Music

Beck to the future

His latest album, "Sea Change", shows once again why this eclectic musician who forges forward by looking back is always one step ahead.

By Steven Chean

"I'm going to try different things. ... Even if it's a commercial disaster, at least I've done something I feel good about."

"There was a certain word," muses Beck, but for the life of him, he can't remember what it was. "Ten years ago, it seemed like such an important word." Pregnant pause. "You'd hear people mention it." Nothing. "I'm sorry."

Well, it was a valiant attempt. Maybe the word isn't important -- "Credibility. That's it!" he gladly continues. "Ten years ago, I'd always hear 'credibility,' and now the word doesn't even exist. I see people I looked up to doing Gap commercials and just think, 'Wow.' "

That the 32-year-old singer-songwriter-postmodern musicologist had even the slightest difficulty recalling a word that once defined popular music is telling. In the decade since Nirvana and Pearl Jam established artistic integrity as the calling card of the alternative-rock set, much has changed. The "vs." of "art vs. commerce" has fallen away as a money-minded generation of artists counts album sales and vies for big-ticket corporate sponsorships.

Times have changed; Beck hasn't. On the eve of his fifth major-label CD -- the somber, profoundly confessional "Sea Change" -- he's still very much a product of his generation. He is the fresh-faced folkie who, eight years ago, slapped acoustic guitar over a skittering hip-hop beat, called it "Loser" and unwittingly became the voice of that generation. Ever since, he's made one point abundantly clear: "I'm going to try different things, and people shouldn't be surprised. I'm going to make music that excites me. Even if it's a commercial disaster, at least I've done something I feel good about."

Consider his eclectic résumé: 1994's kaleidoscopic sonic collage "Mellow Gold"; the Grammy-winning pan-genre breakthrough that was 1996's "Odelay"; the subdued acoustics of 1998's "Mutations"; 1999's funk-fortified party train known as "Midnite Vultures". Which says nothing of his truly eclectic independently released output. In a few brief years, Beck has come to epitomize a rare breed.

"As an example of sticking to one's guns and believing in the long path -- that at any given point you might not sync up with what the population wants, but by having followed that path you arrive at 10 gems that we wouldn't have had otherwise -- Beck is invaluable," says "Philadelphia Inquirer" music critic Tom Moon. "As an artist, you have to stand up for the integrity of your long-term vision, and he has done that in the face of an industry driven by pleasing the lowest common denominator at any given moment."

But Beck is only doing what comes naturally. After all, he is shaped by his environment -- unfathomably diverse Los Angeles. His father, David Campbell, was a bluegrass musician; his mother, Bibbe Hansen, a part-time actress and devoted music fan. His parents divorced when he was 13, and he and his brother lived with their mom in a cultural melting pot. "In the house, it was everything from Nina Simone to the Velvet Underground," he says. "My mom played a lot of that stuff, and she really liked show tunes. Outside, there was ranchero music and cars driving by, booming booty music."

"A curious, interested kid." Such is Beck's description of young Beck, who rode the bus to "far-flung libraries" in search of obscure folk albums, who absorbed forgotten music: "I met a blues collector through a friend of my mom's. He had a massive collection of out-of-print Delta blues 78s. I'd go over to his house and just listen." And he watched. Beck's grandfather, Al Hansen, part of the experimental Fluxus art movement, stayed with the family off and on, constructing collages out of found objects. "He was ahead of his time. The idea of collecting and sampling and reconfiguring -- it's that postmodern sensibility, and he was doing that in the '50s and '60s."

Collecting and sampling and reconfiguring, pulling found sounds from the past and reassembling them for the present in strange, exciting ways -- that's what Beck does. It's his art, which he has honed since dropping out of school at 16, back when he painted houses and worked in a video store while playing the city's coffeehouses. It's the message behind his music: "I hope [my music] gives people a sense of freedom and a disregard for arbitrary rules. I mean, music has always been recombining and cross-pollinating. That's how rock-and-roll was born. That's how music evolves."

As Beck well knows, that evolution has become impeded by the music business. Make no mistake, he understands why a new generation of artists has embraced corporate culture: "I saw so many bands go by the wayside because business things fell apart or they signed a bad contract. Being business-savvy can be good. It means you can survive in an industry that's not necessarily good to artists."

But he is acutely aware that very same embrace has its perils: "The business is bigger than it ever was, which means the stakes are higher. That narrows the possibilities for creative development, being able to experiment and make mistakes.

"I don't want to alienate my audience by trying something new, but I can't worry about that. When I stop challenging them -- really, when I stop challenging myself -- that's when I'll need to worry."

Steven Chean has profiled musicians such as Creed, Nelly, Moby and the Red Hot Chili Peppers for USA WEEKEND Magazine.

Photo by WENDY IDELE, Retina