1984
Selling the Real
Pop Music on the Market
Things started to feel unreal in 1984. Or maybe the better word is hyperreal: An uncanny valley where intention and expression, surface and depth, image and substance went all topsy-turvy. Signifiers and signifieds were increasingly collapsed, representations of things conflated with the things themselves. As French sociologist Jean Baudrillard wrote just three years prior, the sense by 1984 was that “the simulacrum is never what hides the truth-it is truth that hides the fact that there is none. The simulacrum is true.” (A “simulacrum,” echoing the less academic term “simulation,” referring to a representation or imitation of a person or thing.)

The era’s uneasy relationship with the real is all over the music of 1984. The only analog instrument on Debbie Deb’s electro workout “Lookout Weekend” is the human voice itself—often manipulated and processed—laid on a bed of drum machines and synthesizers. Lizzy Mercier Descloux’s “Mais Où Sont Passées Les Gazelles” is agnostic toward authenticity and cultural provenance, repurposing a South African disco banger into a genre-bending slice of new wave art pop. Fellow new wave and pop acts similarly steamrolled sincerity and history in music videos accompanying hit singles in the United States, heralding a new relationship between the visual and the audible in popular music—another venue for representation.
This had a lot to do with advances in technology, and not just the cable television bringing music to listening audiences paired with video. Think of how, in 1976 already, King Tubby was remixing recordings as his primary means of artistic expression. By 1984, recordings were the primary place where music existed. Some recordings were made up of highly manipulated sounds, nearly impossible to reproduce live with analog instruments; others were composed with a level of perfection fundamentally unattainable live, composed ofpieces of digital information stitched together through painstaking studio engineering.
But of course technology is intertwined with the society that produces it. And the technology taking off in the 80s went hand-in-hand with America’s commitment to a new vision for itself. Ronald Reagan’s staggering victory in the 1984 presidential election, after years of nationwide political and economic ambivalence, conclusively set America on a path that understood “freedom” and “market” as synonymous, reshaping American society and its culture as a result.
The society produced by this new vision had its own uncomfortable relationship with the real. Productive industries were replaced with financialized ones; industrial labor replaced with professional and managerial roles. A looser approach to credit across American society allowed politicians to avoid hard questions around allocating limited resources by simply increasing the size of the pie through debt financing. And the increasingly globalized market gave transnational corporations power agnostic to their relationship to a given community, culture, or country.
In that environment, the depthlessness of hyperreal cultural expression was a feature, not a bug. Record labels of the time sought what they called “international repertoire”: Music that could be separated from the context that gave it meaning in order to be sold all over the globe. Music that’s easy to translate because there’s no intention, depth, or substance beyond a simple statement: “This was made to be sold to you.”
In need of an act to fill Bob Marley’s sizable shoes, Island Records tried to turn Yoruba Nigerian jùjú star King Sunny Adé into international repertoire in the early 80s. After two moderately successful albums and a Grammy nomination, hopes were high for his third major label release. 1984’s Aura would prove an astounding effort—startlingly original yet approachable, in dialogue with American popular music yet steeped in jùjú tradition—and a complete commercial failure. The story of the global market and its relationship with the real had a lot to do with that outcome.
The global market was not new to Yoruba society or its culture. The Yoruba were long organized around internal and external trade; in fact, trade was one of the ways status was accumulated within the hierarchical Yoruba society, a hierarchy established and affirmed in part through the performance of oríkì. Translated to English as “praise poetry,” oríkì is something like dramatized oral history: It venerates a subject by placing them favorably in their social, familial, or historical context. Powerful Yoruba leaders would be venerated by oríkì that demonstrated and affirmed their leadership role in the community. And as Yoruba entanglements with the global market changed—first under the Atlantic Slave Trade, then British colonial rule, and finally the global oil market—so did the shape and role of oríkì.
It’s that last one that brings us back to King Sunny Adé. Because the oil booms of the 1970s brought with them an explosion in conspicuous consumption across Yorubaland (and Nigeria writ large) that gave oríkì its newest shape, in the form of jùjú music. Jùjú had its origins in 1930s Lagos, a hybrid of imported and local sounds. By the 1970s, artists like Adé would venerate the oil boom’s nouveau riche as a key part of the performance. Bandleaders organized their performances around praising the right people to maximize the amount of money subjects would “spray” them with in acknowledgment. This new approach to jùjú music was tremendously successful: Adé released over 40 albums in Nigeria in the 1960s and 70s, often selling over 200,000 copies apiece.
So King Sunny Adé’s music was already beholden to the global market, if indirectly, when Island Records signed him. (The move was also great business sense on the part of Adé; an oil crash severely cut back on the foreign money flowing into Nigeria in the 1980s, culminating in a military coup on New Year’s Eve 1984.) And he earned a reputation in Nigeria as an experimental, tech-forward musician, incorporating novel instruments like the pedal steel guitar and even the synthesizer on some of his earlier Nigerian releases. Between his market savvy and willingness to engage with technology used in contemporary American popular music, it’s plain what promise Island saw in Adé.
Aura’s music delivers on that promise. Album opener “Ase” layers spaced-out pedal steel, jittery guitars, and a Stevie Wonder harmonica solo to make something that plays like the Talking Heads in reverse: A West African artist incorporating American sounds and techniques to make his own vision of the future of music. (Talking Heads frontman David Byrne cited King Sunny Adé as an influence on their 1980 album Remain in Light.) Album closer “Iro” squares a drum machine’s mechanical beat with traditional jùjú percussion to make a robotic funk groove just a short hop away from the boogie catching on around the globe. Along the way, album highlight “Gboromiro” is a seven minute exercise in digital studio perfection, an impenetrable wall of percussion and guitar arranged like a jigsaw puzzle.
All of which is, frankly, kind of hard to sell in 1984. Unlike Bob Marley or fellow Yoruba Nigerian Fela Kuti, this doesn’t come off as protest music; it’s not providing a voice for the voiceless. It’s first and foremost popular music, dance music, music that—on its home turf in Nigeria—has made peace with the global market, the existing hierarchy, the status quo. It’s not that truth-to-power kind of real. But for popular music, it hasn’t quite untethered itself from its context. It wants to be sold to you, sure, but it wants you to buy it on its terms. For all Adé’s business savvy in Nigeria, the global market requires that music be more like crude oil, a depthless commodity to be refined and sold per the market’s whims. Oil that refines itself doesn’t power the machine.









































































































