The Dream of Antonoffication

““…..optimized for frictionless circulation — the ability to function as audio furniture for viral videos, fit in on a variety of algorithmically curated playlists, play unobtrusively in what passes for public space in contemporary American life, generating revenue along the way.” Heard the author of this piece on the Pop Pantheon podcast and immediately inhaled the article, perhaps in a desperate attempt to comprehend Jack Antonoff’s sizable influence on the music industry. Maybe to challenge my own growing confirmation bias around him? But hell, who am I kidding? Was looking for some smart words to torch this dork.  Between Lena Dunham’s just released memoir and her diaristic Netflix series, Antonoff’s character, or at least position as a longtime romantic partner, has been called into question. Except, I’m old, gay, and don’t give a fuck about that. But what does irk me, right down to my plums, is his patented formula of golly gee, bloodless, infantilized millennial twee that, to me, ruined pop culture, at least for a time. This was first made clear when the homie Megan described Fun as “our generation’s Chumbawumba,” eliciting a through-the-nose style spit take because I knew exactly what she meant. A yo-ho-ho sea shanty, mixed with Mr. Mister’s “Kyrie,” then spun through the car commercial machine for good measure. At least Chumbawumba started off as an anarchopunk outfit. How did Fun start? At a Chipotle in New Jersey? Once the band chemistry was just too undeniable after an “acapella-off” erupted during nom-noms fro-yo? Basically, The Good Place. Music forged in the flames of bland hell.  Can forgive a lot when it comes to music. After three rounds of puff-puff-pass at a Dead and Co. show, had to give props to the chops of John Meyer, as he needled through classic Dead songs with a studied intensity. For a few hours, the sticky residue of “bubblegum tongue” nearly washed away entirely.  That said, what Antonoff has done is unforgivable. And, yes, I am making him my golem for the sins of the 2010s. The summer camp vibes only, cereal for dinner, grilled cheese at a nice restaurant, chicken nuggie, laptop in my bed watching the Babysitter’s Club, friendship bracelet, neutered, sexless, middle aged people referring to themselves as kids and babies, edges fully sanded off, Hamilton-ass, lame-ified, sanitized version of pop music. It’s the sonic equivalent of this attitude, texted so eloquently by the homie Yvette: If you’re so mean as to god forbid insist I take responsibility for my self-centered bullshit, it must be because you think I’m too much but truly I’m the best and you’re threatened by me.  We’re talking about music made by adults, supposedly for adults, but with the pouting emotions of a dis-regulated 8-year-old (LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO?!). And Antonoff? He’s this music’s “cozy AF” brand ambassador. Except, an 8-year-old is still learning to be a human, and their unpredictable, black-and-white tinted worldview is forgivable. But when that level of maturity and lack of regulation manifests as adult behavior, from a fully-grown adult, it can only mean one thing: you’re an asshole.”