Talent, sang Russell Mael of the band Sparks, is an asset. And that asset can be handed down from generation to generation. However, there is almost invariably an almighty inheritance tax at play, depleting the genius of the parent so that by the time it reaches the offspring it is, at best, mere competence.
In music, it is vanishingly rare for the heir to outshine the ancestor. To use a football analogy, for every Erling Haaland or Frank Lampard Jr there are a dozen Paul Dalglishes and Jordi Cruyffs. Which brings me to Primrose Hill, which James McCartney released in collaboration with Sean Ono Lennon last week. An instantly forgettable pastoral number about a pleasant day spent at a London beauty spot, it only received its moderate flurry of interest because it revives the songwriting credit Lennon-McCartney. (It’s marginally better than the Beatles’ own AI-enhanced dirge Now and Then, but that’s a low bar.) It isn’t outright awful, but it’s three minutes of your life you’re never getting back.
The most obvious case of a child outperforming a well-known parent is Miley Cyrus, whose father Billy Ray is essentially a one-hit wonder in the UK (though a successful country artist in the US). Another is Mabel who, with six Top 10 hits, two Top 10 albums and multiple awards, has already exceeded the success of her mother, Neneh Cherry. Lower down the sales scale, far more people have listened to Jeff Buckley’s Grace than have ever heard the work of his father, Tim.
These are the exceptions. Far more frequently, as in the case of the new Lennon and McCartney, the offspring bustle into view with a famous surname, which opens doors for them, guaranteeing TV and radio coverage but they fail to deliver anything more than mediocrity, whether on a commercial or critical level. The undue prominence they are accorded rarely translates into greatness. It’s why nobody ever says: “Wow, have you heard that new Jakob Dylan album?”
The term “nepo babies”, meaning people in the arts who have benefited from nepotism, has risen to prominence in the 2020s to describe a phenomenon that has always been commonplace in film and modelling but is increasingly prevalent in pop. It is sometimes used interchangeably with “industry plants” (artists who appear to have been suspiciously fast-tracked rather than growing an audience organically) and the self-explanatory “trust fund kids”, with many artists located in the Venn diagram overlaps of two of those categories (and, sometimes, all three).
The way in which inherited privilege has distorted the pop landscape is a subject on which I have written in the past. In 2016, the Sutton Trust found that 19% of solo Brit award winners were privately educated (compared with about 6% of the UK population), and a report by Labour has found that over the past decade, 40% of Britons nominated for Oscars, Baftas or the Mercury prize went to private school. The poshification of pop is demonstrable fact.
However, true nepo babies are, if not an entirely new thing – the 1960s brought us Hank Williams Jr, Liza Minnelli and Nancy Sinatra, for example, and subsequent decades Roseanne Cash, Rufus Wainwright, Enrique Iglesias and half a dozen Marleys – then certainly a notable and rapidly growing phenomenon of our times. Some of them are startlingly young. Willow Smith, the daughter of Will Smith and Jada Pinkett Smith, reached No 2 with Whip My Hair when she was just 10 years old. Blue Ivy Carter, the daughter of Jay-Z and Beyoncé, was only two days old when her vocals were used on her dad’s Glory, making her the youngest artist to appear on any Billboard chart. The topic turned hot in 2021 when the Irish band Inhaler, led by Bono’s son Elijah Hewson, topped the charts.
But how, other than useful contacts and the recognition factor, does being a nepo baby help? The question of nature v nurture must be considered. The head start that nepo babies receive consists partly of cultural capital: a peerless home education in the history of pop and the inner workings of the industry, plus knowhow, advice and informal music lessons. Interestingly, certain aspects of musical aptitude appear to be heritable. In 2007, a a study of twins found that 70-80% of cases of tone deafness are genetic. In 2013, a University of Helsinki study found clusters of genes that favour musical creativity.
Given their various advantages, genetic and cultural, why aren’t nepo babies better at pop? Perhaps because greatness relies on an indefinable alchemy that goes beyond technical skill and pushy parenting.
Some argue that these apparent advantages are actually hindrances. Lily Allen, the daughter of actor Keith, and an alumna of £42,000-a-year Bedales, has argued that nepo babies have it tough. And having a famous name can be a double-edged sword. James McCartney was involved in one of the most excruciating television interviews in living memory on BBC Breakfast when hosts Bill Turnbull and Susanna Reid kept mentioning his dad, Spies Like Us hitmaker Paul. His surname got him the booking. But it also guaranteed that the interviewer would talk about little else.
Nevertheless, like the Martians in The War of the Worlds, still they come. From Junior Andre (son of Peter Andre and Katie Price) to Maya Hawke (daughter of Ethan Hawke and Uma Thurman), nepo-tastic newcomers are sprouting everywhere, blocking the path for others. Fancied touring with Haim in 2022? Sorry, Buzzy Lee – daughter of Steven Spielberg – beat you to it. Aspired to support Taylor Swift on tour this year? Forget it. Gracie Abrams – daughter of the director JJ – got there first.
There is an urge to scream at the nepo babies to step aside and let other less well-connected talents through. (LMFAO, a duo of doofuses comprising the son and grandson of Motown co-founder Berry Gordy, had the decency to do exactly that, once they’d had their fun.) The game is rigged enough already, and the last thing pop should be is dynastic.
Of course, there’s no law stopping anyone from following in the family business. But if you’re going to harness the asset of talent that your illustrious parent has passed down, and weaponise your famous name to elbow your way to the front of the pack, at least have the decency to be good.
Simon Price is a music journalist and author
