Ah, the sophomore slump. I think now is a good time to discuss this universally frustrating predicament, one which breaks free of its academic connotations to plague the music industry more conspicuously than any other art.
The idea of the slump originates here in college, of course, referring to students who often find it difficult to transform a carefree, drunken freshman year into a productive (and possibly stoned) college career. The second round has hence become generally accepted as a time of great aimlessness. If nothing else, it's the time to dabble in things and then get them out of your system.
In keeping with tradition, and as a handy illustration, it turns out I'm facing a little lack of direction today with my second column.
Last week, I wrote about top-40 radio, and this week I wanted to delve head first into tackling the molten, mercurial core of the music industry - whatever that means. But that is simply going to have to wait.
For now, I'm working on coming to terms with an excess of ideas on things that could be written about music, but lack a satisfying backbone. When the door gets thrown open after that first column, suddenly almost anything seems possible, and the temptation to experiment is great. At the same time, though, I feel strangely compelled to remain on solid ground and not do anything in the least bit unprecedented. Therein lies the inherent struggle of following up a debut.
For one misguided example, I was strongly considering using this week's column to explain why I was truly afraid that Jim Morrison was going to jump out of a poster - his famous armless one - \\and eat me last night. I had a good thesis for that one, actually.
To get back to music though, the sophomore slump problem arises when an exciting debut album comes out, causing expectations and public fervor to run wild, and these pressures in turn cause the follow-up to be too ambitious, too plodding or too contrived. The danger seems especially strong for British rock acts, known for being prone to turning out disappointing second albums. For instance, try to find anyone who paid more than a moment's notice to the latest albums by the Arctic Monkeys or the Kaiser Chiefs.
The rationale that gets tossed around as an explanation is that an artist (or band) will usually have many years to leisurely write and fine tune the songs that go on their first album, but then get a much shorter amount of time to write the next album, once they have an obligation with a record company to contend with. The second therefore ends up somewhat compromised. This would certainly explain the dilemma for some musicians who rely more on accrued experiences than innovation for their source material, and then inevitably find that the well dries up, or just wasn't deep enough in the first place.
Metaphoric water wells aside, in some cases intense praise can collapse under its own weight and lead to disappointment. When a debut album is so good that the first thing one ponders upon hearing it is how a sequel could ever do it justice - let's call this the Arcade Fire Quandary"" - either the pressures of reckoning with this sentiment will crush an artist with self-doubt, or the listener's expectations will be inflated to a level that can't possibly be met, even if the follow-up is solid.
Luckily, for the majority of artists out there who make a disappointing second record, the expectations are not quite so great, so there is less of a distance to fall. By the third time around, they've either lost their record contract or they're back on their feet again.
Is your favorite band experiencing the sophomore slump? Are you a sophomore in a slump? For counseling sessions, e-mail Ben at Bpeterson1@wisc.edu._
