by Robin WhelanI know what you’re thinking: “Snob slates manufactured pop. In other news, Pope Catholic”. But easy prejudices shouldn’t come in to considerations of merit. Elvis? Manufactured. Motown? A veritable production line. Some of the best and most interesting music of our time is being made by superstar producers and songwriting teams. We snobs don’t enjoy admitting it, but the commercial, manufactured genius of the likes of Timbaland and Xenomania is infinitely preferable to the sincere and heartfelt (yet second-rate) offerings of various rent-a-band clones.
So where does this leave The Spice Girls? Britain in the mid ‘90s, stranded forever in a certain time and a certain place. Manufactured pop is about the bottom line. It has to be catchy, with a face for radio. By these standards, The Spice Girls are the best manufactured act in history: they sold by the bucket load, largely through ruthless exploitation of the Tweenie market.
However, going for the earworm isn’t a route to timelessness, not without something more concrete. Lyrics that tug on the heartstrings, or other body parts for that matter. Production values. Songcraft. ‘Wannabe’, ‘Spice up your Life’, ‘Headlines’: these songs are instantly hummable, yet ultimately ephemeral. They, rather unsurprisingly, have the emotional depth and sexual development of a pre-teen. You can almost hear the ‘E’ numbers. Frankly, it’s all rather creepy, the musical equivalent of those Kids TV presenters who pretend to be 13 years old.
So, buy this album for a nostalgia trip if you wish. Party like it’s 1995. Party like a gullible pre-teen. But remember, be it a haircut that you could’ve sworn looked cool, Union Jack t-shirts, or that unrequited crush from primary school, some things are better left as a rose-tinted memory.
