Pop Music's Crazy Origin
Debut: ABBA picks up where a 19th century songwriter leaves off
POP MUSIC WAS born in 1896.
And it’s called an earworm for a reason.
In 1979 a German psychiatrist named Cornelius Eckert devised the term “Ohrwürmer” or “earworm” for any music that constantly loops through your brain. Maria Konnikova of The New Yorker wrote about it in 2014, but the story I’m compelled to tell happens much, much earlier.
First, let’s narrow the definition further: What do I mean by “pop” or popular music? Well, I’d say it involves discovery and reach—how the music is discovered by and reaches as many ears as possible. So one of the interesting facets of this story is how, given the technology of any given time, that reach has changed with the technology that enabled (or even inhibited) it.
The other aspect of pop music is sales—how many ears bought this music? How would we know? Well, one data point is sheet music (back in the day) or record sales or even concert ticket sales. I’ll cover more of this in future posts, but for now introductions are in order.
Why me and why now? I love music. Even when I’m cold about it, it warms me up. When I’m warm, it cools me down. Music was at my cradle-side (my parents weren’t musical, but were big appreciators). And I hope it’ll be near my bedside when I die.
Even when it seemed I could not be further from my love of music, an odd coincidence pulls me back into its orbit. Even more, music has some great tales to tell and mysteries to unfold.
The following story really sends that home.
Framing a ‘Prize Failure’
It’s actually a story that Simon Napier-Bell, a former record producer and the author of The Business: A History of Popular Music from Sheet Music to Streaming, tells in the first chapter of his book. “No one considered music publishing,” he writes, “to be a profession from which one could get truly rich, but in 1894 something happened that raised the possible rewards to another level.”
He introduces us to an 18-year old named Charles K. Harris, of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, who was writing songs for traveling minstrel shows. One of his tunes got picked up by New York publisher Witmark & Son, who agreed to pay Harris one penny per copy sold. He had a publisher at last!
As Witmark & Son promoted the song, Harris thought he was on the way … that is, until his first royalty check arrived.