Even in an age of digital streaming and democratised access to music, the idea of an album so exclusive that it had barely graced human ears sounded almost folklorish. And yet that was the story of Once Upon a Time in Shaolin, a music album by genre-defining hip-hop group Wu-Tang Clan that, ever since the duo that collectively produced the album announced its existence in 2013, has been consumed by controversy and controversy alone. As we sit on the banks of Tasmania, about to gain access to the enigmatic album for the first time, the story of Once Upon a Time in Shaolin takes on a new dimension. There’s the story of how it came to be, the fascinating personalities involved in the process, the unanswered questions about how they got the money to start it in the first place, and how it came to be seen critically from the very beginning. There’s the story of its dubious ownership and the various court battles being fought over its authenticity. And there’s the story of how this album – so distinct and revered that the band essentially destroyed the master tapes, such was its uniqueness – has come to captivate our interest not only as an album, but also as a cultural artefact that probes our notions of value, ownership and what art is.
Wu-Tang Clan’s Once Upon a Time in Shaolin is an album, but it is also a Rorschach test. Whether a saga of an underdog clan overcoming the odds, of a culture’s decline, of its resurgence, or of the inherent petty power-play of the human artist, the album’s story – from creation to the hands of the disgraced pharmaceutical exec Martin Shkreli in 2015, for a reported $2 million – may sorely reveal our desperation for art to gift us experiences beyond our mundane existence, and our yearning for an exclusivity untethered from their legality or necessity. How does exclusivity inform the value we place on art?
For those with a desire to taste the forbidden fruit of Shaolin, it’s a unique chance to finally hear the songs they’ve longed to hear, but never could. For a limited time only, Hobart in Tasmania will be treated to a 30-minute excerpt of the album, in a pop culture display curated by the Museum of Old and New Art (MONA) in the city. The exhibition, entitled Namedropping, is running for a week, from 15 to 24 June, and includes ‘Once Upon a Time in Shaolin’, one of 50 identical copies of the album, among other priceless rarities from the world of pop culture.
What ‘Once Upon a Time in Shaolin’ really clarifies, upon scrutiny, is that uniqueness carries a special force in the world of music. An album so exclusive that it’s available only in one copy hinges not just on its music but on being a story, a treasure hunt, a piece so rare, so transgressive of the internet’s infinite dissemination, that it neglects broadcasting its work to the masses, and focuses on the act of acquisition itself. In many ways, the album presages wider conversations, or arguments, about how art, value, even rarity, respond to the rise of the digital.
Even as it overshadowed the album, the saga of the executive, Martin Shkreli – who bought the album and then had to fight a lawsuit to keep it – lent it a kind of legendary status. The Shkreli story throws into relief a central drama that lies at the heart of art ownership debates: how does scandal or controversy affect the exchange value of art? Does it heighten it? Or is the purity of the creative act the victim here? This aspect of the Shaolin story is one of many contradictions that runs through a tale of power dynamics in the art and music business.
The voyage of Once Upon a Time in Shaolin from the hustle and bustle of Staten Island to the bucolic grandeur of Tasmania symbolises the global character of music and art – moving between continents not just because the Wu-Tang Clan has its own global appeal, but because the world itself is one where art knows no boundaries. Music has a way of breaking down walls, and MONA’s decision to present this piece of hip-hop history to the world reflects how listeners and consumers all over the globe can share in the anticipation of another cultural phenomenon, one that demonstrates how music unites us all regardless of the distance between us.
In gazing forward, ‘Once Upon a Time in Shaolin’ forces us to contemplate our interactions with music in the age of ubiquity: will exclusivity continue to be a driving narrative and catalyst for value in the realm of music and culture, or will other models come to the forefront that would redefine the entire concept of rarity itself? It remains to be seen. Here’s hoping this story has just begun.
As the story of ‘Once Upon a Time in Shaolin’ illustrates, executives hold substantial sway in music and art, far beyond simply footing the bill and facilitating works. Executives can amplify a work to worldwide awareness, and just as easily, they can put it in the crosshairs of controversy. ‘Once Upon a Time in Shaolin’ is a powerful and revealing study in the complex dance between executive authority and artistic expression, in which the pursuit of exclusivity can either intensify or mask the fire that makes music and art compelling.
‘Once Upon a Time in Shaolin’ is a story of ambition, controversy and the desire for artistic purity. But like all fables worth exploring, it refuses to provide one clear answer. It insists only on asking questions: questions about the value of music and art, and questions about what the rareness and exclusivity of an object can mean in a world of infinite possibility.
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