El calendari festiu i l'any litúrgic

The individual is not only condemned to disappearance, but disappearance is also its strategy; it is a way of response to this device for capture, for networking, and for forced identification.

(Baudrillard, 2001, p.216)

In their early stages of development, EDM genres and subgenres tend to employ aspects of anonymity purely by being ‘off radar’. During this gestation period – where genres and/or their associated scenes may be relatively undersubscribed and may not even be functioning under an agreed name – they may be perceived as simply lacking widespread recognition rather than actively seeking exclusivity and elusiveness. Further to this, in its rudimentary form, a scene or genre may be too complex or ill-defined to be acknowledged and comprehended on a large scale. Gelman supports the latter when stating how “all ideas in their formative state are complicated” but argues that a practice of “subtraction” – or a kind of simplification – are a way of processing and clarifying these ideas (1999, p.12). In terms of establishing new varietals of EDM, this may often require the grouping of distinct aesthetic elements by retailers, commentators and other organisations (including record labels) in order to define the characteristics of the emerging style. Yet this also presents a problem: that in widely locating a genre by selecting its most obvious and dominant elements, the more nuanced characteristics within the music can be ignored. Dubstep provides one such example of this process.

Reynolds notes that in its early stages, dubstep was a development or “mutation” of the earlier UK garage genre that had notably “dropped the songs and pop-fizzy euphoria in favour of… empty space” (2013a, p.641). Clark agrees when stating that dubstep “used to be a niche concern, often dismissed as a dark UK garage mutation from the South London margins of Croydon, Streatham and Norwood” (2007, p.65). Yet Reynolds additionally acknowledges that it represented “a consolidation sound rather than a great leap forward” (2013a, p.641) as it heavily bore that influence of UK garage alongside aesthetics derived from the jungle genre and the once Warp Records-associated sound of ‘bleep and bass’. Additionally, he references Philip Sherburne’s observation that dubstep paralleled a techno development that had ushered in its Basic Channel-inspired minimal subgenre: so that both were notable for the almost subliminal placing of pared-down sonic elements within empty space (ibid.). But it is within

Reynolds’ discussion of both dubstep and minimal techno (or, his preferred variant, “microhouse”) as “homeostatic” that he presents a case for a “self-correction mechanism” that has allowed both scenes/genres to avoid moving in one definitive direction whilst simultaneously offering flexibility for producers to experiment within a scene that becomes recognised for and defined by its commitment to variety (2013a, pp.641-642). However, while records by producers including Horsepower Productions and Hatcha can retrospectively be seen as having pioneered the dubstep genre (just as Basic Channel and Robert Hood may be credited as minimal techno’s innovators), it is notable that this first wave of releases would have been contributing to a scene that was barely there: that their introduction as part of dissemination mechanisms (DJ sets, radio play, specialist record shops) involved their placing alongside records that did not share the same musical components. Most likely first featured alongside UK garage releases where – amongst some of the more experimental and dub- influenced tracks of garage figureheads like Wookie and El-B – dubstep tracks would have initially been perceived as a new inflection within a pre-existing sound. Therefore growth in this inflected version would have been needed so that such output could be positioned exclusively alongside similar material and culminate in a distinctively separate scene. This appears to have been advanced significantly around 2001 when documented by Goodman in a magazine article on, London club night, Forward. While it was observed that the club, at that point, is still soundtracked by a fusion of EDM styles, he notes that a particular sound popular at Forward which is identified as ‘dark garage’ is now substantial enough to be considered as more than a subset of something else. As he puts it:

Dark garage certainly is no new phenomenon, and there have been several rival strains competing for evolutionary selection. The only difference now is that there is enough quality dubs on the market to make it potentially autonomous as a scene, with all the black holes and dead ends which that can pose.

(Goodman, 2001, online)

However, there is a tentative quality to this article – particularly in the naming of the emergent genre. When Goodman states that “as a sign of things to come, it is deeply promising” (ibid.), his enthusiasm for the latest musical developments are clearly evident yet there appears to be a reticence for the clear categorization of the scene. Subsequently he offers more than one option:

This sound could be termed ‘nu-dark swing’ […] ‘Nu-dark swing’ is driven by scuttling, sidewinding, 2step shuffles, treble and bass scattered with woodblocks and rim shots, often completely snare-less drum patterns, with accents in all kinds of strange positions.

(ibid.)

Further to this, Goodman mentions ‘dubstep’ once yet only in conjunction with the Tempa label which had itself already utilised the term. Only hindsight allows our understanding of the nascent 2001 scene that is described as being what is now widely known as ‘dubstep’: back then it was operating under a number of banners and, despite the connections between the aesthetics of this transitional music, producers similarly lacked a real uniformity or cohesion. As such, Reynolds’ citing of variety as an important part of dubstep isn’t then exactly incorrect. Essentially, it was. But, to a degree, this has changed.

Within dubstep’s growth – as it has moved through a process of transition that has established its agreed name and a sound – it has come to be perceived as representing a specific direction. This direction is particularly evident where its growth has resulted in more mainstream interest and where a widespread reductionist understanding has shifted focus from the music’s use of space to its occasional use (or ‘the drop’) of aggressive bass effects. Even despite how seemingly radical and supposedly ‘un-commercial’ extreme bass elements may have once been viewed as being, these more totemic components of the music have been subsequently used as both dubstep’s signifier and as a sometime shorthand for ‘underground’ that has been incorporated by everyone from major label pop stars to advertising agencies in order to communicate the youthful expression of a particular moment. As Reynolds concedes, “in its formative years, dubstep had been a connoisseur’s sound: deep and dark” yet its growing accessibility became linked to an almost cartoonish ‘wobble’-linked strain (that, in some quarters, would eventually be defined as ‘brostep’) that was “increasingly in-your face and hard-riffing” (2013a, pp.698-699).11

Dubstep’s subsequent mainstream assimilation (at least in terms of the more general understanding of ‘dubstep’ as being linked to a number of overtly pronounced musical aesthetics) has prompted many original producers to, if not abandon the scene, at least distance themselves from some of the genre’s more obvious aesthetic details and, in some cases, avoid the term dubstep.12 Thus a “self-correction mechanism” may, instead, involve a resistance to both an established category and an increasingly predetermined or even ‘generic’

sound in order to retain originality and maintain an individual’s own cult value. So while Reynolds may be choosing to view the on-going variety that provides a continued impetus behind the genre’s participants, he may be giving consideration to work that is being produced by composers that are actively avoiding that classification. By way of illustration, a number of key producers from the scene – such as Benga and Skream – have more recently disassociated themselves from dubstep by moving towards house and techno music: genres that had already outlasted a ‘next big thing’ status and be perceived as having further potential for longevity. Alternatively, Reynolds discusses how many of dubstep’s “scene elders and original converts” dispersed via “semi-experimental or house-influenced realms that eventually acquired the unsatisfactorily vague umbrella term post-dubstep”: a development that he insists produced much the same effect of previous club-rooted genres that had sought-out a contemplative and supposedly more ‘intelligent’ position (2013a, p.703). His criticism then not only focuses on the change of style – in its sacrificing of sound system dynamics for what he describes as a “tepid interzone” between dance music and home-listening – but in the change of format as ambitions shifted from DJ-oriented 12” singles to full-length albums (ibid.). But it is through these more expansive canvases that dubstep originators have been provided with the opportunity to demonstrate an original perspective and subsequently could distance themselves from other, similarly rooted producers. Market conditions have simultaneously determined that less established (as in newer and/or lower status) producers would not have been offered such opportunities: for them, the shorter and more disposable single format is a less financially risky option while the continued links to genre as a marketing device would continue to maintain importance.

Hesmondhalgh observes that genre is ultimately integral to non-established composers when stating how “in general, the less well known a performer, the more important it is that the consumer has genre information” (1998a, p.238). The bigger names, he argues, are operating within a space that is beyond genre. Subsequently genre is initially essential to align composers/producers/performers with purchasers while it simultaneously becomes a component in the building of personal profile. To then be considered beyond genre is then beneficial to musicians for two main reasons. The first is that it allows creative flexibility where a musician is not tied to a specific sound or scene. This has the potential for both further self-fulfilment and career longevity. Yet being ‘beyond genre’ can simultaneously be testament to an individual that has, in fact, outgrown or transcended genre and – like Madonna, Prince or Bjork – suggests a musician that can use genre conventions yet avoid being defined by them. In the post-dubstep environment, the album format has proved

important in this differentiation between the genre artist and the ‘beyond genre’ name. It has additionally allowed a number of producers to make music that is of interest to listeners that are also outside of a specific scene. Yet, unlike its pop counterpart, this has been done within dubstep whilst maintaining a low profile and actually taking a position of “deliberate self- marginalization” (Gilbert and Pearson, 1999, p.161) and while releasing music that, according to Reynolds, was typified by “a fantasy of public inwardness” (2013a, p.705). This has been documented most clearly in the cases of, sometime dubstep-aligned producers, Zomby and Burial: two album-issuing musicians with audience interest outside of a particular scene who both utilise aspects of anonymity within their work. In particular, this anonymity has been apparent through their public engagement, yet it becomes clear that, while related, each is typified by a very different stance that appears to suggest two almost opposing personality types: with Burial’s introvert tendencies contrasting with the arguably more extrovert activities of Zomby. The connections between the maintaining of anonymity and the introvert are likely to be more easily understood: the concept of ‘shyness’ may be instinctively viewed as underpinning low-key behaviour.13 _{The suggestion of the anonymous producer as being an}

extrovert, on the other hand, may be perceived as contradictory - yet this weights the argument for anonymity also functioning within the media as a supposedly counterintuitive practice.

In Blanning’s interview feature with Zomby for The Wire magazine (2011), she attempts to negotiate potentially difficult ideas surrounding both the subject’s participation and his notorious reluctance to participate. The benefit of a suggested media aversion elsewhere is clearly evident: it highlightes the journalist’s ‘exclusive’ whilst carving out the publication’s role as a trusted and authoritative source of information. As discussed in chapter 2, this is an aspect that typified many of the interview features with Daft Punk while, within dubstep itself, Clark’s previously cited article on the DMZ club night framed quotes from dubstep DJ/producer Mala with an explanation that they were sourced from “a rare interview” (2007, p.65). In Blanning’s case, this is similarly not implied as subtext: the reader is explicitly reminded of the feature’s exclusive nature. In turn, it suggests that the reader – courtesy of the media outlet’s own standing – has been granted a privileged position: one that facilitates the rare opportunity to penetrate an elite inner circle. Potentially considered even more privileged when the feature is revealed to have emerged from a face-to-face interview (although the subject’s face was not revealed in any of the accompanying photography), the producer’s own position on visibility/invisibility is additionally justified: “Zomby engages with those who seek him out,” it states, “on his own terms – which can change at any time” (Blanning, 2011,

p.41). The purported fragile and fleeting nature of this engagement places further importance on this relatively unrestricted access. Although this could additionally be argued as being integral to maintaining the producer’s mystique: especially when considering how it is used to illustrate the subject’s personal disregard for the mechanics of music promotion and, by association, the suggestion of creativity as commerce. Certainly, Blanning’s discussion of Zomby highlights an unpredictable and tempestuous disposition that often stands in the way of high profile, revenue-generating opportunities. This can be interpreted as an essential element in constructing a romantic image of the subject as the independent and rebellious artist. For example, the producer is presented as having a disregard for the record label to which he is contracted and both its and his own profits. Furthermore, when Blanning details how Zomby has earned a reputation for not turning up to gigs, it also allows for the feature itself to be perceived as outside of contractual obligations – or even that Kraftwerkian enslavement – to assist with the notion that “artistic pursuits and financial gain are often regarded as mutually exclusive” (Warner, 2003, p.13). Essentially it can be viewed as pre- empting accusations of ‘selling out’: a concept that Hebdige details as an ideological process where previously subversive signs are translated into mass-produced commodities (1979, p.97). The positioning of Zomby, by contrast, refuted an accepted place within mass media: something that Thornton had described as “the kiss of death” for subcultural affects (1995, p.122). The Wire magazine’s introduction to the six-page profile piece additionally states that the producer is “preserving his anonymity to underwrite his dedication to the music” (Blanning, 2011, p.36).14 However, this is never truly expressed within the article’s body text: neither Zomby nor the credited writer infers that the covert activities are an absolute requirement in order to demonstrate that commitment to his output. However, this does link to assumptions regarding anonymity “as an attempt to move focus away from the identity of the author or artist, and onto the work itself” (anon #9, 2013, online). This has been echoed elsewhere with – as one example - the Swedish production duo Skudge being quoted as saying: “we choose to be anonymous because we want the listeners to put focus on our music and not our personalities. For us the music speaks for itself” (Brophy, 2010, online). However, following her interview with Zomby, Blanning states that the suggestion of anonymity as being reflective of this focus is merely something that is “tagged onto the action” (in interview, appendix #14); that the assertion of a low profile as being ‘about the music’ is offered after the event as an almost altruistic justification for a particular approach. In fact where Blanning personally raises the subject of the producer’s anonymity within The Wire feature, she actually concedes that his approach felt “like a stratagem” (2011, p.41).

This discrepancy – the highlighting of the producer’s anonymity functioning as a tactical device – appears to be a rarity within a narrative of this kind. Where this may have been more evident is outside of the more ‘collaborative’ narrative and within a speculative discourse: particularly the kind that may have emerged outside of the established (as in the more sanctioned and moderated) areas of publishing. For example, Zomby’s stratagem is discussed with suspicion by a user calling themselves Pkay on the online message board, dupstepforum.com: “I think he wants to believe he's having some epic emotional battle going on in his head regarding artistic integrity and the state of music today but he's not. I think he wants to believe he's an introvert battling his internal image and need to express his music but he's not. Instead he's just a very calculated dude who knows exactly how he wants to play the game […] he wants to make sure his image is constructed for maximum benefit […] he understands how to hold focus” (2011, online). This accusatory and potentially demystifying stance of Zomby as non-introverted media manipulator isn’t likely to be employed by media channels that may wish to cultivate relationships and collaborate with its subjects. Blanning’s feature in The Wire is actually her second Zomby interview feature – the first having been conducted remotely via iChat in January 2009. And there are, it seems, aspects that were left out of the 2011 feature. Blanning (in interview, appendix #14) reveals that in the lead-up to the feature, it was communicated that Zomby required the feature to be magazine’s cover story if he was to participate. This was negotiated despite the fact that he also wished to hide his face (with the finished cover image featuring the producer in the Guy Fawkes mask from the 2006 film V For Vendetta which had, by then, already been adopted as a disguise for those involved in, ‘hacktivist’ group, Anonymous). Blanning also states that Zomby disclosed that he had plans to reveal his face following confirmation that he had made “his first million” pounds (ibid.). The cover image and its apparent rejection of the image is therefore not the only contradiction when approaching Zomby’s methods.15 The rejection of both his label and the professionalism required to generate income conflicts somewhat with the interest in financial gain that is highlighted by Zomby’s insistence that he will eventually sacrifice his anonymity for a price. Burial, on the other hand, appears to have consistently resisted such negotiations. Cain observes that this is typical of introverts: that “they’re relatively immune to the lures of wealth and fame” (2013, p.11). Highlighting how this may apply to Burial,