This article examines the contested issue of defining the genre of bluegrass music. Interpreting this debate as a subjective negotiation and renegotiation of a category, it focuses on the discursive and musical means through which ontologies of bluegrass are framed. In doing so, the article adds to a growing body of literature that considers genre in popular music as a flexible construct involving both musical performance and cultural formations. The article begins by exploring the idea of bluegrass as constructed by Bill Monroe and a number of early bluegrass scholars, after which it invokes recent work on human cognition and categorisation to analyse the genre debate among bluegrass enthusiasts. The article ultimately proposes that such discourse, notwithstanding its apparent futility, can be regarded as a vital means for a genre's self-perpetuation.

This special issue is the first collection of articles specifically devoted to Middle Eastern popular musics to be published anywhere. When we began work on this issue, we were not operating in a void, however. Popular Music has already published a number of articles on Middle Eastern topics and the ‘great names’ associated with mass distributed musics and films in the earlier part of this century – in particular the Egyptian stars Umm Kulthūm and Muhammed 'Abd al-Wahhāb – have already been the subject of excellent studies published elsewhere. This issue has, however, provided us with an opportunity to reflect on the ways in which Middle Eastern musics have conventionally been studied and represented, and on the contribution that several decades of popular music studies might make to this field. The contributors have responded to these opportunities in a variety of ways and the result, we feel, is a distinctly fresh picture of the Middle East.

The monstrous machinations of the reissue CD market are reorganising our relations with ourselves, with our own and other peoples' pasts. This, in conjunction with the fact that baby-boomers have grown up, that pop music is no longer simply youth music, means that yesterday's and tomorrow's songs are not necessarily heard in that order, and that styles no longer grow and change in a linear fashion. In the simple act of repetition, thousands of albums, which, like Haydn's symphonies, were never intended for anything more than local consumption, are being underlined as worthy of recall, blessed with the glamorous radiance of digital sound. Musical nostalgia is highly seductive, but whilst it has resulted in considerable beauty and vigour in the hands of both Elgar and Stravinsky, it sounds predatory in the context of all those sixties music advertisements. More seriously – ‘lest we forget’ – political nostalgia, in the form of the search for the lost German Spirit, eventually proved genocidal. So, at a more personal level, I should be cautious about celebrating such a relic from my own past within the candy-coloured world of hippy psychedelia as the Incredible String Band.

This paper explores the similarities between industrial music and ‘cyberpunk’ science fiction literature. Besides the obvious instances where there are direct references to each other, there are further connections between music and literature that are explored here. Situating the two forms within the tradition of twentieth-century Western dystopias, the focus of the paper is on the similarity of themes (relationship to technology, control by a totalitarian elite, apocalyptic worlds, resistance groups), techniques (in language or structure), moods (the tones and attitudes), and imagery (through language or music) used to illustrate and enhance these themes.

The hi-hat is an instrument within the kit that is often the driving force of numerous grooves, and how the playing of this instrument developed across the period 1960–1974 in Anglo-American popular musics is a useful guide when considering how the drum kit has in turn defined certain genres and styles. This paper will study a selection of grooves that use the hi-hat as a discriminating factor which will help trace the origin of certain basics within straight rhythms. The first iterations of these grooves are traced and analysed to uncover the origin of particular patterns that have since become accepted and well used within popular musics. This date period is a particularly rich seam of popular music history in this respect, beginning with the earliest recorded examples of particular hi-hat techniques and leading to what could be considered a period where these techniques became commonplace.

Calypso is an art form that laughs at pain. That's the way we deal with our blues. We begin to heal ourselves immediately, through our culture and our music.' (David Rudder, Trinidad, New York Times, 31 March 1991)

When you see me laughin', I'm laughin' to keep from cryin', but the laughter of these songs, implicit or overt, as often as not absorbs the tears.' (Langston Hughes 1966, p. 97)

The Original Dixieland Jazz Band's visit in 1919–1920 has been well documented as the beginning of jazz in Britain. This article illuminates a more complex evolution of the image and presence of jazz in Britain through consideration of the cultural and musical antecedents of the genre, including minstrel shows and black musical theatre, within the context of musical life in Britain in the late nineteenth to early twentieth centuries. The processes through which this evolution took place are considered with reference to the ways in which jazz was introduced to Britain through imported revue shows and sheet music.

It is an extremely significant but often neglected fact that another group of American musicians, Will Marion Cook's Southern Syncopated Orchestra, also came to Britain in 1919. Remarkably, extensive comparisons of the respective performances and reception of the ODJB and the SSO have not been made in the available literature on jazz. Examination of the situation of one white and one black group of American musicians performing contemporaneously in London is extremely informative, as it evidences the continuing influence of the antecedents of jazz and the importance of both groups in shaping perceptions of jazz in Britain.

Identifying a television channel on-air has become increasingly important in the multi-channel age. For viewers it is a navigational necessity; for broadcasting executives it contributes to corporate branding. But despite the fact that television is an audiovisual medium, the so-called channel idents which appear between programmes are almost always discussed in terms of their visual rather than their audio characteristics. This article aims to go some way to correct this imbalance in arguing that the latter have evolved in a distinctive manner. Initially borrowing the idea of the fanfare from the cinema, UK broadcasters in recent years have developed a softer style, then drawn on dance and other forms of popular music and finally employed sound effects in the production of channel idents.

The relationship between the black and white elements in the popular music of this century has been intimate and persistent. However, the nature of this relationship has varied from period to period and been mediated by the economic and institutional context in which it has occurred. The ‘free flow’ of musical ideas between black and white has been directed and regulated by numerous distinctly unmusical factors — principally the racist ideologies and practies within which musicians, despite their individual proclivities, have lived and worked.

The show (spectacle), in its urbanised, commercial version, is usually cast in the role of soundboard or crucible, where the meeting of an already finished product and its audience is effected. This conception tends to localise creative musical achievements in a prior moment, and can only envisage the relations between manager, producers and performers as unilateral.

What was the first Japanese pop hit? The answer will vary according to definition, but undoubtedly come from one of the following five songs:

(1) ‘Kachûsha no Uta’ (Kachusha's Song): first sung on stage by Matsui Sumako in March 1914; words by Shimamura Hôgetsu and Sôma Gyofû, music by Nakayama Shimpei; recorded by Matsui for Orient Records under the title of ‘Fukkatsu Shôka.

(2) ‘Sendô Kouta’ (A Boatman's Ditty): released in sheet music form in March 1921; words by Noguchi Ujō, music by Nakayama Shimpei.

(3) ‘Habu no Minato’ (The Harbour of Habu): written in 1923; words by Noguchi Ujô, music by Nakayama Shimpei; originally recorded by Satô Chiyako for Victor Records in April 1928.

(4) ‘Kimi Koishi’ (You, Sweetheart): written in 1928; words by Shiguré Otowa, music by Sasa Kôka; originally recorded by Futamura Tei'ichi for Victor Records in December 1928.

(5) ‘Tokyo Kôshin-kyoku’ (Tokyo March): written in 1929; words by Saijô Yaso, music by Nakayama Shimpei; originally sung by Satô Chiyako for Victor Records in June 1929.

By looking at how these five songs were put together and became hits, we may be able to understand the origins of the professional song writer in Japan and the early growth of the domestic recording industry.

This article addresses the growing global phenomenon of automated holographic concerts given by virtual pop stars called ‘Vocaloids’. Alternately acclaimed by music journalists as ‘the future of music’ and derided as ‘a robo-show, a concert simulacrum’, Vocaloid concerts across the past 10 years have sparked feelings of anxiety and prompted debate about the loss of human interaction at pre-programmed concerts. In this article, I extend Vocaloid research from recent work that addresses Vocaloid's creative online community into the middle of arenas of screaming fans, drawing on participant observation, reception history and live performance analysis in order to demonstrate the importance of participatory fandom in Vocaloid culture and its implications for 21st-century concepts of liveness. I argue that the creation of cultural meaning and the most significant interactions occur within the audience itself, when online amateur music-making communities intersect with participatory fandom at live concert events.

From an economic point of view, the business of record labels until recently boiled down to managing a portfolio of artists, with successful stars bringing the label enough money to recoup investments in market flops. The decline in record sales has called this model into question and forced labels to look for new sources of revenue. Employing qualitative data gathered in Poland, this paper demonstrates how labels react to adverse market conditions and what determines these reactions. The paper shows that these reactions include the monetisation of the relationship that a label has with artists through signing 360° deals, the commercial exploitation of artists’ brand names, and concentration on niche markets, either foreign or format-based (e.g. the market for vinyl). The paper concludes that record labels, regardless of which approach they choose to deal with the adverse market conditions, still think in terms of managing a portfolio of artists. What is more, there is no universal strategy which can be applied by every label to deal with declining record sales.

Popular music in Israel has recently seen a surge in the use of Arabic in music made by Israeli-Jewish musicians. Most of these, although descendants of immigrants from Arab countries, never acquired Arabic at home or in school, owing to national ideology which sought to label Arabic as the language of the non-Jewish other. This article reveals and contextualises this recent trend, offering a typology of the ways in which musicians engage with Arabic, their motivations for doing so and the challenges that they face. Discussing musicians who approach Arabic as Jewish heritage, as an aesthetic repository, or even as mere sound, we identify these mobilisations of Arabic as postvernacular uses of language, which often privilege its non-semantic qualities. Observed in the context of Israeli–Arab enmity, this trend appears to have emerged surprisingly not in spite of, but partly because of, the decline in peace prospects.

Kurt Tucholsky wrote in 1923 in reference to an old ‘Fasching’ tune of that era that this song comprised the ‘most complete expression of the German “Volksseele” (“soul of people”) that one could imagine’ and that it ‘truly reveals the day and age we live in, how this age has evolved and how we ourselves come to terms with this age’ (Tucholsky 1975, p. 187). His argument can be compared to Kracauer's thesis on the effects of film (Kracauer 1979, p. 11). He suggested that the commercial character of mass cultural production was constantly affected by what was provided in a stream of feedback: only commodities which convincingly meet public expectations on either a latent or manifest level are successful with the public. If the masses are moved by a national rhythmic feeling, then the hits articulating that feeling can be seen as a kind of national expression. From this perspective, national and political identities are bound up in the daily emotional turbulence of the music industry.

Rosie and the Originals released their only 45 rpm single in early 1960. ‘Angel Baby’, the A side, reached number five in America, but it never even saw the light of day on the British charts. The song is dismissable, a one-hit wonder from singer Rosie Hamlin that didn't deserve a follow-up. But the B side is something else entirely: for one thing, one of the Originals is hogging the mike, Rosie is nowhere to be heard – a mystery that the label doesn't explain. The record is much as Lennon describes: after a revved-up guitar intro, the drums vanish and leave everyone else playing straight off the top of their heads. The listener eavesdrops on a sloppy rhythm and blues concoction, with jealous lyrics sung to unrehearsed riffing – it's so sloppy, so incoherently diffuse that it's more laughable than it is danceable. To say ‘Give Me Love’ sounds spontaneous doesn't begin to suggest its strangeness; the musicians themselves don't seem to know where the next downbeat is going to land. The listener has trouble making sense of the music, but then again, so do the musicians. Far from backing up Rosie's wilful début, it sounds as though someone left the tape machine running during an early morning musical reverie – sounds that were completely random became crystallised on tape. It unveiled the would-be Originals as crudely inspired amateurs, who weren't even able to sustain their facade as a group from one side of a 45 rpm single to the other.

This article is part of an on-going analysis of a Spanish television documentary series entitled Rito y Geografía del Cante. This larger on-going analysis treats the programmes in this series as ‘cultural performances’. The programmes are assumed to model personhood as they go about presenting information about flamenco music. This particular article focuses on the role of the body in these performed models of personhood.

‘The Boy with a Moon and Star on His Head’ was written and recorded by Cat Stevens in 1972. This paper briefly examines the song's subject matter, before analysing its musical structure and that of the words to the song. As well as the standard pattern of end rhyme, a pattern of internal rhyme is also analysed, using tools derived from literary analysis. The words to the song are transcribed by a method which mediates between transcription of the words that make it look like a poem and the words as they appear in sheet music. Finally, the song's pattern of internal rhyme is placed into a context that includes songs as well as poems, suggesting that the song is an exception that suggests a rule for words in the singer-song at the time of the song's appearance.

In 2001, Montreal disc jockey Tiga, with the help of Finnish producer Jori ‘Zyntherius’ Hulkkonen, recorded and released a techno cover version of ‘Sunglasses at Night’, a song popularised in 1983 by fellow Canadian Corey Hart. This paper examines how a so-called ‘unoriginal’ musical practice such as the cover version, when re-contextualised into a brand new musical genre (a process called ‘trans-stylisation’), can engender new meaning, especially when it comes to the generic identity purveyed by the song's enunciator. The analysis of this new ‘original’ utterance relies on the theory of hypertextuality and describes, on the musical, lyrical and visual levels, the transformative processes from the hypotext (Hart's version) to the hypertext (Tiga's), thereby shedding new light on the poetics of the cover version and on the representational modalities of the postmodern subject.