How Music Persisted During the Pandemic

At the peak of the pandemic, musicians and fans on the precipice of boredom adapted to a new normal in the most natural way they could: by organizing and creating. Individually and collectively, they hosted virtual dance parties, produced intricate TikTok edits, and launched initiatives destined to alter the way the music industry works. Whether it was artists constantly vetoing Trump or the communal force of Verzuz battles, here’s how the music world took the sour parts of the year and made a sweet batch of lemonade.

For 24 hours on March 20, Bandcamp waived its revenue share on music sales, in what the online marketplace nicely summed up as an attempt to “put much-needed money directly into artists’ pockets.” The initiative led to the biggest sales day in Bandcamp history and channeled $4.3 million directly to artists and labels. Recognizing a successful idea when they had one, the Bandcamp crew kept going, extending the company’s revenue-share waiver to the first Friday of every month in 2020—plus organizing a Juneteenth fundraiser for the NAACP’s Legal Defense Fund, and facilitating Bandcamp Friday donations to Black Lives Matter groups.

Across the nine Bandcamp Fridays this year, almost 800,000 fans paid a total of $40 million to artists and labels. In a year with little to anticipate, not a ton of physical places to buy records, and many musicians struggling to make ends meet, Bandcamp Friday established a new tradition for the musically obsessed with a few bucks to spare. It continues into 2021, too, with more Bandcamp Fridays on the books at least through May. —Marc Hogan

On the night of March 24, Timbaland summoned Swizz Beatz to Instagram Live for an impromptu battle of wits and production catalogs—a low-resolution face-off that spanned five hours. It was the first of what blossomed into a series of lo-fi competitions between rappers, singers, producers, and songwriters, reigniting the spirit of debate that laid dormant in music fans at the start of the pandemic. Secure on our couches, with homemade cocktails and decent sound setups, we let the comfort of classics and deep cuts pour over us, each subsequent matchup playing out like a family reunion: Erykah Badu vs. Jill Scott, Gladys Knight vs. Patti LaBelle, Young Jeezy vs. Gucci Mane.

It wasn’t a novel idea, but the timing turned Verzuz into an essential service that went from thousands of Instagram viewers to 1.7 billion impressions by July and led to a partnership with Apple Music. Legends collided in sweet, sometimes uncomfortable ways, be it Teddy Riley’s choppy internet against Babyface’s seasoned serenity, or Brandy and Monica’s tense subliminals. These cross-generational chats between icons and fans brought Black music, history, and storytelling to the forefront, giving veteran artists both recognition and sales boosts. But at the heart of each battle was a simple desire: to listen to music, crack jokes, and forget about the chaos outside. —Clover Hope

As reckonings uprooted multiple industries, from Hollywood to publishing, music always seemed like the final frontier. But with the stimulus of a national movement behind them, some decided it was time to stop talking and do the work. This past June saw the launch of initiatives like the Black Music Action Coalition, which, despite a bungled Blackout Tuesday campaign, urged concrete steps like salary parity for Black executives. The Black Music History Library created an archive that documents the Black origins of popular music. This was also a year that unmasked the industry’s history of violence against Black women, from Megan Thee Stallion’s Protect Black Women crusade to the HBO Max documentary On the Record’s uncovering of sexual assault allegations against Russell Simmons.

Major gatekeepers committed to change—in June, BMG announced an unprecedented contract review process meant to address “inequities or anomalies.” The Recording Academy laid out new, still questionable guidelines for the Grammys, like removing “Urban” from Black music categories and yet leaving it for the Latin one. Still, these moves are mere baby steps for a systemically racist music industry where a shift requires not just action, but consistency. —Clover Hope

A well-chosen cover song can be the perfect curveball for a concert crowd, a sure-fire way to get the whole audience singing along. During quarantine, a bevy of cover songs served a similar purpose. At one point, it seemed like everyone was interpreting Bob Dylan—from Margo Price to ANOHNI, Gillian Welch to Neil Young, the indie supergroup Muzz and the rapper G-Eazy. Meanwhile, Lianne La Havas and Kelly Lee Owens each offered creative renditions of Radiohead’s “Weird Fishes/Arpeggi,” a 2007 track that enjoyed an unexpected resurgence. And look no further than the honey-voiced trio of Bedouine, Waxahatchee, and Hurray for the Riff Raff for a memorable take on Big Star’s oft-covered “Thirteen.”

Some artists had a knack for fitting a wide array of songs into their signature style—like Phoebe Bridgers, who lent her touch to characteristically heartbreaking tracks by the Goo Goo Dolls, Sinéad O’Connor, and the 1975—while Bonnie “Prince” Billy and Bill Callahan teamed up for a weekly cover series that ranged from Billie Eilish to Steely Dan. Whether it’s simply the result of boredom or thoughtful transmissions from artists gathering inspiration, it’s been a comfort hearing familiar songs from unexpected voices. Just so long as it’s not “Imagine.” —Sam Sodomsky

Every presidential election cycle, some Republican politician and proud asshole uses music by artists who are none of the above. Controversy—and sometimes litigation—inevitably ensues. When Donald Trump pulled the usual trick for his ill-fated 2020 reelection campaign, musicians fought back harder than ever, with apparent success. Copyright law gives political candidates broad freedom to claim “fair use,” but this time the Rolling Stones tried a fresh legal tack, threatening to sue over Trump’s playing of their classic “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” at his rallies because he didn’t have the appropriate license.

Trump never actually admitted defeat—ha ha, sigh—but then quietly switched to another closing song for his superspreader events: “YMCA” by the Village People, who also objected. Separately, Neil Young and “Electric Avenue” musician Eddy Grant each took the Trump campaign to court for its use of their tunes, further blows on behalf of artists who don’t want to be associated with, say, separating children from their parents. The way this lamest of ducks’ post-presidency could be headed, and given Trump’s threats to run again in 2024, Kool G Rap and DJ Polo might want to preemptively post up lawyers around their old-school hip-hop nugget “Rikers Island.” —Marc Hogan

As 2020 went off the rails, I briefly wondered: Would this be a year with no big pop albums? The releases of Dua Lipa’s Future Nostalgia and the Weeknd’s After Hours collided awkwardly with the early whiplash of lockdown; Lady Gaga delayed Chromatica; Beyoncé’s Black Is King, with its visual album and Disney+ connection, didn’t require IRL commitments anyway. (Rihanna could not be reached for comment.) It seemed reasonable that other A-list pop stars might simply hunker down and get to work on next year’s comebacks.

Instead, the looseness of streaming culture and the collective unraveling of pandemic time spawned something else: A crop of spontaneous, low-expectation pop records, many made at home and designed to be heard there, too. Charli XCX formalized the concept with this spring’s self-quarantine project how i’m feeling now—though, arguably, it was Ariana Grande who set the stage back in 2019 by surprise-releasing thank u, next just months after sweetener. This year, Grande returned with Positions, a sweet, sexy, somewhat slight album that plays like a third act. Most surprising of all: Taylor Swift’s folklore and evermore, sister records that skipped the splashy lead singles in favor of lived-in indie folk and Bon Iver collaborations. The pop machine stops for nothing, but this year, I’m not taking anything for granted. —Anna Gaca

Every workplace can benefit from a union, but what do you do if you don’t have a traditional “workplace” to begin with? The Union of Musicians and Allied Workers (UMAW), a growing coalition of artists and music industry professionals, formed in May in response to the pandemic’s decimation of the live music sector. Adding to the symphony of existing unions, the group provides a space for indie players with less leverage to merge their collective interests and voices. In less than a year, they’ve mobilized a public push for Spotify—streaming’s global market leader—to implement policies that would benefit artists. Among the proposed changes: A penny per stream payout, the adoption of a user-centric payment model, greater contract transparency, and the creation of a more robust metadata system to credit the engineers and laborers who work on recorded music.

Although over 25,000 artists (and counting) have signed UMAW’s Justice at Spotify petition, the group has a hard fight ahead of them. Having to pay even a penny per stream would put Spotify out of business under its current business model, and the company’s former chief economist warned against the potential negative implications of the user-centric payment model in a 2019 study. But if Spotify has no plans to budge, neither should the artists fighting for equitable compensation. This year has only highlighted the vast inequities that exist in every industry—the artists and organizers of UMAW have asserted themselves as a much-needed opposition party to music’s big business interests. —Noah Yoo

Not much can unify a crowd of New Yorkers like a Pop Smoke song. In June, his single “Dior” became the soundtrack to protests demanding justice for the murder of George Floyd and police reform. The Canarsie rapper’s modern classic brought a moment of unity and joy to protestors being preyed on by NYPD officers in full body armor. All it took was the sound of Pop’s rumbling voice to turn the atmosphere into that of a block party, a signal to the police that spirits would not be broken. The same could be said of Washington D.C. drummer Malik “Dope” Stewart, whose spirited go-go drums were enough to set protest crowds into fiery chants. In both cases, regional sounds were used to uplift and ensure that the voices of Black people who’ve made the cultures of these cities so rich would not be ignored. —Alphonse Pierre

From absurd Aphex Twin fan fiction to math-rock sex jokes and Kali Uchis shitposting, TikTok has provided me with plenty of LOLs during an otherwise dreadful quarantine. But the one thing I’ve been particularly impressed by is the surge of user-made edits and mini-music videos on the platform, which put highly creative spins on existing songs. Justin Yi adopts the visual language of ’90s PSAs and kids animation for his videos, while his recent collaborator Rob, or @ufolandings, employs old school televisions and super-saturated green space. Many editors tap into old internet aesthetics: in one TikTok set to a track sampling Charli XCX’s “Unlock It,” creator petecartier exhales smoke in their bedroom over a gothic Hello Kitty Myspace page. These often labor-intensive videos can shape what music flows through the platform, or at least give viewers a new way of interpreting a popular song. They’re the most creative manifestation of the agency TikTok offers fans over an artist’s success. —Cat Zhang

At the height of the pandemic this spring, club and venue closures brought nightlife to a devastating halt. To preserve the spirit of the community, events like Club Quarantine, the brainchild of four Toronto creatives, hosted Zoom parties where prominent queer DJs, drag queens, and hundreds of delightful partygoers showed up and shook their asses at home. Meanwhile, the video game Minecraft hosted immersive raves and festivals featuring 100 gecs, American Football, Massive Attack, and more—another glimpse of a virtual reality that would have seemed unfathomable even a year ago. The unique span of events found common ground by bringing people together to recreate the joy of dancing together, offering an indispensable lifeline to the community when we needed it most. —Eric Torres

While some of us took up creative pursuits with whatever we had at our disposal, certain artists used the limited resources to their advantage to create surprising new videos at the peak of isolation. Music videos allowed for inspired DIY set-ups that made use of green screen, backyards, and more to establish artists’ visions. Haim created socially distanced at-home choreography, and Drake took us on a bizarre tour through his garish mansion; Charli XCX stitched together a heartwarming video out of clips from fans sent via email, Tkay Maidza and Kari Faux collaborated in lush ’70s-inspired looks via green screen, and Jessy Lanza brought musicians together for a group-hang, Zoom-shot video. There was no shortage of resourcefulness, proving that even the most difficult situations can’t hinder creativity. —Eric Torres

This past October, on one of the first cold days of fall, I laid on my belly, kicked my feet behind me like a teenager at a slumber party, and put on the ne plus ultra of cold weather records: P.J. Harvey’s White Chalk. After a few minutes of holding the album sleeve in my hand, I rolled over onto my back and closed my eyes. “Won’t you do this for me, dearest darkness, and cover me from the sun.” How had I never heard that before? Had I ever listened to this album?

I used to listen to so much music on the subway—40 minutes twice a day while jotting down a note or thumbing through emails. But when that idle time disappeared, it took months for me to realize I never replaced it with anything. One unusual new act I adopted this year was scheduling time in my day to simply listen to music. Like, actually putting an event in my calendar. Maybe it says more about me than it does make a broader point about listening habits during a pandemic. But allowing myself a guaranteed space every day to sit with no distractions and connect with music was the healthiest thing I did all year, outside of learning how to make a decent garden salad for lunch. —Jeremy Larson

In the early weeks of the pandemic, I noticed that the rock and jazz musicians in my social and digital circles were suddenly offering up their services as remote music teachers and that other musicians were signing up to be pupils. I eventually wrote a piece about this minor renaissance in person-to-person music education. Some who gave Zoom lessons had been professional teachers for years; others were simply killer players with wisdom to share and a suddenly empty calendar. Some were teaching in hopes of covering significant income losses from canceled tours; others approached it more casually, giving one-off lessons to friends in exchange for beer money and an hour of socially distanced camaraderie. I was moved by the way musicians used lessons as a kind of ad hoc mutual support network: an excuse to help a peer in exchange for a vital reminder of one’s own identity and worth as a musician. —Andy Cush