When did singers and songwriters first start getting lumped under the moniker “artists?” I think it happened during my lifetime, but I’m not sure, because I’ve spent a lot of my life in a cave. Hank Williams, Sam Cooke wrote and sang their own songs, but I don’t think they were generally referred to as “the artist.” Or, rather, when they were referred to as artists it was meant as a compliment, not a job description.
These thoughts came to me reading Amanda Petrusich’s article on Stevie Nicks in a recent New Yorker. Six times the word “artist” crops up, and I’m not sure what it means. Sometimes it seems gratuitous, as in “The artist Justin Vernon, of the band Bon Iver…” Never mind that the sentence could work just as well without “the artist” part, but what exactly is being distinguished between Mr. Vernon and the rest of the band? If he is “the artist,” what are they? The musicians? Does that mean he is not a musician? Is “musician” simply not a transcendent enough title for someone who writes songs and/or sings them?
I’m aware that this kind of inquiry can easily come across as belligerent griping, so I hasten to add that I’m not upset about it, I’m just stumped. I don’t have anything against Nicks or Petrusich; in fact, I admire both of them. And I understand that Petrusich isn’t guilty of misusing a term: I’m guessing this is the way she has heard that word used all her life – it has become common usage. I’m just confused about when and why this choice of words came into being. As far as I know, people who write, direct and star in their own films aren’t habitually called “the artists,” – at least I haven’t heard “the artist Woody Allen” or “the artist Sylvester Stallone” – so it can’t just be about avoiding clunky terminology. For some reason, “artist” has replaced “singer,” and I believe the shift happened about 25-35 years ago. Maybe someone will enlighten me about that.
In the meantime, I will entertain thoughts of bizarre ramifications. What if, in an act of retribution, people who put paint on canvases start referring to themselves as “musicians?”
Oh wait, I’ve heard them do that.
Stevie Nicks is certainly among the great musical artists of our time, the diamond centerpiece of that great band, Fleetwood Mac.
A friend who knew her in Maui in the seventies likes to tell the story of how Nicks, herself and two other young women went to a bar in Lahaina one night where a local band was playing. At some point, Stevie was invited to sing a song, and she agreed to on the condition that one of her friends lend their dress because she was wearing jeans and that was not dressing she felt comfortable singing in.
What transpired once Nicks hit the stage and began singing was something truly remarkable according to my friend. Wherein Stevie had seemed like another ordinary person seated at the table with friends socializing and drinking, she underwent a breathtaking transformation from the moment of performance, thrilling everyone with a transcendent sound and presence almost extra-human and entirely unforgettable given the unexpected and intimate setting of her appearance.
There is something beautifully ritualistic about her performances, almost like a goddess of the moon, and I was also told she was found of giving silver moon necklaces to her best female friends.
My one humorous encounter with Stevie was at a doctor’s office in Beverly Hills in the nineties. I was seated on a table undressed and facing the door waiting for my consultation when Nicks burst in and almost fainted at the surprise of finding an undressed man there. An hour or so later, we saw each other again in the pharmacy in the lobby, and said hello, followed by us waiting for our rides outside on the sidewalk. Hers came first, a limousine.
I concur that the term “artist” is overused in music and film, often being overly generic, and sometimes just pretentious, though the latter does not apply to Stevie Nicks, of course, who is certainly among the great singer-songwriters of our time, including being the diamond centerpiece of that great band, Fleetwood Mac. The mesmeric depth and drama of her spiritual-emotive expression and vocal timbre phantasmagoria is comparable to Ray Charles.
A friend who knew her in Maui in the seventies likes to tell the story of how Nicks, herself and two other young women went to a bar in Lahaina one night where a local band was playing. Stevie was invited to sing a song at one point, and she agreed to on the condition that one of her friends lend their dress because she was wearing jeans and that was not dressing she felt comfortable singing in.
What transpired once Nicks hit the stage and began singing was something truly remarkable according to my friend. Wherein Stevie had seemed like another ordinary person seated at the table with friends socializing and drinking, she underwent a breathtaking transformation from the moment of performance, thrilling everyone with a transcendent sound and presence almost extra-human and entirely unforgettable given the unexpected and intimate setting of her appearance.
There is something beautifully ritualistic about her performances, almost like a goddess of the moon, and I was also told she was fond of giving silver moon necklaces to her best female friends by someone who was so gifted.
My one humorous encounter with Stevie was at a doctor’s office in Beverly Hills in the nineties. I was seated on a table undressed and facing the door waiting for my consultation when Nicks burst in and almost fainted at the surprise of finding an undressed man there. An hour or so later we saw each other again in the pharmacy off the lobby, exchanging hellos – I now had my pants on – followed by waiting for our respective rides outside on the sidewalk. Hers came first, a limousine.