Reclaiming the Pop Star
Reclaiming the Pop Star
On November 18, I saw Rina Sawayama live. The venue she played, SOMA San Diego, was small, and I hadn’t been there since my college days, nor had I remembered how uncomfortable GA-only shows can be for “older” showgoers like myself, with foot pain (yes, even in my Docs), things to do the next morning, and certainly not enough patience to maintain a good mood for at least five hours straight: at least one in the queue, one waiting inside for the opener, a half for the opener to play their set (which never ends fast enough), another half for the period of darkness between the opener’s finale and the headliner’s entrance onto the stage, and then, at last, the actual thing one has paid for, one-and-a-half hours of the headliner’s set — which, considering the mental and physical sacrifices made leading up to it, almost always feels too brief.
When I was 19, I had the time and energy to conquer these various circles of hell; I had barricades to lean against, songs to shout, mosh pits to stand adjacent to (but never within, because hoop earrings, prescription eyeglasses, and admittedly, a smidge of terror), tinnitus to catch, and acts to cross off my mental “to see live” list. Back then, I was always in my indie-hoe element at shows, living the dream — now, I am 26 and tired of everything. My favorite venues are ones with a full bar and chairs.
Still, of course, my love for live music supersedes my hatred of the logistical nightmare that is concert-going while grown. And, for the record, the show was — surprise, surprise — somewhat nightmarish, for reasons not related to the artist’s performance itself. Rina is a phenom. Her San Diego fanbase, however? Not the fun and flirty vibe I was anticipating. The energy was too masculine, too rank (literally, it smelled nasty up in there). I was at a Rina show, but the crowd was giving Kim Petras. Full shade intended.
Anyway, all this is to say, these days, I have fuck with an artist heavy to pull up to an all-ages, frills-free venue for them. Basically, if I’m getting myself in some shit, it’s only because I know the show would leave me absolutely starstruck — an eyewitness to a marvel worth the struggle, stench, and foot pain.
As expected, Rina shut it down, executing an arena-level performance in a 3,000-person-capacity strip-mall venue: her mic was on (as always), her band was tight (even if only comprising a drummer and guitarist), her two backing dancers served copious sauce, there were numerous wardrobe changes (one for each contrasting act of the 90-minute set), and the lighting and stage design was stunning.
Having witnessed the rapture of Rina live before (that, and I zealously watch her live shows online), I knew the show put on for this tour would be not just A Moment, but The Future — much like Rina herself, a Japanese British pop singer-songwriter with the athleticism, talent, coordination, and unadulterated swagger of early aughts pop icons. Right now, as the mainstream pop space feels cloudy, artists like Rina and her contemporaries are clear, rare gems, all scintillating so brightly, it’s impossible to not notice. Or so I thought, until last week, a writer over at i-D asked the question, “Is Taylor Swift our last remaining real popstar?”
Well, is Joe Biden spry?
Really, I’m not here to tussle. I actually don’t care that much. I’m writing this blog post for sheer funsies. The opinion pages of i-D are not a SCOTUS ruling, and the headline of this particular essay was most likely deliberately clickbait-y; such is the media machine these days. That, and let’s be real: No seasoned culture writer, like the one who wrote the i-D story, actually thinks Taylor Swift is the sole survivor of some kind of Pop Music Hunger Games.
The problem with entertainment journalism in the digital age, though, is that stan culture exists, and stans will latch onto provocative, half-baked media — YouTube essays and TikTok theses — like they are, collectively, a validation teat, one that exists to nurture nothing but delusion. And seemingly innocuous stan delusion often mutates into an attack on an essential part of music as art: educated, equitable critique.
So, when a story dares to probe at such a controversial idea, that Taylor Swift — a celebrity with an alarming number of super fans who treat Swiftie-hood like a full-time job — is singularly the stuff of stars, it reads dodgy and incitive, like a pick-me headline. And headlines should never be exempt from nuance, as that one appeared to be. Not on Rina Sawayama’s internet, at least.
’Cause here’s the thing: If Taylor Swift actually is the industry’s last remaining “real pop star,” then what kind of character was Rina Sawayama personifying during all those performances over which I’ve gushed?
I’m not playing defense as a fan. I’m playing defense as a populist. This isn’t about the rank or recognition of any specific artist, such as Rina. (Although she made for a great anecdotal lead, didn’t she?) Rather, it is about everyone: signed or independent, outperforming or “underperforming,” sufficiently praised or abominably underrated, record-breaking or still-table-waiting. Unlike most circumstances of the music industry, which are almost always infected by disorders of our capitalist society (e.g. classism, individualism, elitism, yada yada) the role of the legitimate pop star cannot be gatekept — because real pop stardom is beholden to not quantities but qualities. It’s an ethos, not a valuation. At least that’s how I’ve always thought about it.
I argue this as pophead with diverse tastes. I was raised on decades upon decades of mainstream pop, came of age on indie and alternative pop, and now exist as a pop connoisseur who has her ears hip to the underground and the masses. You’ll never catch me acting too pompous to put on Charlie Puth or Tate McRae, but the left-of-center innovations of indie darlings like MUNA or Tei Shi take up plenty acres of real estate in my Spotify library, as well. Sort of like a job posting with an equal-opportunity-employer boilerplate at the bottom of it: I don’t discriminate. (And unlike those employers, I’m being for real.)
All this is to say, I’m pretty democratic when it comes to developing my own listening habits, so I’m also pretty democratic about how I define Pop Star. Moreover, I have an (abnormally) acute awareness of what I believe makes a pop artist a Real Pop Star — and while I can’t force you to concur with my definition of Real Pop Star, I do think every music fan interested in pop music as a constant cultural force should think about what theirs is.
Michael Cragg, the writer behind the Swiftie thinkpiece, has conducted that inner work; I’ll give him that. From what I could glean from his essay, his interpretation of a pop star comes down to two factors, both qualitative: record sales and fan support. In fact, Cragg quickly dismisses Beyoncé as one of Swift’s competitors altogether, because “[she] can’t match Swift’s sales.” Beyoncé couldn’t be bothered to match Cragg’s audacity, either. And this is no shade to anyone (read: probably most people) who uses similar profit-focused metrics to calculate pop stardom. Traditionally speaking, data points have very much decided an artist’s eligibility in the running to become a pop icon: album sales, chart positions, certifications, awards, concert venue capacities, ticket prices, and other quantitative figures. The entertainment industry — always a business before a cooperative — uses these data points to inform their own messaging strategies, after all. So why wouldn’t music fans defer to numbers, too?
There is nothing wrong, per se, with relying on numbers to discern which pop artists should be paid the R.P.S. title. But I do think distilling pop stardom down to data is, to be histrionic, dehumanizing — a process of valuation that subtracts person from pop star. You can’t have the latter without the former, and to me, the former is what really rocks the world. So I present you with my definition — pop star (n): a resourceful musical artist who approaches all facets of their role as an entertainer with enthusiasm, consistency, diligence, and confidence. Pop stardom is a work ethic and creative ethos, matters of personality. And personality can never, ever be measured with commercial metrics.
With that said: yes, Taylor Swift is an R.P.S., duh. She’s not my cup of tea. But she is an entertainment force to be reckoned with, one who measures up to not only Cragg and the industry’s definition of a legitimate pop star but also my own. Her personality (which includes her musicianship) is what brings spice to tens of millions of people’s lives, as Cragg notes, and that fan support is what keeps her on top.
Even then, though, no matter how brightly Swift continues to shine, she’s hardly the only supergiant in her galaxy — even in the exclusion of less commercially successful pop acts, like Rina Sawayama. In his thinkpiece, Cragg rejects Rihanna and Beyoncé as illustrations of other R.P.S. talents, which, okaaaaay, let’s not even get into that. But what about Ariana Grande? Drake? The Weeknd? These are all wildly enduring pop entertainers of a similar talent generation as Swift. Yet, by the logic of Cragg and Swifties worldwide, these artists are probably ruled out of consideration for “real” pop stardom — not because they aren’t commercial hits, but because the goalpost has shifted.
And herein lies the problem with calculating pop stardom through conventional formulas: when the definition of the R.P.S. is outlined by capitalism, the goalpost will never stop shifting. What I mean is, right now, the coveted labels of success are dynamic rather than fixed (it’s giving Ticketmaster prices) because capitalism doesn’t have an aim beyond motivating everyone — including superstar musicians and their executive colleagues — to pursue the accumulation of capital without end. And no matter how far out the goalpost of “real” pop stardom moves, it will be pursued intensely, even if the new standard, set by people like Swift (and those who come after her), is damn near impossible to achieve.
For industry gatekeepers (executives, journalists, etc.) to assign a static (and thus more democratic) definition to stardom would be to limit profitability. All of which explains why commercially successful musicians are trained to chase quantities, which lead to titles (which lead to power trips, but I digress); and, whether informal or official, titles denoting merit are far more important than industry gatekeepers let on. So, as music consumers, to reclaim the definition of a “real pop star” is to embrace qualities and forget about quantities — to focus solely on the person that makes the pop star.
Additionally, a more democratic, people-oriented description of the R.P.S. designation would be more inclusive — not just of brilliant artist-entertainers with smaller audiences, but new-gen super-talent (like Doja Cat, Dua Lipa, Lizzo, Lil Nas X, or Harry Styles), too, along with pop performers often blurred away by the shortsighted Western gaze. For instance, Spanish-language heavyweights Rosalía and Bad Bunny are absolutely cultural behemoths at the international level, as are exalted K-pop groups BTS and Blackpink. And honestly, from my American perspective, I’d argue these artists’ pop-star feats are even more remarkable than Swift’s, as it’s rather rare for a non-English-language artist to achieve hyper-success in Western markets (at least partially due to cultural hegemony) — whereas mega-profitable American entertainers can crack open the ears and wallets of international audiences with little effort in comparison (thanks to media imperialism). Reclaiming the pop star would, at last, shed proper light on all artists, regardless of where they are: in the geographical sense and on the proverbial career ladder.
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One of my all-time favorite songs by Tinashe is 2018’s single “No Drama,” where, alongside featured artist Offset, she melodically raps about her own artistic plight: “Said I'm falling off but they won't JFK me / Tried to be myself but they won't AKA me / AKA a pop star AKA a problem /AKA don't hold me back, I swear I got 'em.”
Now, not to turn this lyrical anecdote into an In This Essay I Will moment, but I must, and for good reason: Tinashe had an infamously publicized seven-year relationship with her old record label, RCA. It’s a long story, but the tl:dr version is that label heads weren’t really fucking with Tinashe’s creative visions, which often dared to cross several sonic and aesthetic terrains. RCA’s disinterest in allowing Tinashe creative freedom was unsurprising, really, at least in a “business” sense; if there’s one thing the entertainment industry’s going to do, it’s pigeonhole a creative for the sake of predictability, as artistically predictable entertainers (be them actors, musicians, or anything else) make for reliable profits.
So it’s especially burdensome for a record label to have an artist straddle multiple markets. Pop and R&B, Tinashe’s two genres of choice, have sonic similarities, sure. But institutionally speaking, the two genres could not be treated more differently, in part because pop has a wider audience than R&B today. But most of the unequal treatment of pop and R&B in music is because of de facto segregation rather than consumer preferences. Black music is often treated as second-class, so R&B artists simply don’t get the same social or economic opportunities as pop artists.
The peculiarities of major-label bureaucracy didn’t sit well with Tinashe, who didn’t want to be pegged down as R&B only. Sure, her debut album, Aquarius, was an R&B-focused project. But ya girl contained multitudes, and, like “No Drama” says — her endgame from day one was to be a pop star. Back in 2018, she told Dazed: “I’ve always been interested in various genres. People are able to have multiple layers... nothing has to be limited, especially music. I strive to showcase that.”
Showcase her identity as a multitudinous pop star, she did — eventually, at least, and not with the help of RCA. In 2019, Tinashe and her label parted ways; shortly after, she dropped her first album as an independent artist. That same year, in an interview with Billboard, Tinashe reflected on the long-standing conflict, expressing again that she felt “limited” as an RCA artist, and felt like her music “did fit the pop space,” despite the label’s decision to push her as R&B artist.
Fast forward to today, and Tinashe is doing what she’s always done best: defy boundaries. Her latest two albums are both an amalgamation of subgenres housed beneath the wider R&B and pop umbrellas: alternative R&B, trap, dance, and electropop. She often lends her artistic abilities to electronic music’s heaviest hitters, as well.
You can hear Tinashe’s liberation through sound alone. Her catalog is prolific as ever, and even without fancy-schmancy major-label backing, she’s been on a steady climb toward mainstream relevance — a virtue she momentarily lost amidst the label beef. To me, Tinashe is an R.P.S. in the most resounding way possible. Her creative efforts were diligent and consistent, even during her “flop” era, and when her label had her fucked up, she dipped. Plus, nothing is more resourceful than an artist who manages to get shit done on their own dime and time — find musical collaborators, get some cool creative direction going, put out music videos and live performances, distribute the music itself, and get people talking, let alone caring, about all of it — without a label team. To have the confidence to keep trucking through the bullshit is pop star energy, for real. And not to mention her live performances explode of star stuff. I’ve been there, achy heels and all, I know. (Go watch. Smoke a bowl first, even.)
Tinashe’s story warns of the way commercial music, entrenched in prejudice and generally archaic marketing practices, inhibits artists from achieving pop stardom even if they wanted to — once again proving that the “real pop star” competition is preemptively rigged, even for artists who’ve managed to land major label deals. It also makes me think of all the other pop entertainers, from Bree Runway to CL, who have proven themselves to be multidimensional and multitalented, despite outside forces (from label execs and publications to fans and haters) attempting to slap a restrictive label on their name.
The R.P.S. isn’t dictated by the establishment — by the music economy, opinionated critics, label executives, randos over at the Recording Academy, or deranged super stans. Fuck all of that. Because the real pop stars are simply who we say they are: entertainers that graciously use their art and passion to make their listeners feel alive, understood, represented, and inspired. The real pop star is for the people.