my music preferences have changed dramatically, but because of my son. The meaning is relational.

Sellnow’s concept of music as rhetoric helps explain this a little better. Music doesn’t just communicate personal taste or preference; it communicates rhetorically through shared emotional patterns. Adorno takes the pessimistic approach and would call this standardization or conditioning, but he probably wasn’t hugged enough as a child so I’m going to ignore him and take the optimistic view. Sometimes we don’t fall in love with the music itself. We fall in love with what emotions the music holds for us.

Culture Jamming

     When I read the Culture Jamming or a culture jammed?:RiP!: A Remix Manifeston by L.B. Bermingham, I realized the manifesto extends beyond music and Walt Disney films. Literature is also a part of it. For example, when classic novels such as Little Women by Louisa May Alcott entered the public domain, other authors reinterpreted the story and modernized the characters to reflect on current society. I don't agree with this practice, I feel it takes away from the original source and newer editions are measured up to it. One question I have is, why can't a classic book remain as such so others can return to that time period and experience it the way the author intended? Why does it have to be reinterpreted into something it's not? I tried to read a couple that were “reinvited,” but wasn’t able to. The books are not as well written or as interesting. Now, I generally avoid them. 

     Copyright, fair use, Creative Commons and the public domain are complex issues that have been hotly debated since the middle of last century, but the advent of more and more digital technologies and the pervasive influence of the Internet have made the illegal sharing of files almost run of the mill (Bermingham). When it comes to music, I remember way back in the 2000s there was a crack down on individuals pirating it. At one time, it was easy to put a music CD into a computer and download music onto it. Then a blank CD can be used to burn the music on. Unfortunately, computers no longer come with a disk drive for CD in it. The disk drive needs to be purchased separately instead. A few years ago, I tried to burn a Ritchie Valens CD only to find out the music was formatted differently, and it wouldn't burn onto a blank CD. After experiencing that, I stopped burning CDs. 

     Another thing this article reminded me of is Alan Freed and the payola scandal. Alan Freed was a disc jockey from the 1950s. He helped push the rock-n-roll scene by playing the music and sponsoring the music in concerts. His success came to a halt when he was accused of a “pay-to-play” arrangement between promoters and DJs (Case Western Reserve University, 2026). The reason this article reminded me of him is because he also experienced the culture tension at that time when he played a new form of music that later became regulated. Now, some of that music has been mashed up in other artists' songs. 

 

                                References 

Bermingham, L.B. Culture Jamming or a culture jammed?: A Remix Manifeston. Southern Utah University. Retrieved from chrome-native://pdf/link?url=content%3A%2F%2Fmedia%2Fexternal%2Fdownloads%2F1000000604

Case Western Reserve University. (2026). Alan Freed. Encyclopedia of Cleveland. Retrieved from https://case.edu/ech/articles/f/freed-alan

Maisie Peters’ Musical Bookends in “The Good Witch”

 My favorite musician of all time is British singer-songwriter Maisie Peters. Not only does she put on an incredible concert (seeing her live for my 21st birthday a few years back is still one of the highlights of my life), she is an incredible lyricist. Whether that’s the heartbreaking bridge of “You You You,” the comedically angry lyrics of “Volcano,” or the highly motivational bridge of “There It Goes,” Maisie has some of the best lyrics I have ever heard in my life. 

Maisie Peters performing at the Glastonbury Festival 

An example of both her wonderful lyricism and the music itself that stand out are the opening and closing songs of her 2023 album The Good Witch, “The Good Witch” and “History of Man.” Though lyrically different, the chorus of “History of Man” has the same melody as the verses of “The Good Witch”, serving as auditory bookends to the album. What especially stands out to me is the fact that even though the two songs have incredibly different messages, these melodic similarities fit the tone of both songs, helping them send a similar rhetorical message.

The songs both use largely tragic lyrics, but “The Good Witch” leans a bit more comic at times, with lines like “still miss you, but I know now it’ll pass” and “I will try forgiveness, but I will not forget,” showing "a self determination to move on and improve. “History of Man” is wholly tragic, and overall representative of the tragedy of the female experience. There are countless lyrics that represent this, but two that stand out the most are “women’s hearts are lethal weapons, did you hold mine and feel threatened?” and “I hold on, I try to hold your hand, I save you a seat and then you say you wanna stand.” The last lyric mentioned follows the same melodic pattern as “still argue like my mother and suppress stuff like my dad,” from “The Good Witch, which, despite seeming tragic, actually has quite a few comic elements when looked at in context with the rest of the song.

“History of Man” by itself stands out to me as my favorite song of all time, and one that I believe everybody should listen to at least once in their life. Maisie uses references and imagery beautifully, with mentions of biblical stories, Greek mythology, historical events, and more. There are other songs on The Good Witch that do this as well, namely “Wendy,” titled after the famous Peter Pan character and “Yoko,” named after Yoko Ono, but none do it quite as poignantly as “History of Man.” The song stands on its own as meaningful, both in general and rhetorical communication, but the connection of it back to the title track makes it even more significant. Both songs are about femininity and identity, with “History of Man” capping it off with a suitable amount of rage. 

Does “History of Man” fully stand on its own or is it majorly aided by the elements of “The Good Witch” found within it?

Chicken Strips

 I went grocery shopping this week. Frozen chicken breast strips are a staple on my list these days.

They didn’t have my usual brand, so I grabbed a new one. The packaging looked convincing enough, and it was on sale. And after dinner, I understood why.

Turns out, you can’t always trust packaging—or price—to tell you what you’re actually buying.

And if packaging can ruin dinner, imagine what else it’s capable of.

This week, my thoughts turned to music—specifically what Sellnow describes as incongruent music. She explains that incongruity occurs when the emotional tone of the music contradicts the meaning of the lyrics. Cheerful, upbeat music paired with disturbing or controversial messages. Or tragic lyrics set to energizing, release-driven musical patterns. When that happens, meaning shifts. The message isn’t simply heard—it’s repackaged.

Incongruent music doesn’t just entertain; it persuades. According to Sellnow, these mismatches can broaden audience appeal, soften resistance, and gradually normalize ideas that might otherwise feel unsettling or inappropriate. The music does the emotional work first, making the lyrics feel less severe, less urgent, or less serious than they actually are.

In other words, the packaging tries to make the product more palatable.

I remember a friend showing me a song in high school that deeply troubled me. It sounded playful and catchy. It even featured a child’s voice. But the lyrics described brutal ways to take one’s own life. The contrast was jarring—and intentional. The brightness of the music masked the darkness of the message, allowing something deeply disturbing to slip into everyday listening.

That’s dangerous, disguised rhetoric—even when it doesn’t feel dangerous.

Other songs operate with more subtlety. Whistle by Flo Rida relies on what Sellnow calls strategic ambiguity. Very little is stated directly. Instead, listeners are invited to supply meaning themselves. This process—lyrical ascription—allows audiences to interpret the song using cultural knowledge and shared assumptions. The song never has to say anything explicit. Listeners do that work for it.

Even All About That Bass packages its message in confidence and empowerment, yet it still reinforces narrow ideas about bodies, worth, and comparison. It’s catchy. It’s fun. It carries a message and we’re responsible for how we consume it.

That’s the power of incongruent music. We hum along before we’ve decided whether we actually agree with what’s being said.

I’m not arguing that we can’t enjoy music. But awareness matters. Because just like my chicken strips, something can look good, sound good, and still not be something I want to consume.

And once you notice the packaging, you can’t unhear it.

So how do we sharpen our filters? How do we slow down enough to notice when packaging is persuading us—and choose more intentionally what we let shape us?