Max Martin musical maestro

Thu 5th Oct, 2006 in Features

Kelly Clarkson. The Veronicas. Pink. Max Martin.

This list will undoubtedly seem a bit screwed up to even the greatest music fanatic. Good ol’ Max clearly sticks out as the odd one of the bunch, but in reality, he should be at the head of this star catalog. In a perfect world, Max would have his own line, his name in bold and encrusted in diamonds. But then, this is the same world where a digital frog whacked out on speed became famous for imitating a motorcycle, so there’s a long way to go yet.

Like most sane people, I’ve got a huge problem with pop music these days. Every time I turn on the radio, I’m assaulted with a barrage of whiny twenty-something girls with guitars. And when I get through this initial aural attack, I have to deal with the lyrics. They’re always painstakingly predictable; something along the line of “Thank God you’re gone/I never needed you anyway/But I really miss you boy/And if you feel like coming back, I’m cooking spaghetti in the nude tonight” Now Groundhog Day was just a movie, so there’s no other rational explanation for why Kelly, Pink and co. are all famous if they’re all singing pretty much the same song.

The ultimately gratifying truth is that without Max, songwriter and producer extraordinaire, each of these artists would probably still be very ordinary, boring people. Down at the pub you’d have Kelly serving you drinks, the Veronicas trying desperately to score a prestigious 6pm gig and Pink kickboxing in the gym across the road. What separates them from the herd is the Midas touch of this thirty-something year old Swede. Look hard enough and you’ll see his name everywhere, just like every R&B hit of the last 6 years has ‘The Neptunes’ or ‘Timbaland’ stamped on it.

But teenage girls aren’t ones to pick up on the details. All over the world they have embraced the attitude of these empowered, guitar-wielding female types. They remain blissfully unaware that behind every boy-bashing note is one brain, which currently resides in the body of someone who is unequivocally a guy. In this post-modern-gender-bender-radical-ipod-socialist age of the Female Eunuch (like, what kind of title is that anyway) and women’s rights, the most popular femme fatales are still masterminded by a male prodigy, whose first language isn’t even English. What’s worse is the majority of us have become so deluded that we honestly believe that this shit is a departure from the bubblegum pop of yesteryear.

A short history lesson: When the massive Garage Rock revival movement landed in 2000, pre-fabricated pop groups like Backstreet Boys (who are, inexplicably, still around) were rendered obscure and irrelevant. And with good reason, since they wasted valuable oxygen (‘Nsync amending that problem when Lance Bass volunteered to fly to the moon – pity he came back). Max’s proficiency for recreating radio drivel was no longer needed, because strangely enough, the bands wrote their own music. Having penned most of the hits for these million-dollar-babies, Max suddenly found himself out of a job. His studio temporarily closed down, a key collaborative partner died, and IKEA stocks plummeted. It was not a good year to be Swedish.

This is where the true genius of Max and his merry men comes to light. As Britney went off the rails and started getting hitched with ugly back-up dancers, he needed a new diva to return him to his zenith of influence. Enter Kelly Clarkson (i.e American Idol winner, trailer trash loser, permanent thorn in Simon Cowell’s side), who decided to capitalise on the music made famous by the likes of White Stripes and Jet, flying over to Sweden to get some help for her second album. But, obviously devoid of inspiration (or gasp songwriting talent!) she ended up sifting through Martin’s back catalogue of shelved tracks and unearthing Since U Been Gone.

What was Clarkson’s major contribution to this hit? The brilliant suggestion of ‘throwing in some guitars’, thereby appealing to a wider audience. In essence, the tune had been finished before the world had ever heard of the Texan wannabe. And yet, success is credited to this leech! At University you’d be hauled up to the big man for taking somebody’s work and passing it off as your own. Plagiarism is a very dirty word pretty much anywhere in the world. So why do we blindly accept it when it’s seen in the ARIA charts?

Technically, if we love Kelly’s music, we should equally adore Britney, Pink or any of the other artists who use Max’s work. The producers don’t give a fuck who ends up selling their hit, proof being the fact that Britney’s career-shaping Hit Me Baby One More Time was originally written for TLC. Mr Martin knows what sells – a great hook and nonsensical lyrics about the opposite sex. It’s a formula that has made him filthy rich, and will continue to do so in the future, no matter how the top forty landscape changes. He adapts by becoming a musical chameleon, shifting his style ever so slightly to reflect the dominant genre of the time.

The Veronicas are a classic example of such philosophy. Bursting onto the scene recently with edgy pop-rock (or, as we musicians like to call it, shite) they have canvassed a huge cross-section of silly punters. But what should really be celebrated is Max’s supreme return to form, feeding the public the same sugary gems they always loved, but now with added grunge trimmings. Imagine the Spice Girls running around with Fender Stratocasters and you’re halfway there.

So what is to be done to reverse this horrible chain of events? Firstly, boycott all of these pseudo artists that  hog radio time and stop REAL artists from getting exposure. Better yet, just tune into Triple J. Whenever you suffer the fate of hearing one of these tunes, turn it up really loud and exclaim ‘How good is Max Martin! I love this song!” I guarantee you that your friends will consider sending you to an asylum. Sign my petition calling for Pink’s birthday to be renamed ‘International Max Martin Day’. Make your contribution to the musical community, but don’t expect Max to thank you. He’ll probably be using hundred dollar bills to warm the fireplace.