On the 29th of July 2022, a twenty-eight-year-old, mild-mannered Londoner performed an hour-long Boiler Room set to an energetic crowd. The artist in question, Fred John Philip Gibson (more commonly known by his stage name Fred Again) had been a somewhat elusive figure as a musical producer, despite working alongside the likes of Burna Boy and Stormzy. Preferring not to share the limelight with the commercially successful artists he worked with, Fred Again remained something of an enigma to his contemporaries.
Fast forward three months, his boiler room performance had amassed millions of views on YouTube, meaning Fred is quickly becoming a household name in electronic music. Just by watching his performances online, the underlying reasons behind his meteoric rise to stardom become apparent. Fred Again possesses a certain talent for inducing complete elation in the crowds that gather to see him play. His rare mix of vivid storytelling and euphoric instrumentation is reminiscent of a previous era of dance music, a time that seemed less digital and uniform, and therefore far more tactile and human.
A few minutes into his boiler room set, I was hit with a wave of intoxicating nostalgia; somehow this platinum-blond-haired Londoner seemed to encapsulate the pure joy of early Daft Punk, the honest storytelling of Kendrick Lamar, and the addictive basslines of Chase & Status. Fred is a breath of fresh air to a genre that is suffocated by formulaic, synthetic dance tunes devoid of real personality. Fred is able to separate himself from other artists by providing music that is as fiercely intimate and personal as it is sonically enjoyable. Brutally honest anecdotes of substance abuse and mental health problems interweave the melodies of Fred’s house inspired tracks. In a digital age, where human connection is a rare commodity, Fred Again’s music is something of a saving grace.
The rapid ascent of Fred Again to fame, and the cult following he has amassed along the way, is indicative of an important sentiment – there is an intrinsic gravitation towards art that is honest and vulnerable. While Fred’s music is being played in virtually every underground club in London, it is important to recognize that Fred’s newfound acclaim is a consequence of how unapologetically human his music is.
Years ago, on one of my 4-hour voyages through the black hole of Spotify’s recommended for you section, I stumbled across an artist called Taeko Ohnuki, a Japanese pop singer and songwriter from the 70s. Her song じゃじゃ馬娘 (Jajauma Musume), the first track on her 1978 album Mignonne, stirred a peculiar curiosity within me that I had not felt for quite some time. I immediately knew that whatever genre of music this track belonged to, I was in. Despite not speaking a single word of Japanese and, subsequently, not having a clue what she was singing about, the rise and fall of her soaring vocals, accompanied by the funky synth and an incredible guitar solo, created such an intense feeling of nostalgia within me, nostalgia for an era in which I was not even conceived.
Hooked on the distinct feeling that her record gave me of intense melancholy, coupled with wanting to dance my arse off, I searched for more, coming across a plethora of Japanese songs from the 80s categorised as ‘City Pop’. I came to discover that this music was the soundtrack to Japan’s economic boom in the 1980s, and was somewhat influenced by American rock, soul and R&B, perhaps why it seemed so unheard yet so familiar. The genre as a whole gave me the feeling of glimpsing through a window into the past, with many of the songs energies seemingly capturing the atmosphere of the 80s, the synthy and upbeat instrumentals creating the perfect backdrop to a good boogie.
Despite my propensity for a good dance, what I found the most enthralling about City Pop were the melancholy undertones that seem to lurk in the background of every track, creeping through the discography that I poured over and giving the tracks dimension. Underlying emotions of heartache seemed to seep through hidden cracks in each song, itching a part of my brain that I didn’t know existed. The juxtaposition between the catchy hooks and cheery sounds and the lyrics that speak of regret, lost love and gloom help to create that sense of nostalgia, and within me, summon the feeling of looking back at time passed and love lost.
This is perhaps why Tomoko Aran’s 1983 hit Midnight Pretenders pairs so well with the toxic and regretful lyricism of The Weekend’s discography today, particularly on his 2022 album Dawn FM, in which his track Out of Time samples the song. In the chorus and it’s repeating phrase ‘Say I love you girl, but I’m out of time’ The Weekend’s dreamy tenor, both distinct and versatile, seamlessly intertwines with arguably two of the most important elements of City Pop, the melancholy lyrics and the groovy, nostalgic instrumental. The Weekend’s undeniably incredible vocal performance makes the song an instant hit, shining a light on the genre of the sample.
Overwhelmingly, however, the topic of the song interlaces perfectly with the melancholy sentiment of many Japanese City Pop songs. The Weekend proclaims his yearning to rekindle a relationship, despite the fact that he knows his efforts are meaningless and that he must accept that he is ‘Out of Time’ to show her his love. Patrick St Michel, a Japan-based music writer asserted that Out of Time, is “the most mainstream example of any older Japanese music being introduced to a wider audience”, and I am thrilled that people all over the globe have been able to experience the same mind-melting groove that gave me chills back in 2019.
When reflecting on previous avant-garde poets and movements, such as Allen Ginsberg and the New Age poets or Ezra Pound and the Modernist movement, it seems that new poetry is almost always divisive and controversial in its contemporary context. We often wonder why these works were such furious points of literary contention. I now want to be on the right side of history, embracing new art forms and styles with open arms. However, when I consider the new era of ‘Insta-poetry’, front-lined by poet Rupi Kaur whose work first shot to fame on the social media platform in approximately 2015, I am unsure which side I want to be on at all.
Kaur, self-styled a “poet, artist and a performer”, publishes and promotes her poetry on her Instagram account with a vast following of 4.5 million. She is known for her distinctly brief and fragmented poetic form, typed in all lowercase letters and without punctuation, and usually accompanied by a small sketch:
The debate about the value and nature of Kaur’s work has been particularly vociferous, and I have no desire to feed into a fierce pool of unnecessary criticism. However, whilst I understand her writing is emotionally impactful, I struggle to see how it can be called ‘poetry’; at least it seems less like poetry than the work of Ginsberg or Pound. Though it is not necessary for poetry to have form, I propose Kaur’s work lacks something that means it often fails to fulfil the conditions of real poetry. This deficiency’s exact nature seems elusive and contentious for all. While her work may be short, great Haiku poetry is only a few lines long; and though her words are decapitalised, this is also often the case for many contemporary poets. Hence, I pose the following questions: what exactly is Kaur’s writing lacking, and why does it matter?
I first contend that Kaur’s art lacks the unique specificity that provides most poetry it’s crucial emotional passion and substance, a point on which she has received a great body of criticism. Her work rarely provides a geographic or temporal location nor explicit context and abounds with generalised pronouns as she addresses the wider ‘you’ of her readers. This universality is amplified further by her poetry’s brevity. I provide these two examples from her 2015 collection ‘milk and honey’ for reference.
Kaur’s work is deliberately vague and imprecise for the purpose of being relatable to most people’s circumstances and contexts; the ‘all’ she depicts (or doesn’t depict) in the second poem is consciously undefined for this very reason. In the same way, her poem begins just after an event – ‘and’ – yet the exact occurrence remains unknown. The ‘you’ she addresses in the first poem could refer to anyone, thus easily translatable into a reader’s own life; and the ‘you’ addressed in the second is explicitly her audience. Though Kaur’s poetry thus appears to express passionate personal sentiment, at its bottom it does not entail anything individual or intimate at all; its emotion and personality is provided by her reader’s interpretation of it. This is arguably the key to Kaur’s popularity – her poetry can apply to everyone and anything, easily accessible and crafted for mass consumption.
Of course, I am hesitant to fall into the trap of poetic elitism. As Monika Hartmann suggests, Kaur’s work “democratises” poetry so that all can appreciate it; merely because something can be understood by all does not mean it is inherently bad or unworthy. Universality could be a vital asset of Kaur’s work. However, for me her artwork lacks the specificity and personal feeling that I think poetry – or at least captivating poetry – requires. Her poems do not make “monuments” out of “moments” (as Dante Gabriel Rossetti once wrote about sonnets), finding beauty and profundity in a singular place and time; but rather provide shiny all-purpose statements that could mirror any time and event in a reader’s life. Kaur’s poetry therefore may be reflective, but I certainly do not believe it is authentically personal.
Furthermore, the immediate transparency and directness of her work also means that it does not need much thought to understand. She rarely uses figurative language, and her metaphors and similes are instantly obvious or explained to the reader. Many of her poems likewise seem to be frank statements of fact and advice, absenting any literary features at all. This is an example from her newest collection ‘home body’:
I do not deny that this poem can be emotionally powerful for its readers; in fact, I think that Kaur’s frankness intensifies her work’s vitality and impact. However, I do also strongly believe that good poetry requires a little thought from the reader in its understanding; poetry needs to be interpreted and mused on rather than simply served up to its reader on a silver platter. Kaur’s work does not engage a reader’s thought in the process of reading it, as they do not need to discover its meaning: it is spooned directly and straightforwardly, straight into their mouths. Her poetry to me appears more like statements reflecting fact, or self-help advice; while perhaps powerful and motivating, you do not need to think to understand it.
At the core of my arguments thus far lies my conviction that Kaur’s work seems crafted more for immediate mass consumption than individual deliberate thought. Both the structural form of her poems – their brevity, the frequent line breaks, the decapitalization of her words for no apparent purpose – and her direct transparency of meaning and universality all suggest that her work has been crafted to be read quickly by many. While superficially her writing seems genuinely confessional, at its core it does not offer much real emotional substance; likewise, it does not inspire much deliberation on its meaning. Kaur’s work seems to reflect its creation in the Instagram-age, in which we are used to consuming art and media at a rapid speed and forming an opinion after only a quick glance. Her work is perfected for the Instagram feed. While I cannot deny its emotional power and inspiration, I do not think either that a lot of it can be classed as poetry. Without personal contextualisation and emotion or figurative language, I think Kaur’s writing consists instead of beautiful assertions and mirroring musings on reality. Its focus is on its reader rather than its writer. This is art fashioned for consuming rather than thinking. But, perhaps, in our intensely commercial environment, this is what art is becoming?
