the mock-up.

With classes done for the semester, my brain (fearful of going into withdrawal) is pouncing on new things to think about. If history is any indication, this'll lead to some longish, mostly nonsensical blog entries, much like the one that follows. This one is either so good that I should be cross-posting it to my school blog or so utterly remedial that I'll have to shelve it in the purgatory that is the melodrama category. I should have that figured out in the morning.

Anyway, I'm in the middle of The Long Tail, which is turning out to be a thankfully fast and interesting read. I worked through another chapter of it on the T tonight as I was heading to the Andrew Bird concert at Berklee. And at some point during the concert I came up with this theory: The Long Tail has played a significant part in the devaluing of sentimentality that has emerged in the digital age. I realize that that sounds pretentious (hence the cross-posting-to-school-blog potential) but bear with me.

Anyone who's not familiar with concept of The Long Tail can get an in-depth summary here, although I recommend the book; as I said, it's a quick read. In a very condensed nutshell, it's the idea that niche markets can be both valuable and profitable. Anyone who's not familiar with the current climate of devalued sentimentality can go to any rock show at any small to midsized venue and observe the hipsters with crossed arms and blank stares. Better yet, look at the American Idol incident when that random girl was seen passionately sobbing during Sanjaya's performance; she was soundly mocked all over the place.

So how does one fit into the other? Two ways.

Uno: The Long Tail has fragmented the mass audience into millions of small niche audiences, and being part of a smaller audience naturally retards mass rushes of emotion. As we find ourselves consuming more obscure pieces of media, we find that the number of people who aren't even interested in the same piece of media, let alone moved by it, are staggeringly huge. It's easy to sing and dance and scream along with a performer if a huge audience is doing the same thing; it's a lot harder to sucumb to that when you're one of only fifty people in a room.

Deux: As media industries started to embrace the Long Tail, they found that old methods of top-down marketing were obsolete. Who takes advice from billboards anymore? Who even watches TV ads if they're not crushingly clever little pieces of art by themselves? So these media makers are marketing directly to niche audiences in a way that they've never been courted before. I think this has bred suspicion, which (like diminished audience support) makes people hold back enthusiasm.

I came up with this half-baked theory when I started thinking about why music makes me cry. I'm a big fan of Andrew Bird -- I saw him live at Bonnaroo and was completely floored -- and I find something really moving about his music. When I'm in a certain mood, "Fiery Crash" can literally make me cry. This can be a little embarassing when one is, say, on the bus, or in a coffeeshop, or in a crowded Berklee Performance Center. But why is is embarassing? And why aren't more people publicly and authentically moved to tears by music?

The show at Berklee was absolutely fantastic. Big, crashing, orchestral walls of sound, and he's got a voice that could melt the chocolate off an Oreo. I think I would have enjoyed it even more if I'd let myself be more openly moved by some of the bigger, better songs, and either done a little head-bopping or shed a few tears. So I angrily shake my fist at The Long Tail for putting me in this position. At least until I finish the book.

Against my better judgement, here's "Fiery Crash" for your listening pleasure. If you can figure out what's so moving about it, let me know. I think I might just be a sucker for strings.