On Monday night I had the pleasure to attend the Parisian preview of Cartiers’ new film “Painted Love” at La Fidélité. Painted Love is the name of a new short film created in collaboration with New York’s Waverly Films and an original composition from Air’s Jean-Benoit Dunckel and Nicolas Godin inspired by the Cartier Love bracelet. The short film debuted on Cartier’s Facebook page Nov. 9, premiered on Vevo Nov. 11 and will launch globally Nov. 16. A download of the song will arrive on iTunes later this month, in partnership with Air’s global publisher EMI. Enjoy.
Why We Should Stop Feeling Entitled And Start Enjoying Music Again
We’re at a crossroads.
A hefty sense of fan entitlement (exhibited quintessentially during this past weekend’s so-called Daisygate) in our music community has skewed the traditional relationship between artists and their fans. But how did the paradigm shift so far from the norm? Editor-in-Chief Erik van Rheenen explores the problems of fans feeling entitled and how to fix a breaking the continuously dangerous cycle.
It’s more blessed to give than to receive — that’s an angelic old proverb someone heaven-sent like Jesse Lacey doesn’t dare forget. Maybe Brand New found themselves swept up in the spirit of the holiday season or felt like giving some shine to songs collecting dust in the back of their discography or Lacey just wanted an outlet to strut his best Tony Lewis impression out on stage, but there was enough blessedness to go around when the band announced four intimate discography shows. Two coasts. Two concerts out west in California, two concerts more homeward bound in Brand New’s native New York and New Jersey. Two albums and a fistful of B-sides per night. To fans, from Brand New, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays.
But there wasn’t a heck of a lot of blessedness on the receiving end of all that giving — at least not Friday night in Long Island, when the opening strains of “Vices” didn’t make a vocal minority of fans glad to be where they were with whoever they were there with. Having demanded Deja once Brand New closed out The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me in proper — an unlikely-if-not-impossible possibility, since the band already paired Devil and Daisy once during the flurry of discography shows — some fans whipped into a storm of boos and exited, off-stage right, and from the safety of the space behind their laptop screens and smartphones, lashed out against the band on social media. Personifying the consensus as an embattled fan who made moves for the doors when the band didn’t surrender their integrity to the pressure and play “Tautou,” that fan scathed the band with a “Fuck you for not playing what we wanted to hear. We made you. You owe us.”
When did the paradigm shift? Since when have fans stolen the creative license from bands? Who decided that it was okay for individuals in an audience who snapped up tickets to a discography show, knowing full well the records they’d hear would be selected by the band, to say, “Hey, it’s cool that you want to play Daisy, but since I’m here and I don’t really like that one, think you might play Deja instead? Thanks.”
The problem here, as Jason Tate so eloquently mentioned on Chorus.fm, is that “It feels like somewhere along the moment where everyone started downloading music for free that we lost track of our own role and place in the entire food-chain.” Where artists once kept creative control close to the vest, somewhere down the line, we the fans collectively determined that what we want to listen to supersedes what our favorite artists want us to listen to, and that was okay. Some fans harbored quiet disappointment, silently bumming out when Fall Out Boy didn’t play a favorite cut off Take This To Your Grave during their comeback tour. Others flaunt their entitlement proudly — ever hear a fan scream at Dustin Kensrue to play “Deadbolt” at a Thrice show? Yeah.
“There are things in there editors won’t like, and things in there that publishers won’t like,” a Condé Nast editor tells AdAge about the company’s decision to formalize its native advertising policies.
An approximately 4,000-word internal document is currently circulating the company, AdAge reports, that “not only delves into advertising but also provides standards and practices around certain legal and privacy concerns, including how the company will handle consumer data.”
Condé Nast includes publications such as Wired, Vogue, The New Yorker and Vanity Fair among many others.
Other large publishers, such as Hearst (Cosmo and Esquire) and Time, Inc (Time, People and Sports Illustrated), are sticking to more general guidelines and making case-by-case decisions on native ads and their formats.
[T]he Time and Sports Illustrated cover ads appear to violate the guidelines of the American Society of Magazine Editors, the influential trade group that awards the National Magazine Awards. The first rule in its guidelines for magazine editors and publishers is, “Don’t print ads on covers.”
“The cover is the editor and publisher’s brand statement,” it says. “Advertisements should not be printed directly on the cover or spine.”
That said, print newspapers such as the Financial Times and the Wall Street Journal run ads on their front pages, and ads on the home pages of magazine and news sites are pretty much the norm.
“You can either say this is a groundbreaking decision to put ads on covers after 91 years in the business,” Norman Pearlstine, Time Inc’s chief content officer, tells AdAge, "or you can say this is a relatively modest reference that catches up to what’s going on in the industry.“
My name is Fred Marshall, and my brand is exquisite. My social networks are in full bloom. My blog posts are SEO-friendly. I have crafted an impenetrable online presence and I am constantly improving it.
I have 92 Google alerts, and their sinuous arms traverse the web. They are variations of my name, places of employment past, present, and future, cities I’ve lived in and lived close to, and the names of all my pets. My dog is Efficiency. My cat is Ambition.
I utilize a triple-monitor computer setup. Each screen ranges from 27 to 33 inches and they curl around my desk. This is my command center. TweetDeck takes up the leftmost screen, and that is where I monitor my private account, public account, and aggregation account, which is where I mostly just retweet Mashable links. The other two screens are mishmashes of Chrome and Firefox tabs. I cycle through subreddits at mach two. I share things that You Will Not Believe. I am become clickbait, destroyer of #longform.
I create. I curate. I work hard to be myself.
I am Entrepreneur 2.0. My LinkedIn account is 100 percent complete, as I have uploaded my resume. I check in on Foursquare as soon as I wake up. I am the mayor of my apartment. I am a Snapchat wunderkind. I’ll give you my WiFi password when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.
Other Fred Marshalls challenge the sanctity of my brand. They live across the country, and they post on Twitter and Facebook, and those posts are cached, and now there are Fred Marshalls competing with me for Internet space. Some of them say things that are off-color. They offend people. They pick fights with Patton Oswalt on Twitter. At any moment, he could answer. At any moment, outrage could find its way to my door.
My brand! I fear for the safety of my brand!
So I am in San Diego, at the doorstep of one Fred Marshall. The sky is deeply, brilliantly blue. It is cloudless but for a few wisps that accent the beauty. I Instagram it. I go #nofilter. I do not add a geotag. This is a covert mission.
“Can I help you?” Fred Marshall asks. He has answered his front door. His house is handsome.
“I am a mama tiger, fiercely guarding my cubs.” I say. “My brand is a church, and its worshippers are pious and pure.”
He is confused.
“You cannot be a part of this,” I continue, lighting the underside of my face with my flashlight app. I take out a gun. “I am building my future. I am Fred Marshall.”
I guide him to the computer in his den. MapMyRun tells me that walk was .005 miles, but I don’t share it to Facebook, and that gives me a dirty thrill. The adrenaline courses through me. Together, we delete his accounts. He is asking me about his safety. He is pleading for me to leave, to put the gun away. I am telling him to delete his tweets, one by one.
I am telling him the Internet is a vast, frightening place, and I cannot let anyone think poorly of me. I must defend my name. I must remain myself. I must protect my brand.
[Jon Wolper is a writer and journalist who has contributed to McSweeney’s, Splitsider, The Big Jewel, and other neat places. He tweets here.]
PropertyOfZack launched Inside during the summer of 2013 with Run For Cover Records. We’re bringing you the first part of the second installment of the series today with Kevin Devine, and it just so happens to line up with the one year anniversary of Kevin’s ambitious and successful Kickstarter drive.
What we’re striving to do with Inside is to bring you incredibly in-depth content from your favorite artists, labels, and companies in the music industry with insights and details you would never be able to find in a normal interview or story. It would be hard to explain the importance Kevin Devine has had on the development of PropertyOfZack over the years, and we’re honored to have him as our second Inside feature.
Part one features The Untold Story of Kevin Devine from the man himself, and it’s just one of the many interesting and powerful pieces we’ll be bringing you about Kevin over the next month. Enjoy part one, and we hope to see you back next week!
A Brooklyn boy from Staten Island. A lot of musicians use their home as a springboard for the music they create, but you seem to take things a step beyond that within your songs.
It’s funny, because I don’t think that the music I ended up making is specific to New York aesthetically at all. The stuff I make, it could be from the Midwest, the Pacific Northwest, or California. It’s just kind of like catch-all rock music with some folk influences. You can see this root, even though they went in totally different directions, with bands like Brand New and Taking Back Sunday. There was a certain thing. Even The Strokes and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. We didn’t sound like that, but we were evenly playing shows between these rock bands and these emo bands - Miracle Of ’86. We could slide back and forth because we had similar genes as the Long Island band, but we could play with those leather jacket rock bands.
When I think of New York music, depending on which timeframe you’re talking about, it’s Bob Dylan in the early-’60s and Velvet Underground in the late-’60s, all the CBGBs stuff, Talking Heads, and The Ramones, and all that. Then it’s like rap and Sonic Youth in the ‘80s. Then it becomes LCD Soundsystem, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and The Strokes. I don’t think what I do, what Miracle did, or what this thing is, is definitive in terms of New York music. But what I think, for me, growing up in Brooklyn and in Staten Island â€” if anything’s in there in my music, it’s from growing up with those hardcore kids in Staten Island. Not a lasting stain, but almost philosophical instead of sonic: the way those kids looked at making music and treating the people that came to see you play. I never played hardcore music, but I played around hardcore kids. Their thing was that there was never any distance between you and the performer. Everyone was on an even playing field.
I was always the kid in bands that were ripping off Nirvana around hardcore bands, but they let us play with them and and their politics got into me. Those politics of performance and how you treat your audience, that stuff is the lasting thing from me growing up in that stuff. Way more than the aesthetic or sonic thing was. That’s a longwinded way of saying that I don’t know if it’s a conscious thing in me of New York, Brooklyn, or Staten Island, but that seems to be almost reflexive at this point. There’s a voice in my head of me being 14 and kids being 17, and that if you treat the crowd like Led Zeppelin treated their crowd, you were an asshole. There was no hero worship. I don’t know if some of that’s specific to the grittiness of being from a place like New York. I didn’t grow up into an art damaged scene in Williamsburg, I grew up in a working class, blue collar, non-ostentatious part â€” boroughs. Those people don’t give a shit about if you’re in a band or not. They want to know if that guy’s a good guy or is an asshole.
Your father was a cop. Your father’s father was a cop. Your mom is an RN. What was it like growing up inside of a house like that? On paper, it feels strict. Also, you’re not a cop. Also, at heart, those hardcore politics are within you.
My mom was born in 1952 and was like 12 when The Beatles played on Ed Sullivan. She was a teenager when Dylan was Dylan, and all of that protest music and those social changes were happening. My dad was a lot older than my mom. He was married once before. My three older brothers and older sister are half siblings from that marriage. My dad’s joke would be that he probably knocked my mom out at a protest with a baton at one point in Central Park. He was like a young cop and she was like a teenage counter-culturalist or whatever.