I spend a good chunk of time and mental space thinking about popular culture–the songs we sing, the films we view, the stories we inhabit. I’ve spent years of my life responding to the witness of Kendrick Lamar, David Lynch, Beyoncé, Taylor Swift, Bad Bunny, and on and on. And yet, I’m often stung by the perennial doubt as to whether any of it matters. Should I spend less time updating my Letterboxd watchlist and more time keeping up with every minute detail of US politics? Can our hearts really be changed by the melody of a song?
These are easy doubts to give into when our government is defunding the arts, when 50,000 songs created by robots are uploaded to streaming services every day, when Netflix CEO Ted Sarandos argues that the model of people gathering together to watch a film in a distraction-free, sacred space is an “outdated concept.” Art, it seems, is consistently reduced to content for consumption and exploitation. Meanwhile, the forces of oppression and violence feel so inescapable and suffocating everywhere I look. How can we sing during wartime?
On the other hand, maybe singing is the only thing that matters.
