There’s something wildly depressing about the NYT’s Diary of a Pop Song, although no one involved seems to be aware. How many amusical handlers need to fly how many miles to shepherd a modest clip of a girl’s idea for a chorus hook through a thousand impersonal interpolators before assigning the track to a random aspiring celebrity who doesn’t even recognize the writer when she meets her, nor seem to think she’s anything of mention when told. Holy shit, this is dystopic. This is peak soulless.