SECTION: Music
LENGTH: 2071 words
HEADLINE: Mann in the Middle;
After her career blossomed anew with Magnolia, Aimee Mann
made a declaration of artistic independence.
BYLINE: Marty Jones
BODY:
At first glance, Aimee Mann's return to the airwaves seems
like the final scene in some topsy-turvy Hollywood movie. In the mid-'80s,
she became an MTV darling as the platinum-blond frontwoman for 'Til Tuesday.
After falling from fave-face status, she beat a just-another-pretty-bass-player
rap by releasing a pair of critically adored solo discs in the '90s. But
as fate (or Joe Eszterhas and his Tinseltown script-writing peers) would
have it, Mann's career then suffered a string of setbacks that involved
collapsed record labels and mega-mergers. These woes culminated when her
latest then-current label, Interscope, refused to release her third solo
outing because it lacked, in their words, "hits." Rather than
conform to the company's definition of what was acceptable artistic output,
Mann refused to dilute her material. Instead, she bought back her record
-- and her independence -- in an artistically liberating, though hardly
lucrative, move.
Then, just as the lights seemed to fade for the now-freed but unsung Mann,
Boogie Nights director Paul Thomas Anderson happened upon the recording
as it languished unreleased; he later credited it with inspiring the sense
of melancholy and confusion, as well as some of the characters, in his film
Magnolia. Anderson also made Mann's music the soundtrack to the film, which
went on to garner critical acclaim and an Academy Award nomination for Best
Motion Picture. Mann was also nominated for her efforts: Her song, "Save
Me" was nominated as "Best Original Song in a Motion Picture."
At the awards ceremony in March, Mann sang the tune as the world watched.
The lyrics, "You look like a perfect fit for a girl in need of a tourniquet,"
seemed to characterize Mann herself just two years prior.
It was a Rocky-style comeback, enough to make you reach for a Kleenex to
dab the tears from your eyes. But a look at what's happened since reveals
a slightly less Hollywood reality. Today Mann is without a label and hustling
her finally released CD, Bachelor No. 2, like so many independent artists
across America. Don't you love happy endings?
"It cost me a big chunk of money," Mann says from her home in
Southern California, "but it was much more costly to stay in that situation.
I left the old system because it wasn't working, and the new setup is working.
So I'll ride this train until it stops."
It's hard to figure that Mann would find herself in such a station -- having
once attained a level of musical and commercial success enjoyed by relatively
few working artists. "Voices Carry," the single from 'Til Tuesday's
debut, pushed the release to gold-selling status in 1985. Though the band
went on to lose commercial steam on its two subsequent releases, Mann gained
respect for her songwriting skills, which occasionally paired her with Elvis
Costello, Jules Shear and other heavies. After three years of wrangling
with Epic ('Til Tuesday's label), Mann marked her freedom with her first
solo effort, 1991's Whatever, a solid collection of insightful pop songs
that illuminated her melodic and lyrical gifts. In 1995 she released I'm
With Stupid (arguably one of the finest pop-rock recordings of the '90s),
which got a major boost when one of its songs, "That's Just What You
Are," appeared on a soundtrack from the television show Beverly Hills,
90210. That cut and a couple more from Stupid received radio attention.
Music scribes were again raving about Mann's brainy mix of gooey, guitar-driven
rockers and tender ballads -- songs that were enhanced by Sgt. Peppery/
Beatlesesque touches and up-to-date studio mastery from Mann and producer
Jon Brion.
But when Geffen (which released Stupid) was sold to Interscope, the deal
meant trouble for Mann and other artists. "New people come in,"
Mann says, "and they think the way to make money is to make every artist
on the label sound as commercial as possible. Then you're stuck with it,
even though when you signed to the label there were a whole different set
of numbers expected. The Magnolia soundtrack sold 300,000 units domestically,"
she adds, "but they don't care about that. If it's not selling at least
a million records, they're not interested in it. But that many units is
a significant amount of records to me, and if I sell that many, I can actually
make a living. And I'm happy to take it."
Mann's first attempts at racking up her own sales totals came in February,
when she released Bachelor No. 2 as an Internet-only offering, a well-timed
move considering the buzz then circulating around Magnolia. Since May, the
disc has been in stores thanks to a distribution deal with RED ("Just
like a real record," Mann notes), and it shows that Mann's craft hasn't
suffered for her travails. While it trades some of the guitar-crunch and
power-pop hooks of Stupid for a softer, Burt Bacharach-ish sound, it features
plenty of Mann-style trademarks. She wraps her soft-shelled voice around
often-visceral verbal stabs; her lyrics are delivered in a cool fashion
that elevates the smart-bomb effect of her couplets. In "How Am I Different,"
the singer makes it clear she's not falling for any one-man show designed
with the bed as the final act. "When you fuck it up later, do I get
my money back?" the singer asks. "Red Vines" (Bachelor's
single) is a bittersweet pop treasure: a Carpenters-style melody beefed-up
by muted crunch and percolating drum loops. "The Fall of the World's
Own Optimist" continues Mann's successful collaborations with Elvis
Costello, and "Ghost World" is a teen-angst masterpiece hung on
irresistible hooks.
The disc also includes choice cuts from the Magnolia soundtrack, including
"Driving Sideways," "You Do" and "Deathly,"
a don't-work-on-me warning that brims with killer lines. "Now that
I've met you, would you object to never seeing each other again?" Mann
sings, a line that director Anderson used verbatim in his script. As the
guitars rise up behind her, the singer ponders the sunny possibilities of
giving in: "You're on your honor, 'cause I'm a goner, and you haven't
even begun," Mann seethes, "So do me a favor if I should waver,
be my savior, get out the gun." Ouch. Bachelor also includes a number
of lines that could as easily be aimed at pea-brained record execs as purloining
lovers. But branding these songs business diatribes is something Mann warns
against.
"I write about relationship dynamics that can be applied to a lot of
different relationships," Mann says, "and I don't want people
to think, 'This is about the record company,' because that limits your enjoyment
of a song. My goal is to try to know how I feel about something, and it's
really for my own benefit. I see an interesting situation that I find a
friend in, a situation I was in once, and I want to know why it is and what
motivated me when I was in the same situation. Why is it a problem to see
the reality of it? Why can't it change?" Besides, she notes of any
possible record-company connection in her songs, "there were a handful
of people that I found to be really reprehensible. But there were many more
who were creative, courageous and real believers. It's a pity, because we
all get chewed up by the same things."
Now that she is out of the maw of the majors, Mann is securing her indie
niche. (She has turned down a few offers from labels.) Mann and her new
husband, singer-songwriter Michael Penn, have joined forces with Mann's
manager, Michael Housman, to create United Musicians, a collective of support
staff designed to allow fellow artist-owned labels to share marketing and
management services. (Penn is now in the process of buying his own freedom
back from his current label.) To make things work now, Mann says, "we
have to have extra help and depend on the kindness of strangers in a lot
of ways. And we have to come up with new ideas."
The couple's latest idea is Acoustic Vaudeville, which Mann and Penn bring
to town this week. The concept arose from shows they performed at a small
club in Los Angeles, during which they would trade songs and back each other
up. The two now employ a comedian to handle the required stage banter and
between-songs repartee fans expect at a show. The professional gabber, Mann
says, offers wry comments and observations while allowing Mann, Penn and
their supporting musicians to do what they do best.
"Once we started doing this it was so entertaining for us that we just
couldn't go back," Mann says. "It makes for a really fun show
and it also helps introduce the idea to people that even though we write
songs that seem very serious, we do have a sense of humor. And it makes
a nice counterpart. One of the benefits of being without the protection
of a major label," she adds, "is that you can do whatever you
want. We're trying to come up with different ideas that make it fun. There's
an element of creativity that you can have when you're not on a label, to
think of alternative ways to market yourself. You don't have to follow the
same practices and rules of major labels." Mann says she is now considering
creating a commercial for public-access television to push her product.
She continues to market Bachelor over the Web with some success; the recording
was just voted "Best Internet-Only" CD by a trade organization,
beating out the Who and a few other acts for the honor.
But she's hardly through jousting with the powers that be. Mann has just
added her name to a list of songwriters and performers alligned with Artists
Against Piracy, which is fighting the royalty-free downloading of unauthorized
material. "I was kind of on the fence and almost in favor of Napster,"
Mann says. "But when I start hearing people say that music ought to
be free, that's a call for war. You're trying to take my living away from
me. To you, it's just a record, it's some songs. To me, it's my living.
The point where I started to get really angry was when I realized that not
just singles here and there were showing up, but whole albums and live concerts
of mine would appear. And that stuff is not for publication. I play a show,
that's between me and the audience, that night. Do not take it out of context.
In one way," she adds, "Napster is very good in helping people
get exposure to new music. I just think that it should be at the artist's
discretion."
Part of the dilemma with Napster, she figures, is that downloaders think
their Web time hurts only the same record companies that have given Mann
so much hell. But unauthorized downloads, she says, "hurt people like
me. Name any giant artist -- Britney Spears, for example. She gets money
up front from whatever label she's with. I don't get that. I have to dip
into my savings account to make my record, to promote my record, to go on
tour. And there is no other source of income for me. And I think it's obnoxious,
the idea that, 'Well, you can just go do something else.' Or that somehow
some people have too much money: 'We've decided to just end your income
now, because you've earned enough.' Why do you get to decide that?"
What's more, Mann notes, in the unlikely event that music sharing elevates
to the point that the royalty system is overhauled, the end user will be
the real loser. The only recording acts left, she says, will be the kind
she has worked to set herself apart from. "Think about the kind of
music you're going to get if the only people who are producing music are
willing to do it for free," she asks. "You're going to get people
who will do anything just to get attention. And people who think that giving
it away is merely one step toward getting a major-label deal. And major
labels will take advantage of that, and they'll be the only ones left, because
they're the only ones big enough to fight these kinds of things or overcome
them by sheer volume."
That's a nightmarish picture, all right, as disturbing as the dreck the
big boys keep putting out. And while it's doubtful such a dilemma might
become reality, it's at least cause for concern. "I'll still write
music and I'll play it for myself," she says, "but I can't afford
to do it for free; you have to dedicate your life to making music. And I
don't know what else I can do; it's not like I have my real-estate license
or something. But believe me, I'll come up with something."
Acoustic Vaudeville
with Aimee Mann and Michael Penn
Gothic Theatre, 3262 Broadway, Englewood
8 p.m. Thursday, August 17
$26.25
303-380-2333
LOAD-DATE: August 17, 2000