Cultural production and the corporation: musical
genres and the strategic management of creativity
in the US recording industry
Keith Negus
DEPARTMENT OF SOCIOLOGY AND ANTHROPOLOGY, UNIVERSITY OF PUERTO RICO
This article is intended as a contribution to debates about the role of
entertainment corporations in the production of culture and is drawn from a
larger research study of the US music industry and the `cultural production'
of different musical genres.1
In this article I am concerned with the
corporate strategies adopted by the major record labels and seek to pursue
the implications of these practices for thinking about how ownership and
control are exercised and how this impacts on the creative activities of
musicians and the routes taken by the music they produce. In broad terms I
am using two themes as a way of schematically outlining the involvement
of recording corporations in the production of popular music: that an
industry produces culture and culture produces an industry. I introduce
these themes to signify, first, my debt to distinct traditions of enquiry
(which, given space and because this is not intended primarily as a
theoretical article, I shall acknowledge with the briefest of references) and,
second, to propose a particular relationship between `economics' and
`culture'. This broad approach is not proposed as a grand theoretical model,
but as a heuristic device for interrogating empirical material brought
together through research on the recording industry.
By using the phrase `industry produces culture' I am referring to how
entertainment corporations set up structures of organization and working
practices to produce identifiable products and `intellectual properties'. This
approach owes an enduring debt to the critique of Theodor Adorno and
Max Horkheimer (1979) and continues in what might loosely be called the
`culture industry' trajectory of theorizing. This is a perspective that draws
on political economy, critical theory and organization studies and which
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and New Delhi), Vol. 20: 359­379
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entails considering various corporate strategies, contractual arrangements
and business practices through which music companies seek to achieve
their goals. Writers following this line of reasoning have tended to narrate
a tale of the `production of culture' during which the practices, form and
content of popular music are made to conform to a range of organizational
constraints and commercial criteria.2
My second theme is signalled by the phrase `culture produces an
industry', a phrase I use to stress that production does not take place
simply `within' a corporate environment created according to the requirements
of capitalist production but in relation to broader culture formations
and practices that may not be directly within the control or understanding
of the company. This idea acknowledges the `postmodern' critique of
production put by those who argue that the industry and mass media cannot
simply determine the meaning of musical products and that these may be
appropriated in various ways. More specifically, this perspective draws on
insights from cultural studies, in particular Raymond Williams's (1961,
1965) conception of culture as a `whole way of life' and Stuart Halľs
(1996) emphasis on the practices through which people create meaningful
worlds in which to live. I also follow George E. Marcus and Michael
Fischer's suggestion that `not only is the cultural construction of meaning
and symbols inherently a matter of political and economic interests, but the
reverse also holds -- the concerns of political economy are inherently
about conflicts over meanings and symbols' (1986: 85). Hence, while
seeking to understand corporate attempts to manage and manipulate the
working life of a music company and its artists, I also wish to incorporate
thinking about broader cultural patterns within which a company is
situated. This might include, for example, the experiences of class,
ethnicity, gender and geographical location and borders that has an impact
on how music is made by recording companies.
I am pursuing these two themes as a way of thinking about industryculture
in what I hope is a complementary manner and to focus on a
number of distinct features of musical production. There are two key issues
I wish to highlight in this article.
The first is how recording companies distribute their staff, artists, genres
and resources into divisions defined according to social-cultural identity
labels, such as black music division, Latin division, domestic division,
international department. In economic terms such practices are part of
a strategy of portfolio management, maintaining surveillance of a mix
of different product lines (which I shall refer to in more detail shortly).
In cultural terms, this can be viewed as a direct intervention into
and contribution towards the way in which social life is rationalized and
fragmented and through which different experiences are separated and
treated unequally.
360 Media, Culture & Society Vol. 20 No. 3
Second is the way in which staff within the music industry seek to
understand the world of musical production and consumption by constructing
knowledge about it (through various forms of research and information
gathering), and then by deploying this knowledge as a `reality' that guides
the activities of corporate personnel. In economic terms this refers to the
production, circulation and use of various forms of market data. In
anthropological terms, this refers to the way in which production is
understood by those involved in it through a series of apparently obvious
and commonsense categories which do not so much involve an understanding
of `reality' as a construction and intervention into `reality'. One
example here would involve the division of social life into constructed
`markets', and then the deployment of knowledge about the characteristics
and workings of these markets.
Before I illustrate and develop these themes and arguments, I wish to
begin the discussion by referring to two of the key terms in the title of this
essay: `musical genre' and `creativity'.
Creativity, genre and the corporation
As a number of writers have observed (Garnham, 1990; Frith, 1996), one
of the problems of industry-oriented approaches to cultural activity is that
the form, content and meaning of texts are often neglected or assumed
from patterns of ownership or structures of organization. One of my aims
in what follows is to begin addressing this problem in broad terms by
considering how the industry begins shaping the conditions within which
particular genre practices and creative techniques are deployed. This is
intended as a small step towards integrating, or at least connecting, the
texts more directly to production contexts. My concern is not with the
detailed ways in which music corporations directly shape the codes and
conventions of particular styles of music (although this is clearly important).
My aim, at this stage, is more general. I wish to outline how
corporations shape the conditions within which particular practices can be
realized and contested as `creative' while also containing genre categories
that might otherwise be far more unstable and dynamic. Hence, I should
acknowledge that this article is part of a larger project. It is an attempt to
clear some of the ground for a more detailed and sophisticated understanding
of how the industry shapes symbolic forms (without falling back
towards simple reflection theories or reductive arguments about musical
texts as repositories of a dominant ideology).
In pursuing ideas about `creativity' I also wish to move away from an
argument, appearing in many discussions of popular music, whereby
cultural production is characterized in terms of a conflict between commerce
(industry) and creativity (the artists). This is a distinction that also
361Negus, Cultural production and the corporation
informs the claim that audiences (creative) can appropriate and hence
transform the products that are disseminated by the industry (again,
commerce). In writing elsewhere (Negus, 1995), I have reviewed a range
of claims about this issue, suggesting that creativity is often treated in a
vague and mystical manner, with many writers assuming that we all know
and recognize `creativity' when we meet it.
Drawing on Raymond Williams's (1983) brief discussion of the etymology
of the term `creative' and reflecting upon academic and everyday uses
of this term, I want to think about this further by identifying two broad
approaches to what creativity is and what it might involve. The first is an
exclusivist approach, the second inclusivist. According to the exclusivist
approach (from the original reference to divine creation), creativity is
associated with human capacity for `originality' and `innovation' (Williams,
1983). Hence, it is often argued that record companies cannot find it:
creativity is outside the corporate machine, and dependent upon inspired
musicians, writers, entrepreneurs, subcultures and small record labels. In
contrast, the inclusivist approach can be found in numerous places, used to
refer to numerous conventional and routine activities such as `creative'
writing or `creative' accounting. Here, as Williams (1983) notes, `creative'
has become something of a `cant worď used to refer to all manner of
audio-visual practices, from hairdressing to the production of advertising
slogans and screen writing. The first approach retains residues of an elitist
approach to culture and social life, whereby certain gifted or mystically
inspired individuals have creative abilities. The other imbues the most
banal of routine working practices with an aura of artistic inspiration and
humanistic worth. Both can be detected in the routine celebrations of
musical performers and fans.
I want to suggest one way out of such a dichotomy here. First, I will
follow those writers who have argued that creative practices should be
understood through the notion of genre (Fabbri, 1982, 1989; Frith, 1996).
Second, I seek to understand some of the dynamics through which the
conditions are created within which claims about creativity can be made in
the first place. Here I wish to argue that the music industry plays a major
part in shaping the conditions and divisions within which claims about
creativity are asserted, maintained and contested. Hence, I am thinking
about creativity in terms of genre, and genre in terms of broader social
divisions. This leads to two further points.
First, the vast majority of musical production involves working within
relatively stable `genre worlds' (Frith, 1996) whereby ongoing cultural
production is not so much about sudden bursts of innovation but the
continual production of familiarity and newness. Hence, creative practice is
not approached as inspirational and radically new, nor as something that
everybody does in a kind of everyday creative way. Instead, ongoing
cultural production involves working with recognizable codes, conventions
362 Media, Culture & Society Vol. 20 No. 3
and expectations. It entails putting together various audio and visual
components in a recognizably familiar but slightly different way. It is that
slightly different-ness that is usually the source of critical discussion, rather
than any sudden dramatic change. It is the newness and familiarity to
which audiences and other musicians are responding.
Second, this process is strategically managed by recorded entertainment
companies. In the process, resources are allocated to some types of music
and not others; certain types of deals are done with some acts and not
others. Greater investment is accorded to certain types of familiarity and
newness and not others. It is part of my argument that we cannot fully
explore the details of the conventions and codes of genres through textual
analysis without fully understanding how corporate organization intersects
with the broader genre culture.
In using the term `genre culture' I am drawing on Steve Neale's use of
genre as a sociological, rather than formal concept `not . . . as forms of
textual codifications, but as systems of orientations, expectations and
conventions that circulate between industry, text and subjecť (Neale, 1980:
19). However, I do not wish to overemphasize the media and music
industry. In contrast I want to stress the wider sociological and cultural
context within which sounds, images and words are given meaning. My
point is that it is through the way in which genres are strategically
managed and due to the way this intersects with broader historical, social
and cultural formations, that the music industry shapes the possibilities for
creative practice.
Hence I am not proposing a simple conflict between commerce and
creativity. Instead, I am suggesting that the recording industry has a direct
impact on how creativity can be realized, given meaning and contested. In
the latter part of this article I shall refer briefly to rap and salsa to indicate
the broader genre cultures within which music corporations operate and to
illustrate my point that while an industry produces culture, culture produces
an industry. I now begin pursuing this theme in more detail by considering
the key corporate strategies through which production is organized.
Corporate strategy and portfolio management
The issue of corporate strategy usually crops up in two types of literature:
first, political economy, particularly in the critical Marxist tradition which
emphasizes how capitalist control is exerted, maintained and reproduced;
second, normative management theory which usually seeks to understand
how corporations can exercise control more effectively with the aim of
making management more efficient and increasing profits. Despite differing
orientations, both traditions are agreed that strategy is one of the key ways
in which corporations seek to exercise control (Fligstein, 1990).
363Negus, Cultural production and the corporation
As in other industries, music business strategies are the result of
deliberate, conscious formulation combined with a certain amount of
improvisation and a degree of compromise between different parties (De
Wit and Meyer, 1994). Strategy aims to control and order the unpredictable
social processes and diversity of human behaviours which are condensed
into notions of production and consumption. As many writers have
observed, producing popular music is riddled with uncertainties. These
include anxieties about whether existing and new artists will continue to
produce and deliver what is anticipated; the unpredictable activities of
audiences and consumers; and uncertainties about the symbolic and rights
value which may accumulate to different recordings and artists within
various media systems (Hirsch, 1972; Frith, 1983; Hesmondhalgh, 1996).
Strategies are a deliberate attempt to deal with these issues.
At the same time, strategies seek to organize, allocate and account for
the equally unpredictable activities of personnel who may spend days
within and travelling between different corporate buildings and who
conduct their business in a relatively unsupervised manner in studios,
theatres, stadiums, clubs, bars and so on. Hence, strategy provides a means
of monitoring and accounting for the activities of producers, artists and
recording industry personnel. It also provides a means of rationalizing and
ordering the activities of consumers and audiences.
Most companies' strategic intentions are fairly straightforward and are
expressed in a desire to increase market share, either through so-called
`organic growth' or through the acquisition of labels. Market share is not
simply an end in itself, but is an indicator which represents a broader series
of preoccupations and intentions. For distant corporate owners and for
potential shareholders who may have no idea what is going on within a
company on a day-to-day basis, the market share figures provide an
indication of profitability and expertise. Companies with a high share of a
particular market (whether the US recorded music market in general or
market for a specific genre in a given region) will tend to attract investment
and artists.3
In addition, market share figures play a morale-boosting
function within the company and are important for persuading retailers to
make space to stock the products of a particular company.
The strategies adopted follow from these broad aims. There are a
number of distinct components of corporate strategy. Given space constraints
I want to focus on portfolio management and consider its
consequences for popular music production.4
Portfolio management is a
key way in which direction, accountability and control are maintained.
Portfolio management provides a way of viewing the company's labels,
genres and artists by dividing them into discrete units (strategic business
units). This makes visible the performance, profile and contribution of
each. In many ways this is part of a strategy of diversification; the
company spreading its risks across various musical genres and potential
364 Media, Culture & Society Vol. 20 No. 3
sources of income. But it is more than diversification. Portfolio management
provides a way of managing the company's diverse range of interests,
as each unit can be assessed and categorized according to its performance
and level of investment required.
The terminology developed by the Boston Consulting Group in 1970, as
a way of categorizing business units, is routinely used by senior personnel
in record companies when referring to different departments, artists and
genres. Terms such as `stars', `cash cows', `dogs' and, less frequently,
`wild cats' (or a synonym) are used to refer to artists, labels or genres.
These categories provide a way of assessing and characterizing the
performance of each division.
Well-established genres such as rock and country are often categorized
with the label of `cash cow' to indicate how, with minor modifications and
modest ongoing investment, this category brings in regular revenue. In
turn, artists such as Michael Jackson, Mariah Carey and Phil Collins are
categorized as `stars' and receive special attention, in terms of budgets and
staff expertise. `Wild cať refers to a new genre (or, in certain cases, an
artist) and the fact that market growth is difficult to predict and the
company may need to make a substantial investment before obtaining a
significant return. The category of `dog' is used to identify business units
and artists that are usually considered a bad investment. However, record
companies may retain a dog in order to impress and attract other artists or
to maintain morale within the company. Such a policy can be used to
justify the claim that the company is interested in `arť as much as profits
(although such a strategy can also have indirect commercial benefits). Just
as different genres do not exist in isolation but in direct relation to one
another within systems of genres (Neale, 1990), so genres assume a
position within the company's portfolio, with departments continually
struggling for greater recognition and further resources.
The practice of portfolio management enables the company to assess and
divide up different genre divisions, labels or those working with specific
artists. It allows for particular techniques of monitoring which operate to
enforce a high degree of accountability within the operating units. Each
unit has to report regularly to corporate headquarters and has sales targets
to hit, budgets to work within, and is rewarded for good performance and
can be punished for poor performance. The company can reward for
contributions to profile and profitability by allocating finance for expansion
and by giving performance-related bonuses. At the same time, the company
can deploy sanctions for poor performances. Punishment can involve the
sacking of individual senior executives and bringing in new presidents or it
can involve the closing down of entire divisions and their removal from the
company's portfolio.
A conspicuous example of this occurred when Capitol Records closed its
entire `Urban division' in February 1996, dropping most of its artists and
365Negus, Cultural production and the corporation
laying off 18 members of staff (most of them black). Capitol-EMI publicly
announced that the company had done this to concentrate resources on
`stars' such as Bonnie Raitt, Bob Seger and Richard Marx and `modern
rock' artists such as Foo Fighters, Everclear and Radiohead. This was a
clear example of portfolio management in practice (and where investment
priorities lie). A category of `stars' were named as a priority and the genre
of modern rock was identified as a `cash cow'. It seemed that the company
had decided that the black music division was a `dog'.
For J.R. Reynolds, columnist for Billboard, this event represented `the
systematic extermination of black music at Capitol Records' and `cut the
company's ties' to the `r'n'b community' (1996: 18). As such, this was far
from simply an `economic' decision. Reynolds pointed out that it could not
be justified in market terms: in 1995 r'n'b and rap had sold 132 million
albums and accounted for over 21 percent of the music market in the
United States.5
Hence, the commercial strategies of the music corporations are not
simply business decisions alone, but are informed by a number of value
judgements and cultural beliefs. In this instance, to many outsiders,
whatever the dynamic within the company, this looked suspiciously like
racism and a distinct lack of commitment (in terms of staff and investment)
to sustain an involvement in black music and what Nelson George (1989)
has called the `rhythm and blues worlď. George has used this term to refer
to the `extramusicaľ significance of rhythm and blues as an `integral part
. . . of . . . a black community forged by common political, economic and
geographic conditions' (1989: xii). In my terms, George is pointing to the
broader genre culture within which musical sounds are created and given
meaning and indicating how this intersects with (but is much more than)
the commercial category.
The use of portfolio management as a way of managing divisions is
sometimes referred to as a `loose­tighť approach (i.e. tight financial
control, loose regulation of day-to-day working style, dress and little
intervention into the values, ethics, etc.). In practice monitoring can involve
consideration of the entire plans of each division, down to individual
release schedules of specific artists.6
The loose­tight approach is tight
enough to close down or re-staff a division.
Unlike the owner who is present down the corridor (as happens in
smaller and less multi-divisional companies), the corporation employs
techniques of remote judging for which it uses more detached indicators
rather than relying on day-to-day human interaction. The managers within
the division have less opportunity to explain their day-to-day problems and
to elaborate on the more `qualitative' rather than quantitative aspects of
management (how to persuade temperamental artists to deliver recordings
on time or participate in specific activities, dealing with staff problems).
Instead, getting the figures right becomes a preoccupation. It is, as a
366 Media, Culture & Society Vol. 20 No. 3
number of senior executives explained to me during interviews, easier to
stand up at a corporate meeting and present the figures than try and explain
the way in which artists are being developed or why a major artist has not
delivered, or has sold less than their last album.7
One immediate consequence is a reduction in risk taking. Yet, there is
more than this at stake. Such financial control has implications for aesthetic
judgements. As Neil Fligstein (1990) has noted, control strategies operate
according to a type of analysis whereby the world is simplified. As the
work of many popular music scholars suggests, genres are far from static
and are constantly changing as interacting musicians move across aesthetic
and geographical borders.8
Yet strategic calculation is built on a desire for
stability, predictability and containment. This is an issue that I do not have
the space to pursue in detail here, but it suggests that musicians confront a
continual pressure for stasis (despite being called upon to deliver `new'
albums). My general point here is that what are often taken to be
straightforward business decisions are actually based on a number of
culturally specific beliefs and assumptions. I now want to consider the
interaction between business decisions and cultural beliefs in more detail
and then schematically illustrate this with reference to rap and salsa.
Cultural divisions and business decisions
For many senior executives in record companies the issue of `culture' is
important, not only in terms of the sounds, words and images of popular
music that are associated with the company's artists, but in terms of the
day-to-day working world or way of life within the company; what is
usually understood as the company culture. Many executives have been
influenced by the prescriptive literature which suggests that a company's
distinctiveness and economic competitiveness is dependent upon its corporate
culture.
Yet, the very staff who claim that company culture is important find it
difficult to identify the characteristics that distinguish their company from
their competitors, or which unite their different offices in, say, London,
New York or Los Angeles. When I posed such a question to various
personnel in both Britain and the United States, most found it very difficult
to respond. Staff could say little about their own organization, but
pontificated freely about the culture of other companies, usually in
disparaging terms. This consisted of a series of vague statements which can
be condensed into a trope which became surprisingly familiar as I spoke to
various people in different locations: `X company is hierarchical, formal
and its staff are motivated through fear, whereas our company is more open
and casuaľ (with staff from different companies saying the same thing
about each other).
367Negus, Cultural production and the corporation
While companies try hard to present different corporate identities (in
annual reports, corporate offices, logos, advertising, etc.), it can be
misleading to accept self-promoted definitions of `unique' organizational
cultures. One challenge to such an idea can be observed in the way that
personnel are continually moving between record companies, sometimes en
masse. At one point in 1995 it seemed as if MCA was turning into Warner
Music, due to the number of ex-Warner employees that were joining the
label.9
If this is considered alongside the similar structures, the very
pragmatic concerns guiding most strategies and day-to-day activity (budgets,
sales, advances), it would suggest that claims about the distinctive
`corporate culture' of different major labels may be decidedly mythical.
`Culture' can become an overused and abused word, particularly when
employed in organizations where it is often treated as single and unified,
and sometimes reduced to a series of `indicators' which can be `measureď
and then manipulated in order to bring about change. Caren Siehl and
Joanne Martin have argued that this type of approach has `not been -- and
may never be -- empirically demonstrateď (1990: 242) and `may be
hampering the development of our understanding of culture specifically
and, more generally, of how culture relates to other aspects of organizational
theory' (Siehl and Martin, 1990: 271). Hugh Willmot has also
pointed to the `abstraction of organizational culture and symbolism from its
wider historical and politico-economic contexts as culture is dissected into
rituals, myths, sagas and the like' (1993: 521).
Following these critiques and drawing from my own research I want to
suggest that companies are embedded in a surrounding cultural context
which can have a greater impact on the workings of a corporation than
attempts to `engineer' corporate culture or manipulate the office environment.
By arguing this I'm suggesting a shift towards wider questions about
culture. For me these include questions such as: to what extent are music
industry practices shaped by, but -- at the same time -- an intervention
into regional, ethnic, religious or linguistic affiliation? How does gender,
sexuality or class create patterns which shape the presentation of artists?
And how does this inform the male/female and heterosexual/homosexual
`roles' that can be found within the music industry in general, and in
particular genre cultures?
In moving in this direction (although not addressing all of these issues
here) my general point is that to understand the issue of culture and the
music industry then it is necessary to think away from organizational
culture in a narrow sense and towards the broader cultural patterns that
intersect with an organization. To think away from culture within an
industry and towards an industry within culture. I now want to schematically
pursue this line of thinking and focus a number of the threads of the
above discussion by considering two genres; rap and salsa.
368 Media, Culture & Society Vol. 20 No. 3
The business of rap
Following my earlier discussion of portfolio management, the first thing to
note is that rap is located within the major companies' rhythm and blues or
black music section. Major companies began introducing divisions to deal
specifically with black music during the early 1970s. This was a response
to both commercial opportunity, social and political pressure and cultural
changes. In one respect it was a response to pressure from the Civil Rights
Movement and National Association for the Advancement of Colored
People who sought to urge the major labels to give a more equitable
remuneration to black artists and increase black representation among
industry personnel. However, the major companies themselves were beginning
a process of reassessing how they dealt with different types of music,
and followed the recommendations of a 1971 report for CBS by the
Harvard Business School which had advocated the formation of black
music divisions.10
This was for many executives a logical restructuring and
response to promotional practices and radio broadcasting which had dealt
separately with African-American recordings through a series of euphemisms
which began with the term `race music' during the 1920s (Garofalo,
1994, 1997).
One benefit is that these divisions have provided a space for black staff
who may not otherwise have gained employment in the industry. In
addition, it has ensured that musicians are managed by personnel with
knowledge, skills and understanding of r'n'b music. However, the black
divisions have often experienced an unstable and uncertain existence. One
of the most significant disadvantages is that the department can easily be
cut back, closed down or restructured by the corporation (whether this is
due to an assessment that the genre has changed or simply because cuts
have to be made).
Hence, one issue here is that of occupational insecurity. The music
industry is a notoriously insecure place to work, but black music divisions
can be particularly unstable. For as long as they have been in existence the
variously named r'n'b/black/urban divisions have been closed down and
reopened as a way of dealing with financial booms and slumps, and staffed
and re-staffed as senior management has continually changed thinking
about how to deal with r'n'b.11
This instability intersects with a broader issue of historical continuity.
One conspicuous point here is that there are very few senior black
executives within the corporate hierarchy who are above the black division
and hence involved in the decision about closing down business units or restaffing
existing departments. As Reebee Garofalo has also noted `black
personnel have been systematically excluded from positions of power
within the industry' (1994: 275). Hence, the black divisions have not been
369Negus, Cultural production and the corporation
allowed to develop a continuity and a sense of history that is consonant
with the African-American contribution to US musical culture.
It is within this context that the music industry began dealing with rap
(or not dealing with rap) during the 1980s. At one point it seemed that the
major companies had neither the inclination, understanding nor skills to
deal with rap. It was partly anxiety, lack of expertise and incomprehension
on the part of the majors which allowed small companies to carve out a
considerable niche during the 1980s.
One of the characteristics of rap that initially confused the major
companies was the way that rap proposed a series of working relationships
across different musical entities; cliques, collectives, affiliations and group
and label identities that connected together different `bands' and individual
performers (signified in the continual appearance of performers on each
other's recordings that establishes very specific networks of affiliation and
alliances).
The genre culture of rap posits a different notion of musical practice (not
only in the well-documented use of existing musical elements and
technologies), but in terms of the idea of a `career' and sense of belonging
to a musical entity. This is quite a contrast from that of the stable, bounded
and predictable rock unit or pop band, the solo performer and selfsufficient
singer-songwriter which the industry has become competent at
producing and comfortable in dealing with. Rap posits a fluid series of
affiliations and associations, alliances and rivalries, occasionally serious,
and usually related to neighbourhood and representation. These affiliations
are lived across various group and individual identities.
This is connected to another issue which the industry has also been
uncomfortable with: the representation of `the reaľ or what is often
referred to as `being reaľ and the politics of identity which has accompanied
this. This aspect has often received more superficial media coverage
than serious debate about the issues which it raises and has frequently been
reduced to simple arguments about profanity and the generic imagery of
violence and misogyny that has characterized so-called gangsta rap. And
`discussion' is often informed by a simple stimulus­response model of
media effects and an aesthetic reductionism through which rap becomes
merely lyrics. One consequence, however, is that overt political pressures
have been exerted on record companies, from `community' organizations,
government and state forces. This has further encouraged the companies to
distance themselves from the genre culture of rap.
Additional judgements made by staff within business affairs and international
departments have also had a decisive influence on the acquisition
and drawing up of contracts for rap artists. There are two `business
decisions' here which are far more than straightforward commercial
judgements. First is an assessment of the ongoing revenue that can be
generated from rap; what is referred to as `catalogue value'. Rap tracks are
370 Media, Culture & Society Vol. 20 No. 3
routinely compared to conventional songs and it is asserted that they cannot
be `covereď -- re-recorded, re-sung, re-performed by other artists. Hence,
rap tracks are judged to have a short catalogue shelf life, in terms of their
ability to bring in ongoing copyright revenue from their re-use.12
In
addition, the rights revenue that rap can generate during any assumed `shelf
life' is considered to be less than other types of music. In the words of one
corporate attorney:
Music publishing and rap is a nightmare because so much of it is parts of songs.
You know they have like one eighth of this song and two-thirds of another song
. . . because everything is owned by someone else that can make those deals less
expensive, but also less lucrative for the publishers than otherwise. . . . The
publisher looks at how much they can collect on a particular album, and
sometimes because of the number of samples on the album the amount they can
collect can be pretty low.13
As Thomas Schumacher has observed in his discussion of sampling and
copyright law, a focus on rap not only `highlights the ways in which
notions of authorship and originality do not necessarily apply across forms
and cultural traditions' but poses problems for the `universals of legal
discourse' (Schumacher, 1995: 265). Hence, the music industry copyright
system, itself established upon culturally coded assumptions about the
character of a composition and performance which can be traced back to
the 19th century (Frith, 1993), is inscribed into business practices that in
turn inform these apparently straightforward `commerciaľ decisions. One
consequence is that rap is less attractive in terms of the criteria through
which long-term catalogue value is accorded. Hence, less will be paid to
artists as advances and royalties, because it is believed that less can be
earned.14
A further pragmatic business judgement which affects the amount
invested in rap is the assumption that it does not `travel welľ. One senior
executive in an international department remarked that he had sat in
meetings and heard rap recordings being referred to as `too black' for
international promotion,15
a broad sweeping claim that is justified specifically
with the assertion that lyrically rap is `parochiaľ -- although the
history of popular music is littered with parochial lyrics appearing in
numerous places around the world. While rap does foreground poetic vocal
performance, it is misleading to imply that this works simply as lyrics and
not as an emotional performative sound event. This argument from within
the industry, like Tony Mitchelľs claim that US rap has remained
`resolutely locaľ (1996: 26), seems to reduce its aesthetic complexity and
rhythmic, harmonic and melodic cosmopolitanism to rap lyrics.
Hence, there are a number of ways in which the music industry seeks to
contain rap within a narrow structure of expectations: through confinement
within a black division, through arm's-length deals which avoid having to
deal with various alliances and affiliations; through judgements about rap's
371Negus, Cultural production and the corporation
long-term historical and geographical potential to endure. One consequence
is straightforward lack of investment, and practices to keep investment
down (it is easier to deal with production units than to invest in staff and
office space within the company). At the same time, rather than bringing
the culture -- the people, the practices -- into the industry, the companies
have tended to maintain a sharp border. This can be contrasted with the
treatment of rock in the late 1960s and early 1970s. During this period
there was a movement from the rock subculture and so-called counterculture
into the music industry -- a period when the `revolutionaries' were
on CBS (as one marketing slogan proclaimed at the time).16
This has
continued, with a new wave of young white males recruited into the US
music industry in the early 1990s following the success of Nirvana and the
stabilization of grunge into modern or alternative rock.
Rap personnel have not been embraced in the same way. For example,
when Capitol closed its black music division the company dropped most of
its artists and moved only a few acts over to the EMI label. The company
publicly announced that this was because EMI had the expertise to deal
with them. Yet, a few weeks later, when I interviewed Davitt Sigerson,
President of EMI Records, and asked him to explain how he deals with rap,
he said:
I donť have anyone doing r'n'b a & r. What I've adopted as a model is to have
a bunch of different production deals or first-look arrangements with entrepreneurs
who bring me stuff . . . iťs a very affiliative sort of creative community
and process and I donť need to be in a camp.17
Earlier I drew on George's phrase the `rhythm and blues worlď to suggest
that r'n'b is more than a genre of music. Likewise, George has characterized
rap culture as a `post-civil rights, ultra-urban, unromantic, hyperrealistic,
neonationalistic, antiassimilationist, aggressive Afrocentric
impulse' (George, 1992: 93). In the above discussion I have schematically
outlined how these genre cultures relate to the organization of the major
companies within the music industry, suggesting that rap culture is kept at
a distance from the main offices of the corporations. Despite the influence
of rap and hip hop on the aesthetics of music, video, fashion, dancing and
advertising, the potential of this broader cultural formation to make a direct
contribution to day-to-day music industry business practices is not en-
couraged.
Salsa and the US Latin music business
Unlike rap, rock and country, which account for a considerable part of the
US music market, salsa is a category of tropical music which, in industry
terms, is very much a niche market. This means that resources have to be
372 Media, Culture & Society Vol. 20 No. 3
struggled for. Earlier I referred to the fact that music corporations all have
limited resources to distribute among the genres within their portfolio.
Each department seeks to represent its own interests as more significant
and attempts to justify its claims through the presentation of individual
sales figures, market share statistics, radio play figures and so on.
Here, the Latin division is immediately at a distinct disadvantage. The
key figures are the official statistics which are collated, verified and
published by the RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America), the
trade body which oversees, represents and lobbies congress on behalf of
the music industry. Up until 1997 the RIAA had not published, nor
officially verified the statistics for the sales of Latin music in the USA.
Although agreeing to consider this possibility during 1996, by the middle
of 1997 there had been `no decision regarding the release of figures for the
Latin music markeť.18
In past annual reports profiling the US music
business, Latin music has been included in the category of `other' (unlike
rock, rap and country, for example). Officially, up to 1997, Latin music
accounted for less than 1 percent of the music sales in the US/Puerto Rico.
However, staff I spoke to in record companies suggested that a more
reasonable unofficial figure was somewhere between 4 and 7 percent.
In a similar way, the Soundscan system which records all point of
purchase sales of musical recordings in over 80 percent of US retail outlets
underrepresents the sales of salsa music. This is significant because these
figures are used by Billboard to create the charts, and these in turn have an
impact upon what retailers are prepared to stock and what various media
may cover and programme. There are two significant problems here. First,
many Latin stores in the United States are small-scale family operations,
unlike the megastores and chains such as Tower Records and Sam Goody.
These small retailers have generally not installed the machinery for
recording sales. Hence, many Latin music purchases do not appear in the
official statistics. A second problem is that there are very few Soundscan
machines in Puerto Rico. This means that salsa, for which Puerto Rico is
one of the major markets, is more underrepresented than other Latin genres
such as Tejano, Tex Mex and Regional Mexican genres. A greater quantity
of sales of these genres is reported, particularly through machines installed
in stores in Los Angeles and Texas. According to staff I spoke to at Sony
Discos and Polygram Latino,19
the official sales statistics published by
Soundscan and upon which the Billboard charts are based, record only
about 20 percent of salsa music sales.
Although companies have their own methods for collecting sales data,
they face the problem of legitimate market knowledge. When trying to
convince corporate headquarters to allocate more resources to the Latin
division, or when trying to persuade retailers to stock more recordings,
staff involved in managing tropical music have to rely on their own figures.
These are statistics which do not have the same aura of legitimacy as those
373Negus, Cultural production and the corporation
produced, published and circulated by independent industry organizations.
Hence, the production of statistical data has significant consequences
for individual divisions within the music companies. The rock division, for
example, can present independently verified figures when lobbying for
more resources.
Apart from statistics, there is another type of knowledge which has a
significant impact here: that is the cultural beliefs, values and everyday
assumptions which guide the activities of personnel. As I have argued
above, these are inscribed into what are often taken to be straightforward
business arrangements. Although salsa can legitimately be considered a US
`domestic' genre of music, in that salsa and other Latin genres are
produced and purchased within the US and its territories (most notably
Puerto Rico), knowledge of the music is significantly separated from those
working within the major offices of US music companies. There are three
significant barriers here: structural location within the corporation, geographical
location within the country and linguistic location within the US
cultural hierarchy.
The structural location within the company defines salsa as `internationaľ
(basically as a `foreign' music within the US). This means that
music that was initially associated with New York (and which is still
strongly associated with that city but is now produced and consumed in
various places in the USA) is located in the international divisions of the
major companies which do not report directly to head office in the USA.
So, for example, Sony Discos reports to the Latin American Region; WEA
Latina reports to Warner Music Latin America which then reports to
London; Polygram Latino reports to Polygram Latin America which in turn
also reports to London.
This division is compounded by geographical and linguistic divisions. At
the time of writing (August 1997), all of the major label Latin divisions
were located in Miami. Taken together these divisions can create a
formidable barrier between the main part of the US domestic company and
Latin music personnel. Staff in the Latin division find it difficult to
influence the agendas which are being set at corporate HQ in the US and
have little ability to persuade the company to take them seriously enough
to invest time, money and skills in production and promotion. Here the
organizational, geographical and language divisions combine together to
thwart any attempt to sell Latin artists to a broader audience.
A few artists achieve this, notably Gloria Estefan, who came out from
the tropical category and is jointly managed by Sony domestic, and the late
Selena who `crossed over' from the Tejano category. One of the most
common responses to the request from Latin staff for more attention and
investment for their artists is, what has apparently become, a standard
response: `sing in English' (even if the Latin division can show that there
is a big demand for the artist singing in Spanish).
374 Media, Culture & Society Vol. 20 No. 3
Like rap and hip hop, Latin rhythms, melodies and dance styles have
become an integral part of much contemporary popular culture. Yet, Latin
culture is discursively, geographically and economically located on the
margins of the music industry. This issue was highlighted by Maribel
Schumacher who was President of Marketing for Time-Warner's WEA
Latina division when I interviewed her in April 1996. I asked her if she
thought the separation between the Latin/international part of the company
and the domestic division was a barrier to how she worked. She responded:
I donť know whether iťs so much a question of structure, so much as people
and attitude . . . We've always gotten the cold shoulder, you know the Anglos
donť want to know that Latin music will cross over. Thaťs the bottom line. The
bottom line is that they want to keep us in the ghetto, ghettoized. I donť think
iťs a case of structure, I think iťs a case of human beings, of people believing
in something and then creating the structure to make that happen. But if you
have the structure and you donť have people who believe in what you're
doing . . .20
She ended with a shrug of the shoulders, indicating that even if there were
a different structure that there would still be the problem of `people'. As
such, her comments indicate how structure and organizational arrangements
intersect with cultural patterns and beliefs. How, in my terms, industry
produces culture and culture also produces industry.
Hence, it is not simply that there are particular organizational structures,
it is that these are operated according to a type of knowledge through
which the world is imagined in a particular way. Uncritically received
cultural assumptions and common sense ideas about a world of discrete
markets and separate social worlds is inscribed into business practices.
These are deployed systematically, ignoring all evidence to the contrary
(which would, I suspect, produce a type of cognitive dissonance that would
undermine the logic of the system), and this contributes to the separation of
knowledge and experience.
In many ways the situation I am briefly describing here is symptomatic
of the relationships that uneasily connect the USA to Cuba, Puerto Rico
and the Caribbean regions of Latin America in the East, and to the Latin
populations of Texas, California and Mexico in the West. Iťs also
indicative of institutional tensions between the English-language and
Spanish-language cultures of the United States. In short, this is symptomatic
of the treatment of Latin culture as a `foreign' rather than an integral
part of `US culture'. As Raúl Fernández has noted, during a discussion of
Cuban music; `the absence of the Latin in North America's music parallels
the absence of Latin America in the construction of the United States'
"national character" ' (1994: 111). Fernández is careful to note that this
cannot simply be explained as a consequence of an `imperial design', a
point I would endorse. Yet such broader cultural political tensions are
structured into what are often taken to be straightforward economic,
375Negus, Cultural production and the corporation
organizational practices. These are activities that are lived by those
working within the industry as if they are merely responding to `the world
out there'. The immediate impact of this for creative practice is that it
establishes a series of distinct barriers, erected between staff within music
companies, and in turn between musicians and between different groups of
consumers.
Concluding remarks
In discussing how the recording industry is involved in the production of
popular music, I have highlighted how corporate strategies which utilize
the technique of portfolio management as a way of allocating staff, artists
and investment directly intersect with the deployment of a particular type
of knowledge which is used to understand the world (constructing a
`reality' that informs the perceptions and activities of staff). The relationship
between culture and industry that I have outlined and illustrated here
does not simply involve an industry producing culture. Nor does it entail a
process whereby an industry has an impact upon culture. Instead, I have
indicated how the industry is constituted by and within a broader set of
cultural practices, while also actively intervening in the reproduction of
social divisions.
The complex world, out there, of musical production and consumption,
of cultural practice and social activity, cannot be known in any neutral or
obvious way. Here I have focused on how the music industry has
developed particular techniques for understanding the world, producing
knowledge about the world, acting upon that knowledge, and as a
consequence intervening in the world. This aspect of record company
practice is too complex simply to be collapsed into some notion of
`corporate controľ or a crude model of economic determinism. At the same
time, it cannot be justified in terms of an industry responding to what is
`out there' or giving different publics what they want. Instead it is the
result of very specific ways in which corporate organization seeks to
understand and intervene in the surrounding culture, but through which the
corporation is also produced through the surrounding culture; a very
particular consequence of the interplay between economics and culture in
the production of popular music.
In the latter part of this article I have illustrated these themes by pointing
to the articulations between musical genre, occupational practices and
broader cultural formations. I have pursued some of their consequences in
relation to the genre cultures of rap and salsa. One of the key themes in
this section has been about the separation and division of social experience
and the way in which business decisions are based on a series of cultural
divisions. Organizational structures are reproduced through a discursive
376 Media, Culture & Society Vol. 20 No. 3
practice that contributes further to the separation of knowledge and
experience and reinforces existing social divisions. This is apparent in the
way that the cultural worlds of different genres, whether rap or salsa, are
kept separate and at a distance from the dominant culture and practices
within the main offices of the music corporations. This is, of course, not
the end of the story. But it is a significant way in which `the creative' is
contained and controlled within distinct categories (although these are not
simply and straightforwardly `commerciaľ labels). On this point, I would
like to conclude by noting that throughout the 20th century, some of the
most critically recognized and socially influential music (whether jazz,
salsa, reggae or rock'n'roll) has been made when different cultural
practices, peoples and musical traditions have met and got mixed up: when
different genre cultures have interacted and combined. It is ironic that the
music business seeks to capitalize on such mixtures, yet, in producing an
organization to take advantage of this, the industry has a tendency to build
walls within which `creativity' can be contained. As a consequence, the
construction and crossing of bridges to other genre worlds is a process
which has occurred and continues to happen despite, rather than because
of, the ways in which the major record companies have sought to organize
the production of contemporary popular music.
Notes
1. This is part of a comparative study of the production and distribution of three
genres; country, rap and salsa. It was financed as a project (award ref.
L126251046) within the Media Economics and Media Culture research programme
supported by the Economic and Social Research Council of Great Britain. In
addition to the ESRC, I would like to thank Leicester University for supporting my
application and absence.
2. For an extended elaboration and critique of this type of approach see Negus
(1996, 1997).
3. For a more detailed discussion of this point see `Why Canť BMG, EMI and
Polygram Maintain 14% of the US Market?' Music & Copyright 50 (28 Sept.
1994): 3­4.
4. Space does not permit an extended discussion of other techniques such as
marketing management strategies aimed at `knowing' consumer behaviour, strategies
aimed at engineering company culture and various distribution strategies
which seek to influence the actions of retailers.
5. See Reynolds (1996) and Rosen (1996). See also Clark-Meads (1996) for a
discussion of Capitol redefining its `core business'.
6. I wish to acknowledge the very helpful insights and information about this
issue provided by Anne Latora, Senior VP Financial Administration, Polygram
Group HQ, New York City during an interview on 29 March 1996.
7. On this point I'd like to acknowledge the insights provided during interviews
with Joe Galante, Chairman, RCA Label Group, Nashville on 30 May 1996 and
Scott Siman, Senior VP, Sony Music Nashville on 10 June 1996.
377Negus, Cultural production and the corporation
8. See for example the work of Finnegan (1989).
9. An observation that appeared in Zimmerman (1995).
10. For a more detailed discussion of this report see George (1989).
11. Recent shifts include the transition from appointing senior staff with
backgrounds in promotion during the middle of the 1980s to heading the black
divisions with attorneys, artists' managers and producers in the early 1990s, to
bringing in artists and producers in the middle of the 1990s.
12. This was most explicitly raised by a senior executive at a major corporate
group when explaining how the company would strategically assess the value of
different musical genres. It was an off-the-record interview.
13. Personal interview, Paul Robinson, Associate General Counsel, Warner
Music Group, New York City, 13 February 1996.
14. This is acknowledged within the industry, but I was unable to obtain any
verifiable figures.
15. This was again an off-the-record interview.
16. For recruitment from rock subculture into the industry see Chapple and
Garofalo (1977) and Frith (1983).
17. Personal interview, New York City, 19 March 1996.
18. Personal correspondence, John Ganoe, Recording Industry Association of
America, 6 May 1997.
19. Personal interviews with Rigoberto Olariaga of Polygram Latino and Harry
Fox of Sony Discos, both in Miami on 20 June 1996.
20. Personal interview, New York City, 4 April 1996.
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