For a certain kind of singer-songwriter, pop music has a particular allure. Rock, folk, and related forms often provide these types with safe passage into a scene, their clandestine longings for supermarket-checkout-line levels of fame kept in a back pocket. The exhaustive contemporary use of the term indie pop, that subcategory of guitar-based music where the performers actually know how to write a ditty, often offers sufficient cover for those who dream of bigger, cleaner green rooms and on-demand artisanal deli platters.
If these scoundrels get lucky enough, the time comes to show off their chops. That’s when it all potentially falls apart, their hooks held to a higher standard than the typical act playing a 250-capacity venue. Sometimes the embarrassment proves colossal. But in most instances, the shame of unmet expectations is vague, hardly worth condemnation or ridicule. The artist returns a little humbler to what he or she excels at or otherwise knows better.