It's not the actual content of "My December," Kelly Clarkson's just-released third album, that currently makes it unlistenable. I'm not saying that it's a bad album -- it's a solid, heartfelt, occasionally beautiful exercise in mainstream modern rock, and most reviews are confirming that. "My December" is unlistenable in the sense that nobody can really hear it. Sometimes this happens to a work of art: The din around it from a controversy renders the thing itself mute.
At least the dust-up is about the work itself, not how many kids somebody has adopted or a political aside made on a foreign concert stage long ago. But the way it's playing out in the hype-dominated, expert-laden, power-obsessed culture of celebrity says something truly depressing about the limits of pop as art, and as democratic expression.
That's not just because Clarkson, a multiplatinum moneymaker, is having to wage an undignified war with her record label over creative control. Artists have struggled with "the man" since the days of royal patronage; many have had face-offs with veteran star maker Clive Davis, the particular man clashing with Clarkson. (Davis, chairman of the BMG Label Group, didn't hear a hit on "My December" and wanted Clarkson to rework it with the "professional songwriters" he credits for her success.)
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