Are Pop Heydays Only Seven Years? Case Study: Lizzo

A few weeks back, Lizzo’s Bitch landed with a massive thud, reportedly selling fewer than 3,000 copies. Many reasons for its failure to launch have been cited, from lack of industry support to the way she may have tarnished her likable image due to accusations of sexual harassment and hostile work environment by former employees (which she’s denied) and her admission that she tried Ozempic for weight-loss issues.

But here’s another thought. Maybe she’s just the latest pop artist to fall victim to what I’ll call the Seven-Year Glitch. Or maybe the Seven-Year Zone.

Whatever it is, hear me out on this one.

I can’t remember when I first took note of this, but at some point it became clear that, at least for some major music acts, the time from the moment they scored their breakthrough hits (the ones where their sound, the pop charts and a mass audience all converged) to the moment when the public essentially moved on to someone new was … seven years.

During that period, they’re firing on all creative cylinders, fans and music heads eagerly greet nearly every new release, and they command the most media attention and general-public fascination. They’re in the zone.

They may continue making quality music afterwards, but something changes once those seven years are up: the populace, ever in search of something fresh, turns its attention to another shiny object. Said artists remain active and may continue making fine or excellent work, but their white-hot moment, their impact, is never quite the same.

During those seven years, they’re infallible. Afterwards, not so much. They’re mere superstars.

Now that I’ve established this theory, a few examples:

Madonna: The top 20 success of “Lucky Star” and “Holiday” in 1983 got the Maddie ball rolling, and the fever pitch peaked, I’d argue, with “Vogue” and her hits album (and the hubbub over “Justify My Love”) in 1990. Madonna mania was never quite the same after (who remembers the Sex book?), and I say that as someone who thinks Bedtime Stories and Ray of Light are two of her most consistent and satisfying albums.

Ed Sheeran: “The A Team,” in 2011, initiated the Era of Ed, which reached its sensitive-dude crescendo with his Justin Bieber collaboration “I Don’t Care” in 2018. He hasn’t made as big a splash since.

R.E.M.: Start with 1987’s Document, which (thanks to “The One I Love” and “It’s the End of the World as We Know It [And I Feel Fine])”) broadened their appeal beyond just college-rock fans. (I can still recall attending a party that year hosted by a very yuppie dude, who was blasting Document and telling me how amazing they were.) Then consider how R.E.M.’s large-scale moment ended with “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?” in 1994.

The Rolling Stones: I’ll be first to proclaim that Tattoo You holds up, as does much of Black and Blue. But they never were more on fire than they were between 1965—when “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” became their first U.S. no. 1—and 1972, when they released what most consider their last classic, Exile on Main St.

Aretha Franklin: If you start with the first Atlantic singles that kick-started her career—1967’s “I Never Loved a Man (The Way I Loved You)” and especially “Respect”—and wrap up with the glorious “Until You Come Back to Me (That’s What I’m Gonna Do),” a 1973 release that broke into the top 10 the following year: Guess how many years?

Arcade Fire: Funeral, from 2004, established them as the (overwrought) indie kings of the moment: a rise that culminated when The Suburbs walked off with the Album of the Year Grammy in 2011. The fire began to extinguish right after.

Pink Floyd: The Dark Side of the Moon, in 1973, initiated a Floyd zone that remained unabated up through the moment when The Wall’s “Another Brick in the Wall (Part II)” reached the no. 1 spot on the U.S. charts in 1980.

Prince: Arriving in 1982, 1999 made more than just critics sit up and pay attention to him, and the ensuing purple reign lasted until the Batman soundtrack in 1989.

Justin Timberlake: Start with NSYC’s monstrous (if clunky) hit, 2000’s “Bye Bye Bye” (I personally prefer “Tearin’ Up My Heart” as a piece of popcraft). Then recall that Timberlake’s artistic and solo era reached its zenith with “What Goes Around … Comes Around,” which peaked on the singles charts in early 2007. (I’m well aware that he rebounded commercially with “Can’t Stop the Feeling,” but his moment has passed by then.)

Daryl Hall and John Oates: Although they’d released “She’s Gone” earlier, it wasn’t their breakout hit; that would be 1975’s “Sara Smile,” which launched them on a chart ride that peaked in 1982 with H20 and “Maneater.” (Yes, I love “Out of Touch” from 1984, but that single, like “Can’t Stop the Feeling,” was a postscript to the glory days.)

Garth Brooks: In 1990, “Friends in Low Places” made him ubiquitous (much more so than “Much Too Young [to Feel This Damn Old]”), and he was in our faces right through his triumphant Central Park concert in 1997. His career never hit the same high places, and Chris Gaines arrived two years later, so say no more

Billy Joel: Although I do appreciate songs from his earlier records, 1977’s The Stranger is the album that made him a household name outside of the New York tri-state area. That ride lasted right through 1984’s “The Longest Time,” the last major hit from the previous year’s An Innocent Man album.

Coincidence … or curse? Let’s dissect.

WHY SEVEN?

At this point, I have no super-scientific idea.

But before we talk about all those musical artists who don’t conform to this timeline, let’s explore the ways in which the number seven that unquestionably has loomed large in culture and history, and across the globe.

What is it about that digit? There are seven continents, seven colors of the rainbow, and seven notes in the Western music scale. There are seven wonders of the world (including the Great Pyramid) and seven deadly sins.

In Numbers in the Bible, his book on numerology, Robert D. Johnston refers to seven as the number of “spiritual perfection,” calling it “the most frequent numeral in the Scriptures” and citing the Sabbath as the seventh day. In the book of Genesis, he pointed out that God gave Abraham seven blessings, and the book of Revelation cites “seven candlesticks, seven lamps, and seven spirits.” (I realize this is all starting to sound like The Omen, but we’re serious here.)

Speaking of the Lord, God chilled out on the seventh day after taking six to create the world. Seven is also a sacred number in Hinduism, encompassing vows and rites. Seventh heaven is a phrase for happiness. The “seven-year itch” refers to potential marital infidelity.

The late psychologist George A. Miller’s classic study, “The Magical Number Seven, Plus or Minus Two: Some Limits on Our Capacity for Processing Information,” found that this number played a crucial role in mental capacity. Specifically, he explored the idea that people can only retain seven items of information in their short-term memory. (This could explain why old-school phone numbers, minus area codes, had seven digits.)

And, of course, there’s that Seinfeld episode where George considers naming a child of his “Seven,” then tries to talk his pregnant friend out of using it after he mentions it. As an old issue of TV Guide might have said, hilarity ensues.

THE SEVEN-YEAR GLITCH HURTS

Now let’s examine how Lizzo fits into this theory.

Lizzo began making records before 2019, but that year was her undeniable moment: the year that her third album, Cuz I Love You, busted out, the year of “Juice” and the year that “Truth Hurts,” which was already two years old by then, became a belated hit. The follow-up album, Special, and its first single, “About Damn Time,” built on that foundation.

Now, seven years after her breakout comes Bitch. It isn’t a remotely terrible album: A smorgasbord of pop, R&B, slow jams and dance tracks, it has a couple tunes that will sound just fine as exercise-bike accompaniment and only a few cringe moments (“Whose Hair Is This”).

It’s all somewhat generic, but is it worthy of the scorn that’s greeted it? Pop has always been a cyclical world, with genres and stars coming in and out of vogue. Lizzo’s message, one of resilience and empowerment, couldn’t have been a better fit for the early years of the pandemic. Given the tumult in her private and professional world, she didn’t do herself any public-image favors.

You get the sense that people now feel she’s corny and old-fashioned, a relic from the early Covid years who’s outlived her usefulness in the culture. Or maybe they no longer feel she’s authentic. Or no one wants to remember the pandemic era.

But between the mixed reviews and the serious drop-off in sales, there’s no denying that Lizzo is at the tail end of her seven-year moment.

Does this theory apply to everyone else? Of course not. Taylor Swift clearly had one such era, so to speak, from the pop-crossover hits on Fearless through the later hits from 1989. Is she in the midst of another?

Aerosmith had a moment in the ’70s, but their 1987-1994 era, from “Dude (Looks Like a Lady)” through “Cryin’,” was their seventh haven. Or take Paul McCartney. The period between the Beatles’ “Love Me Do” through Abbey Road is … you guessed it. (Okay, they fell apart the following year after releasing Let It Be, so a breakup was involved.)

Then, on his own, McCartney entered a seven-year zone starting with “My Love” in 1973 (which felt far more ubiquitous than his earlier solo singles) and ending with his own “Coming Up” in 1980. In terms of hit singles, Paul-mania wasn’t the same after, even with Michael Jackson’s help.

Others, like the Grateful Dead, benefited by not having anything close to such a mass-mania moment, even with “Touch of Grey.”

Precisely how this pattern applies to cycles of music, creativity and popularity is something I plan to explore further, maybe in a followup post.

So … is the seven-year zone real or imagined? Or maybe a little of both? Just something to ponder, at least for … seven minutes?

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