Why do we only have a short-term relationship with certain artists?
I’m not talking about one-hit wonders: those individuals who produced a memorable hit and whose follow-up single is only recalled by pop-culture trivia buffs.
I mean those performers, many of whom – at least in the pre-streaming era – captured our attention and returned for the next promotional cycle to find that we’ve had our fill.
For whatever reason, these artists were relevant and popular for a short, defined period. Then we were finished with them.
It was a certain flavour that the public appetite could only sustain for a limited time.
All we ever wanted from The Thrills was one solid album of escapist Californian pop to soundtrack the summer of 2003. Authenticity be damned – the singles were breezy and the cover art was pitch perfect.
Their debut saw them nominated for the Mercury Prize. Their third and final album saw them dropped by their record label.
Teflon bands and one-year stands
Some of their contemporaries seemed strangely immune to these vicissitudes. Coldplay and Girls Aloud kept on knocking out albums of pretty similar style and quality throughout the 2000s, and no one complained.
Did you like ‘Clocks’? Then you’ll probably enjoy ‘Speed of Sound.’ Did you think ‘No Good Advice’ was a banger? Then try ‘Sexy! No No No…’
These artists may tweak their sound, they may even bring in a superstar producer, but it’s usually a gentle evolution. At the most, you’re swapping English Breakfast for Earl Grey.
Remarking on these brief romances, The Guardian remarked on the trend of ‘band collapse syndrome’, detailing a situation in which “you sell a couple million albums. You’re adored. Then 90% of your fanbase deserts you – and your record label isn’t far behind.”
The noughties examples of this phenomenon included Kaiser Chiefs, Glasvegas and the Klaxons. You might add Mika and the Bedingfield siblings.
Duffy is arguably the most striking case study of all. People wanted a large helping of her 1960s blue-eyed soul in 2008 – when Rockferry was the UK’s best-selling album – but two years later her second effort missed the top five. (After suffering a series of horrific events, Duffy hasn’t released a significant body of music since then.)
For me, the weirdest example of these brief musical infatuations – albeit one laden with extenuating circumstances – is that of Shakespears Sister.
Hello Cruel World
Formed in 1988, Shakespears Sister began as a spinoff project for Siobhan Fahey after leaving hi-NRG powerhouse Bananarama. In relatively short order Marcella Detroit was brought on as an equal partner in singing songwriting.
Although the project has been active in some form for three decades, the only musical and aesthetic incarnation that anyone remembers today is the version that swept through UK pop culture for little over a year.
‘Stay’ was a slow dance but no one at the disco was sure what to do when the bridge arrived to spoil the mood
‘Stay’ was the longest chart topper of 1992. The omnipresent music video scored both a BRIT award and the imprimatur of a French and Saunders parody.
The song’s parent album went double platinum and won an Ivor Novello. The band interpolated lines of Edith Sitwell poetry on Top of the Pops.
Living through it all was a little weird. ‘Stay’ was a designated slow dance at the school disco, but no one was quite sure what to do when the bridge arrived at the halfway point, full of grungy menace to ruin the mood.
On the album cover Fahey wore a woollen jumper with SEX emblazoned in giant capitals across the front. This artistic statement seemed gloriously transgressive to me and my prepubescent friends. When I secured a tour t-shirt bearing this image, I momentarily felt like I’d jumped the queue for teenage rebellion. I was already pushing at the boundaries of public decency.
More of the same
For a short time the band’s monochrome Gothic stylings were everywhere. Just as rapidly, it was all over.
Detroit was let go from the group and Shakespears Sister returned to its default state: a Fahey spinoff project with uneven traction.
Maybe the whole spooky aesthetic – runny mascara, duelling vocals, Old Hollywood, Victoriana – could only be sustained for a single record cycle anyway. It was all very 1992.
The public seemed understandably unexcited about Shakespears Sister evolving into a full-colour alt-rock solo act. The record company was even less keen, refusing to release the follow-up album. Today, the only thing anyone adds to a playlist is ‘Stay’.
As with many other artists, it does beg the question: what if all that people want from you is that one thing?
The key, it seems, is having something to transition toward, if and when the shtick has been exhausted.
Detroit kept recording and collaborating, turning up on reality TV. Fahey plugged on with the Shakespears Sister brand, self-released that cancelled album, returned to touring with Bananarama and, after a quarter of a century, briefly reuniting with Detroit.
Not everyone can be Bowie or Madonna or Beyonce, shedding their skin completely from project to project and carrying their fans along with them. At best, you’re The Black Keys, finding a familiar niche that sustains a fanbase without eroding your credibility.
Committing to one vibe can be a risky business though. Even evergreen artists seem to thrive with some extra legs under the table. There’s a lesson in the brevity of these flings: if this is your whole deal, then it could be a problem.
