Returning to Britain this year, I have been struck by the re-emergence of some of the 1970s’ smoothest sounds. This summer it seemed that every pub in London was filled with mulleted twenty-somethings foot-tapping along to a yacht-rock classic.
Steely Dan have gone from 2.5 million monthly listeners in 2022 to more than 8 million today
Yacht rock developed on the west coast of the United States and combined complex, jazz-inspired composition with catchy hooks and a soft tone. Think Steely Dan or Rupert Holmes. But before this year I had assumed it was doomed to uncoolness. Then I came across Toast Club, who were selling tickets to their debut album release party at the Windmill in Brixton. The venue – known for its post-punk acts – seemed an unlikely place to see this crisp, well-dressed duo take to the stage. But as a mosh pit started to break out over the mellow chords of the track ‘Caaalifornia’, it was clear people were once again thirsting for yacht rock. To be hearing this sound world revived in an indie venue like the Windmill wasn’t just startling, it suggested Toast Club were tapping into a deeper cultural undercurrent.
Although the musical boundaries of yacht rock are much debated, the social context in which it appeared is more evident. As the name suggests, it is associated with themes of escapism and romanticism. Yacht-rockers sing about the absurd or unimportant, while bringing the finer details of instrumentation to the forefront. Classics of this type include ‘Out of Touch’ by Hall and Oates or ‘Escape (The Pina Colada Song)’ by Rupert Holmes.
Because of this, the genre is often considered damningly socially disengaged, the music of privilege, a soundtrack for those wishing to isolate from the world’s problems. Critics have argued that the apoliticism of yacht rock thrived as an outlet for middle-class listeners to escape the crises of Vietnam, Watergate and the civil-rights movement of early 1970s America. Probably the closest thing to a political manifesto for yacht rock would be Steely Dan’s ‘Only a Fool Would Say that’. Recorded in 1972, the opening lyrics are ‘a world become one of salads and sun/ Only a fool would say that’. The song is seen as a rebuke to the naive political idealism of the likes of John Lennon, whose ‘Imagine’ was released the year before.
So it might not be that surprising that yacht rock has worked its way back into young peoples’ playlists. Steely Dan, for example, have gone from 2.5 million monthly listeners in 2022 to more than 8 million today. And plenty of other heritage yacht-rock groups are drifting back into the limelight. You could find the Doobie Brothers on the highly influential NPR Tiny Desk last year, and Steely Dan’s Michael McDonald and Kenny Loggins appearing on Charlie Puth’s latest album Whatever’s Clever!.
This trend is intriguing, as the past few years has seen a convergence of global crises. In a world again beset by problems, is it any wonder that many wish to escape them through music that preaches isolation and cynicism.
Is this what Toast Club are tapping into? The escapist narrative is everywhere in their album Lift: on ‘Ascension Island’ and ‘Café Pacific’. Their song ‘Caaalifornia’ appeals directly to a blue-skied philosophy, evoking nostalgia for an America that no longer exists. Yachts themselves might not appear on the album, but planes do, taking the genre’s isolationist vehicle of choice to a higher altitude.
Toast Club are now the face of Spotify’s newly created ‘Yacht Rock Revival’ playlist. Although their songs show plenty of musical breadth – such as on the jazz-fusion tracks ‘Harry and Toby’ and ‘Lift Explained’ – the band’s success points to something significant. A reflection on the current state of British music perhaps. Alongside the intensely corporate and increasingly stagnant cohort of pop artists that we have, there are a plethora of ‘indie’ rock artists, illustrated best by the line-ups at the recent Reading and Leeds festival. Many of these acts seem to trade on ever more derivative sounds, coupled with performatively political lyrics.
These dreamier modes of music combine escapism with a criticism of pop’s shallow attempt at relatability
Discontent with the predominance of this insincere indie-rock aesthetic has coalesced around the term ‘indie poo’, used to describe the latest wave of copycat bands. Coined by internet polemicist @angus.official, the insult neatly encapsulates the sound of those bands that appeal to listeners by wrapping themselves in cultural symbols and down-to-earth lyrics, with no musical creativity to support them. For many indie-music fans this act is wearing thin.
Yacht rock’s rejection of activism in favour of meaning founded in musical composition has taken on a new importance. For those who find lyrics about inequality from festival headliners not ringing true, the yacht rock revival provides an unpretentious alternative. And it’s not the only sign of a turn away from the performatively political in the music tastes of Gen Zed. American country music, for example, has grown to become one of this generation’s favourite genres.
The real appeal of these dreamier modes of music is that they combine escapism with a critique of pop’s shallow attempt at relatability. And it challenges the post-punk philosophy still central to British indie music that has encouraged artists to abandon craft in favour of a DIY approach, and prioritise language as a tool of expression. By bringing sharp suits and intricate chord changes to indie venues and still getting people on to the dancefloor, bands like Toast Club are returning music to what it should be really about.
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