Increased market concentration of multinational record companies, greater integration of major labels with international multi-media and entertainment conglomerates, as well as long economic recession were among the most striking developments of the 1980s to impact upon music-related industries. In the French-speaking province of Quebec (Canada), these developments, combined with local socio-political turmoil, left popular music in the throes of crisis and further jeopardised an indigenous music industry still in the making. The purpose of this paper is to examine the ways in which a local industry, by coming to terms with the aforementioned international developments, overcame what could well have spelled its doom.

This article is part of a larger attempt to map the movement of jazz within its cultural field, and as such is less concerned with its musicological properties than with the means of its production, consumption and the associated technology and rhetoric. It is the last of these that I am most interested in just here: the question of finding appropriate ways of talking about jazz. I want to suggest that certain kinds of commentary ostensibly dedicated to conferring artistic legitimacy on the music in effect reshape it so that it can be more easily fitted into a political economy.

But there isn't Al. If Al were there he would be giving a private performance to Chris Roberts as patron: an odd conception in the present-day world. In fact Al Green sings in a domain that is public although the musical commodity of the disc or tape turns it into a potentially solitary experience. In his comment Roberts has been captured by the Romantic understanding of the song: that its essence is (artistic) interiority made exterior. He is not alone in his fantasy of access to the pop singer. It constitutes the prevailing, if unformulated, view – a considerable irony in the postmodern world of late capitalism. The past few decades have witnessed the development of a global light-entertainment industry whose cultural objects partake in an increasingly closed circle of signification through pop videos, television advertising, soap operas and the tabloids. This (hyper)reality coexists today with the pursuit of the ever more soulful vocal, as if in a doomed attempt to crack open the reified commodity, by dint of the singer's passion to force something human across the gulf between exchange value and use value.

When we acknowledge that an idea, history or tradition is not ours, we distance ourselves from it. When we then proceed to use, incorporate or represent it, we arrogate the right to employ what we acknowledge as not ours. It is not something we do despite the foreignness of our subject; it is something we do because of our perception of it as other. The implicit hierarchical nature of otherness invites seemingly innocuous practices of representation that amount to (often unknowing) strategies of domination through appropriation. (Dominguez 1987, p. 132)

Chicha, a fermented maize beer, traditional in the Andes and brewed by Andean migrants in the shanty towns of Peru's cities, has given its name to a musical movement, which first emerged in the migrant squatter settlements of Lima in the 1960s. By the mid-1980s chicha was the most well-known and wide-spread form of urban popular music in Peru (Romero 1990; Rowe & Schelling 1991, pp. 121–2), widely played, sung and danced in impromptu chichodromos, set up in walled-in vacant lots or back yards.

In attempting to evaluate the subversive potential of popular culture generally, and rock music specifically, much recent Marxist theory has been caught in a dichotomy. At one pole has been a structuralist view of the subject as always already constructed (Althusser 1971): a notion leading to an analysis of popular culture as – yet another – agency of co-optation. At the opposite pole has been a view of popular culture as a set of subcultures, capable of expressing resistance to the dominant culture. Here, the subject is seen as pre-existing its construction through various modes of representation. Both sides of the dichotomy have therefore been implicated in a kind of holism that proves debilitating to cultural criticism: the one sees the (co-opted) subject as a coherent, albeit coherently written support for the system which has constructed it; the other sees the subject as a unitary resisting agent, unified through its class constitution and expressing its resistance in and through subcultural forms.

Angela McRobbie (1992) has recently observed that what is currently missing from Marxist cultural studies is a sense of urgency. In part, I believe this lack of urgency is the result of cultural studies' tendency ultimately to privilege theory over lived experience; the lived experiences of the post-baby boom generation seem especially neglected. As a 1991 issue of Spin magazine told its readers:

Magazines and newspapers such as Time and the New York Times are … comparing you unfairly to the dynamic and euphoric baby boomers – the authentic prototype of youth culture, at least as they would have it. They're saying you, the members of the twentysomething generation, have no distinctive identity, no culture to call your own, only recycled bits from the past. Ask yourself this question: Do you recognize yourself in this portrait? No? We didn't think so. (Owen 1991, p. 68)

Since when do Catalans speak Catalan and who are they anyway? Perhaps the 1992 Olympic Games have shed some light on Catalan identity for outsiders, but I believe the idea deserves development with a focus on the recent phenomenon of ‘rock en català’. By focusing on language and Catalan nationalism, by no means driven by a homogeneous ideology, I hope to clarify these questions about Catalan identity and its role in popular culture. In 1985 what would inspire four youths from Spain's north-eastern coastal region to pick up instruments they had never played before, with the exception of the drummer, and start a punk-rock band provocatively named Condons Adulterats (Spoiled Condoms)? What was the impetus behind their first hit ‘Estic penjat’ (I'm Stoned)? Fame? Money? Politics? Sex? I believe with the latter we are getting warmer, but as an original member of the band that sprang from this seedling, I can attest to the fact that we just wanted to have some fun. It was a challenge to have our efforts taken seriously and, while they often were not, our local following grew. If commercial success had been the goal of the band we would have agreed to sing in Spanish with the dream of conquering the Spanish peninsula. But the project began locally in the highly industrialised province of Tarragona where the most natural thing to do was to sing in Catalan.

This is the story of a rock venue in an English city. Hardly, it might be supposed, the stuff of great drama; there are, after all, rock venues throughout England. Most towns and cities of any size have at least one. But this venue, the Waterfront in Norwich, is distinctive, if not unique, in at least two respects.It was purpose-built and, more importantly, it was largely financed, not by private enterprise, but by the city's Labour council. Norwich's local politicians risked both financial and political capital so that their city could host performers like Nitzer Ebb, Dumpy's Rusty Nuts, Labi Siffre and Orzic Tentacles (all of whom appeared at the Waterfront in the space of a week in November 1991). The £1 million project opened in late 1990, amid much publicity and intense criticism from the opposition parties and local residents: these complaints continued into the venue's second year, when it received a further subsidy of £30,000 from the council. Why did the council take these risks? What were the political interests and values which led to this novel policy development?

Our time has come Tio/ I'm Basque and I'm proud/ That's enough Tio, say it loud/I'm Basque and I'm proud! (Negu Gorriak, 1989)

The relationship between popular music and social movements does not in itself constitute an exceptional phenomenon. However, Basque Radical Rock (as Basque punk has come to be called) has emerged as a peculiar phenomenon of the history of political mobilisation in Euskadi (the Basque name for Basque country). This peculiarity is due to the fusion of an eminently anti-establishment music of anglo-saxon origin with a nationalist patriotic movement. The ‘alliance’ between these two such diverse spheres is the theme of this article. Such an alliance is of interest because it reveals how the discursive and organisational linkages which formed Basque radical rock defined a common struggle shared by punks and nationalist activists.

Simon Frith (1982) once bemoaned the fact that students would rather sit in the library and study popular music (mainly punk) in terms of the appropriate cultural theory, than conduct ethnographic research which would treat popular music as social practice and process. Ten years later the literature on popular music is still lacking in ethnography.

The radio networks of North America and Britain provide one of the most important promotional outlets for recorded music, setting programming agendas at radio stations and influencing the talent acquisition policies of record labels throughout the world. For many years there have been sharp contrasts in the way in which music radio has operated and been organised in these two countries. The promotion of records in Britain has mainly been directed towards one national non-commercial station, Radio 1, which plays an eclectic mixture of musical styles. In the United States radio promotion has been aimed across a complex of commercial stations which broadcast ‘narrowcast’ music very clearly defined according to various ‘formats’. However, the recent re-regulation of the broadcasting system in Britain has resulted in a proliferation of regional commercial stations that are responding to increasing competition by introducing narrowcasting policies similar to those of North America. With Radio 1's share of listeners declining and the prospect of national commercial stations being granted licences and further challenging Radio 1's dominance of pop broadcasting, it seems particularly pertinent to contrast the practices of record companies and radio stations in Britain and North America and highlight how they directly effect the production and consumption of pop music.

Most instruction in electric guitar, bass guitar, drums and electronic keyboards is conducted on a one-to-one basis by uncertified, independent teachers. The lessons are face-to-face, and based on the student's imitation of the teacher's example. Popular music education is a ‘little tradition’ (in comparison to school music departments) and largely an oral one, thus meeting the usual criteria of folk cultures.

During the coffee break at a recent conference, I described myself to a new acquaintance as ‘a social historian of music’. He replied that he was glad to meet me as he now knew all four of us. The ‘club’, of course, has never been quite that exclusive, but the joke highlighted the essentially submerged and inchoate nature of work in this field. What follows is a decidedly personal article, designed not as a polished, final argument but as a review of some recent developments within the social history of popular music and as a stimulus to further work and argument. Aimed most particularly at those, whether they define themselves as musicologists or historians, taking relatively early steps into this field, it reflects the biases and preoccupations of a social historian with decidedly Anglo-centric interests and for whom history tends to ‘begin’ about 1750; I have a sense, however, that some of my comments may be relevant to the study both in and of other countries and of other historical periods. ‘Popular’ music is broadly defined here to accommodate both ‘aesthetic’ and ‘social’ usages of the term, but given my particular interests, and perhaps because of the methodological imperatives of social history, the latter application undoubtedly receives the closest attention.

After a decade of relative stability a flurry of closures and launches has changed the face of the British popular music press (see Table 1). This article examines the new structure and its development in three interlocking areas: in music industry organisation, rock and pop genres, and the process of discursive formation in the press itself. On the first of these, I argue that the function of the music press as an ‘institutional regulator’ (Hirsch 1990, p. 132) of music industry output has been subverted, during the 1980s, by a fluctuating record market and the growth of music programming on television and radio. A uni-directional model of cultural production is now problematic. Media, including the press, may be sponsors or initiators of music texts rather than mere filters. Secondly the New Pop, and more recently rave, has threatened the straightforward alignment of taste and cultural capital which underpinned rock hegemony. In the patchwork world of contemporary youth music the para-pedagogic work of the rock press in both guiding and excluding communities of taste has an extra urgency. My third point concerns critical method. Just because the rock/pop field has become decentred, the drive to fix meaning tends to generate crisis as successive critical solutions break down, revealed as monstrously excessive, as ‘more than’ the music. Journalists usually anticipate failure. But this only serves to speed up change and the movement towards the next untenable position.

Bayton (1992) is right to be preoccupied by the mutual blindness between feminism and popular music. For if pop music has been the twentieth-century cultural genre most centrally concerned with questions of sexuality, one would expect more feminist critique and engagement with it. It is undoubtedly true that feminists have often been suspicious of pop music as typifying everything that needs changing for girls in society (McRobbie 1978), and of rock music as a masculine culture that excludes women (Frith and McRobbie 1979). Conversely, those who wished to celebrate the political oppositionality of rock music have often had to draw an embarrassed veil around its sexual politics, and have had good reason to be wary of feminism's destructive potential. Nevertheless, Bayton's own bibliography shows the considerable work that has been done by feminists on popular music, and the problem is perhaps better seen as one of marginalisation of this work within both feminist theory and popular music studies. In addition, I would argue that the work of Radway (1987), Light (1984), Modleski (1984) and others, in ‘reclaiming’ the popular genres of romance reading and soap opera for women, does have parallels in popular music in the work of Greig (1989) and Bradby (1990) on girl-groups, or McRobbie on girls and dancing (1984). Cohen (1992) shows some of the mechanisms through which men exclude women from participation in rock bands, while Bayton's own study of women musicians parallels other sociological work on how women reshape work roles (1990). And the renewed interest in audience research in cultural studies has allowed a re-valorisation of girls' and women's experience as fans of popular music (Garratt 1984; Lewis 1992), and as creators of meaning in the music they listen to (Fiske 1989; Bradby 1990).