Stephen Deusner

But thanks to the upstart pop star’s disastrous performance on “Saturday Night Live” a few weeks ago, Del Rey inspired fountains of Internet ink dissecting her persona and the critical responses to her persona before most people even knew who she was — let alone had a chance to gripe about hearing her songs all the time. She was Twitter famous — Rebecca Black famous — which these days is more famous than you get by releasing a hit album. Now that she has released a hit album, however, the response from critics and fans has been fascinating for what it reveals about the pop-culture machine — as well as the idea of success in America.

Consensus seems to be forming that “Born to Die” is neither as bad as her detractors claim nor as great as her defenders argue. The album is occasionally compelling, but it’s rarely daring. It’s catchy, but more often strained. There are a few fine songs, but many more that stumble about awkwardly. Perhaps more telling, “Born to Die” is most interesting when it’s terrible. Critics are quoting clumsy lyrics about drinking top-shelf liquor and taking bodies downtown, and certainly there are cringe-worthy lines weighing down all these songs. But Del Rey is a risky songwriter, peppering her lyrics with concrete imagery and specific nouns, depicting her world in exacting detail. On “Off to the Races,” she paints an afternoon skinny-dipping as an all-American tableau: “White bikini off with my red nail polish / Watch me in the swimming pool, bright blue ripples.” It’s often evocative, immersing listeners in her private world, but too often the details seem off; lines about “Pabst Blue Ribbon … on ice” and “Jesus on the dashboard” break the spell and deposit you right back in the real world.

Some observers have detected a knowing wink in Del Rey’s performance, as though there’s an element of parody in a song like “National Anthem,” on which she hints she’s “blurring the line between real and the fake.” But that song is bad-movie bad, one of several tracks that drag down the second half of “Born to Die.” Like “Manos: Hands of Fate” or “The Room,” it confounds all critical faculties and almost dares you to read too much into it. As the song wanders from a perfunctory verse to a vacant chorus, it picks up lyrical detritus in its wake, the most famous being:

Money is the reason we exist

Everybody knows it, it’s a fact

Kiss kiss

Is this a Swiftian satire of pop culture in the “Real Housewives” era, or is Del Rey actually embracing a Randian view of existential capitalism? Does it even matter? A bad song is a bad song, no matter its intentions. Besides, even when she begs, “Tell me I’m your national anthem,” her expressionless vocals come across not as ironic, but sourly uninvested.

Neverthelesss, of this writing, it was No. 1 on the iTunes album chart, with the deluxe edition (featuring three additional tracks) at No. 2. That’s higher than Adele and Leonard Cohen, Kelly Clarkson and Coldplay. For an artist with more ups and downs in her short career than the Republican primary, that’s a fairly impressive feat, more or less assuring a decent showing when Billboard announces its definitive sales chart next week. That’s the rub for many observers: Del Rey has achieved a level of success that many feel she hasn’t earned yet.

But pop stars are rarely born; more often they’re made, whether via the popularity of a YouTube clip or the machinations of the musical-industrial complex. It’s not that Del Rey has been heralded and celebrated before she has had a chance to develop her talents and get some experience under her belt. Rather, it’s that Lizzy Grant has been heralded and celebrated before she’s had a chance to truly develop Lana Del Rey as a character. Back in August, she came across as fully formed on her debut single, “Video Games,” billing herself as a “gangsta Nancy Sinatra” and taking full advantage of the mystery that surrounds every new artist.

But that was three minutes; “Born to Die” is just under 50 minutes (the deluxe edition comes in closer to an hour), and Del Rey can’t command the audience’s attention for that length of time. There’s no consistency, no sustained point of view as she toggles between Sue Lyon in heart-shaped glasses and Tura Satana in ass-kicking boots. Her voice has some dramatic range, but at this point there doesn’t seem to be much internal logic to how she deploys it from one measure to the next. Of course, we’re not supposed to develop a fully formed impression of Lizzy Grant from “Born to Die,” but we should come away from the album with some idea of who Lana Del Rey is.

Music, it would seem, is merely a means to an end for her, rather than an end in itself. These songs are tools by which Del Rey partitions out her idea of our collective consciousness, and much like Lady Gaga’s debut album, of course titled “The Fame,” “Born to Die” treats celebrity like the inevitable outcome of simply making a record. “Baby, love me ’cause I’m playing on the radio,” she sings on inevitable single, “Radio.” It’s a pretty desperate plea, not least because it assumes that people still listen to the radio.

Perhaps more than the fact that it aspires too blatantly to celebrity, “Born to Die” is divisive because it’s lifestyle music for a lifestyle that Del Rey arguably hasn’t achieved yet. It’s entitlement pop that puts the cart miles before the horse. Del Rey has become a dubious figure not because she’s playing the poor little rich girl during a recession, but because these songs collectively imply that the 99 percent really want to be the 1 percent. If she has turned herself into what she thinks we all want, then we resent her for thinking so lowly of us.

Whatever the case, writing about Lana Del Rey may actually be more interesting than listening to her music. In fact, there are much better pop albums that never receive a fraction of this press, from the compassionate and complex anthems by Swedish singer Robyn to the latest release by tUnE-yArDs, which topped the recent Village Voice Pazz & Jop poll and deals with some of the same issues that Del Rey takes up, only with much more nuance and passion. So Del Rey joins the ranks of Rebecca Black, Charlie Sheen, Tim Tebow, Newt Gingrich — people we debate and discuss not because they excel in their profession, but precisely because they do not. Success has become mundane and predictable — and, as everybody knows, too easy to have bestowed upon you. Spectacular failures, however, are always unique and uniquely fascinating.

Springsteen’s not the first artist to take up the occupiers’ cause, nor is he the first to filter his outrage through the iconography of Woody Guthrie, the Dust Bowl folkie who has become, 44 years after his death, the patron saint of the 99 percent. Tom Morello evoked Guthrie’s example when he strolled around Zuccotti Park singing “This Land Is Your Land,” which won MTV’s dubious award for Best #OWS Performance last year. More recently, Jackson Browne debuted a folksy number at Occupy Wall Street that played against his soft-rock strengths in favor of talking-to-the-masses piety. Guthrie has proved to be a potent symbol of grass-roots dissent, yet these songs make it appear as though the folk singer has been thrust upon OWS rather than embraced by its demonstrators. And it’s a limited view of the singer as well, one that doesn’t accommodate his sense of humor or his sense of wonder.

In a sense, it could be considered a failure of imagination: No one has been able to conceive of a new form of protest music specific to this moment in American history, so they revisit the old, obvious exemplar and hope it still fits. Springsteen certainly draws from this vision of Guthrie. The cover of “Wrecking Ball” shows him hoisting a guitar as a symbol of proletariat power, partially obscured by text in the Guthrie Bold Condensed font. “We Take Care of Our Own” is a tangle of barbed lyrics that confront economic and social issues in the broadest way imaginable: “Where are the eyes, the eyes with the will to see?” he asks, not quite rhetorically. “Where are the hearts that run over with mercy?” Later, he poses the burning question, “Where’s the promise from sea to shining sea?”

It’s all very straightforward and sincere, in language that’s simultaneously plainspoken and grandiose. Springsteen has long identified with the Okie folkie, covering “This Land Is Your Land” on the box set “Live 1975-85″ and recording a handful of spare acoustic albums addressing social concerns. On “Nebraska” (1982) and even on the fairly forgettable “Ghost of Tom Joad” (1995) and Devils & Dust (2005), Springsteen channeled his own worries through Everyman characters, such as the desperate gunman of “Johnny 99” and the hard-luck meth cooks of “Sinaloa Cowboys.” The people came first, it seemed, and the issues second. Springsteen may have stretched to rhyme “ravine” and “methamphetamine,” but those songs had the power of parables, delivering potent messages without sounding preachy or overtly political. “We Take Care of Our Own” does just the opposite. Rather than view this historical moment through the eyes of a character, Springsteen writes like he’s using bumper stickers like magnetic poetry. There’s nothing in the song to personalize the outrage, to give it relevance or impact or specificity.

Musically, “We Take Care of Our Own” doesn’t sound much like Guthrie at all. Rather than austere acoustic folk, the song nods to Springsteen of the past decade, with its florid strings and busybody production courtesy of Ron Aniello (Lifehouse, Jars of Clay). It sounds ostentatiously expensive, yet Springsteen’s vocals are lively and sympathetic, which makes him sound like the 99 percent instead of the 1 percent.

He’s writing what he thinks the country needs, which is not the same as what it actually needs. Yet, the best aspect of “We Take Care of Our Own” — the one component that makes you look forward to hearing the rest of the album — is that wonderful boardwalk bells-and-guitar theme that repeats throughout the songs, sounding heraldic and optimistic and perhaps even celebratory. It’s signature Springsteen, both a throwback to the immigrant culture that produced him and an ageless alternative to the blues-derived riffs that pervade so much rock ‘n’ roll. That theme turns “We Take Care of Our Own” into something like a singalong — inclusive rather than exclusive, a communal experience that supports the sentiment of the song’s title. That may be truer to the spirit of Guthrie than any of the song’s well-meaning lyrics.

Adele bucked every current trend in the music industry, including — and especially — lackluster album sales. Her second full-length, “21″ (which, like its predecessor, “19,” was named for her age when she wrote the songs), spent a truly remarkable 13 weeks at the top of the Billboard album charts. Every other week of the year, it was in the top 10, if not the top five. Still is, in fact. A live album/DVD chronicling a gregariously foul-mouthed performance at the Royal Albert Hall in London was released around the time music publications on both sides of the Atlantic were putting her at the top of their lists for artist of the year, album of the year, song of the year — or all three. “Saturday Night Live” even wrote an entire sketch about how no one can hear “Someone Like You” without bawling. And hey, it was actually funny!

More than any other musician in 2011, more than Lady Gaga or Bon Iver or Katy Perry or Kanye West, Adele effortlessly bridged disparate markets and audiences, almost without trying. Pop fans, AOR listeners, indie rock kids, your mother — all appreciated the wounded defiance of “Rolling in the Deep” and the sharp acrimony of “Rumour Has It.” Everyone, it seems, can identify and empathize with her pain, which speaks to her power as both a songwriter and a vocalist. Adele manages to strike the perfect balance between specific and universal sentiments, so that almost every song sounds like it originated in her own experience but could easily apply to those who haven’t lived through it. And she sang about it all with restraint and nuance, which is difficult for anyone with a powerful voice. Pop rewards loud fireworks; Adele gave us quiet explosions.

Because of the style of music she associates herself with, many fans and writers have positioned her as the anti-Lady Gaga, an “authentic” pop artist rather than a “plastic” celebrity. It’s a useless comparison, and not merely because it upholds certain tired boomer concepts about what is “real” and “good” in pop music and what is “artificial” and “bad.” What is much more instructive: Lady Gaga was everywhere in 2011, while Adele was sidelined with health issues for most of the year. Ubiquity is built into Gaga’s whole concept (her first album, after all, was titled “The Fame”), yet she had to scrimp to move 1 million copies of her second album, “Born This Way,” and the $3.99 markdowns and free giveaways appeared increasingly desperate. Adele, on the other hand, scrapped a major tour and had throat surgery for a hemorrhaged vocal cord this fall. As a result, she wasn’t able to play very many live shows, and her public appearances were kept to a minimum. Even the tabloids — at least in America, but who knows what goes down in the U.K.? — kept their distance.

Perhaps that limited visibility is part of Adele’s appeal, complementing and even reinforcing her vocal and lyrical talent. The Internet has long made it possible to track celebrities 24/7, to be inundated with every last detail of the Kardashian clan or Britney Spears’ engagement. Adele may not have actively shunned the spotlight, but she was surprisingly reserved for someone who was selling albums like it was 1984. As a result, she retained some of her mystery (at least for American audiences), so we never got a chance to get sick of her. It recalled a pre-Internet era when fans had to pursue their favorite stars, had to go well out of their way to keep up with the latest details. Adele is an analog pop star in a digital world.

That ties in with the throwback musical styles Adele is working with and reshaping, but it is no judgment on the music itself. “21″ is good not because it carries the weight of so much pop history, but because it carries the weight of so much pop history so gracefully. While many musicians embrace and revive old genres and trends, few have Adele’s pipes, her insightful lyrical chops, or her poise. Inhabiting her songs confidently, even fearlessly, Adele set a new standard for dignity in the face of heartache. She struggles to hold back tears rather than giving in to the urge to sob; she displays compassion instead of contempt, whether it’s for a man who broke her heart or for the woman he broke her heart with. Adele is, in other words, the woman we all wish we could be, soulful and spirited and strong.

Katy B: “On a Mission” (Columbia/Rinse)

European pop music doesn’t translate to American shores. Just ask Katy B, whose first solo album debuted at No. 2 in the U.K. but failed to get much praise beyond the same blogs and online publications that regularly fete the always deserving Robyn. Too bad: The hooks on “Broken Record” and “Katy B on a Mission” are tense and coiled, the imaginative beats move and morph insistently, and the hyperactive production tweaks tired dubstep conventions like she’s already tired of that trend. The young, flame-haired singer presides over it all with brash confidence and poise, delivering her tough-minded lyrics with a forceful voice and complete command of the beat. “On a Mission” is the sharpest, smartest pop record of the year, besting lackluster efforts by Britney Spears, Lady Gaga and even the usually impeccable Beyoncé.

“Broken Record”

For fans of: Katy Perry, Robyn

Cities Aviv: “Digital Lows” (self-released)

2011 may be remembered as the year when the underground hip-hop scene exploded, when unsigned newcomers like Danny Brown and Action Bronson had more clout, if not more sales, than most major-label rappers. Of this new generation of indie hip-hop artists, few sounded quite as smart or as conflicted as Memphis’ Gavin Mays, aka Cities Aviv, who self-released his debut full-length, “Digital Lows,” on bandcamp. It’s a raw record, dense with intense verses and noisy interludes, and it established Mays as an adventurous sampler. “Die Young” turns Depeche Mode’s “People Are People” into a club anthem that disguises seize-the-moment urgency as smirking nihilism, while “Meet Me on Montrose (For Ex-Lovers Only)” appropriates soft-pop also-rans the Alessi Brothers for a bracing meditation on romance and regret. Through it all, Mays battles all the expectations that come with being a young black man in a city known for its death rates and poverty, yet his defiance sounds like the only logical response to growing up in a city “where they killed the King” (no, not Elvis) and to living in a world that offers him such limited roles. Ultimately, there’s something almost novelistic about Mays’ attempts to stake out a place for himself in the Bluff City, such that by the time he starts rapping over Modest Mouse’s “Float On,” all the bluster and noise coalesce into something deeply moving.

For fans of: Kanye West, Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All

Mikal Cronin: “Mikal Cronin” (Trouble in Mind)

Over the past few years, San Francisco’s psych-rock scene has undergone a dramatic renaissance, as acts like Thee Oh Sees, Sic Alps and Ty Segall slyly reshape the city’s music history for a post-punk present. The strong DIY ethic has kept the scene from imploding from the increased attention, yet the musicians’ open-mindedness has allowed others to find a home in Fog City. For years, Mikal Cronin made the long drive back and forth between his hometown of Los Angeles and San Francisco, where he recorded his solo debut with a handful of locals. He shapes noise into short, sharp pop-punk songs, marrying Beach Boys melodies with spastic guitars and lo-fi vocals. “Get Along” and “Is It Alright” could be covers of lost ’60s nuggets, while “Apathy” contains one of 2011’s most undeniable hooks. “Mikal Cronin” is deeply aware of but never beholden to rock history, local or otherwise.

For fans of: Ty Segall, Jay Reatard

Robert Ellis: “Photographs” (New West)

If you didn’t know Robert Ellis was from Houston, you could pick him out as a Texan after only a few notes of his debut, “Photographs.” He’s absorbed the lyrical lessons of Lone Star songwriter-poets like Townes Van Zandt, Vince Bell, Robert Earl Keen, Willie Nelson and too many others to name. He addresses big topics in plain-spoken lyrics and a dusty-dry voice that makes him sound older than his years. Side 1 is acoustic and quiet and slyly devastating: If opener “Friends Like These” doesn’t have you calling up your old college pals to reconnect, then you must not have their numbers. His band joins him on the second side, playing rowdily and wittily as Ellis unspools yarns about women who cheat, men who drink, and trains that only reinforce their loneliness. He covers all the usual country topics, but Ellis makes them sound as personal as old photographs.

For fans of: Townes Van Zandt, Willie Nelson

Emperor X: “Western Teleport” (Bar/None)

Emperor X is the stage name of C.R. Matheny, a former high school math teacher who toured his first two albums via Greyhound bus, hauling his guitar and effects pedals around with him. His third album builds on that mundanity: Evoking a strange world, it sounds like it’s played on 20th-century instruments excavated during the 22nd century and jury-rigged for tentative amplification. The sustain pedal on the piano is perpetually stuck, the guitars flare and flicker like fireworks, and a low-level headache hum thrums underneath every note. It’s a wonderfully bizarre idea of what rock music can be, and is matched only by the whimsy and imagination of Matheny’s lyrics, which cycle through various perspectives: the religious extremists of “Allahu Akbar,” the infatuated handyman of “Compressor Repair,” and the lonely survivalist of “Erica Western Transport” who discovers a beat-up “Battlestar Galactica” binder and falls in love with its long-dead owner. It’s a lively and eccentric record, yet triumphant in its deep empathy and humanity.

For fans of: the Mountain Goats, Grandaddy

Amy LaVere: “Stranger Me” (Archer)

Film fans may recognize Amy LaVere from her small parts in “Black Snake Moan” and “Walk the Line,” but in addition to acting in movies about musicians, she is a musician herself, playing stand-up bass and singing songs that usually involve bad boyfriends and murder. Her second solo album opens with a kiss-off to a boyfriend who pestered her to write him a love song (the chorus: “here’s your damn love song”), then moves to “Red Banks,” about pushing her abusive lover in the river and watching him drown. There’s grim humor in these songs, but she gives her band the freedom to make her songs as dark and eccentric as possible. Dave Cousar’s spidery licks crackle and bristle around the edges of the songs (her former guitar player joined the Hold Steady, but he’s not missed), and LaVere’s bass lays down snarling rhythms that sound motivated by barely contained resentment or lust or both.

For fans of: Sam Phillips, Tom Waits

Amanda Shires: “Carrying Lightning” (Silver Knife)

Amanda Shires has had an unlikely career: She studied classical violin as a teenager, then discovered she enjoyed fiddling along to Texas swing better. She worked as a side player in various projects, but realized she had the lyrical and musical charisma to take lead. Her first albums were instrumental, but her last two showcase a distinctive songwriting voice with a knack for unexpected imagery and subtle wit. “Carrying Lightning” is her best to date, a collection of amiably shambling, finely observed, and deeply felt songs that pit sexual desire against romantic angst. On “When You Need a Train It Never Comes” she doesn’t need a mustache-twirling villain to tie her to the tracks. She can knot her own ropes, thank you very much. And “Swimmer, Dream Don’t Keep” contains one of the best and most succinct confessions of intense desire:

April was the last time I think I saw you
You were carrying lightning
The way you walked into the room,
If I was a flower I would’ve opened up and bloomed

For fans of: Shawn Colvin, Amy Rigby

Kurt Wagner & Cortney Tidwell: “Invariable Heartache” (City Slang)

It’s the business of Nashville to forsake its own history, to send old stars out to pasture and to disregard the non-stars completely, but on the periphery of the music industry are folks like Kurt Wagner and Cortney Tidwell, who still interact with the past and find fresh wisdom in old songs. The unlikely pair — he’s the frontman for indie orchestra Lambchop and avowed Jim Nabors fan, and she’s a husky-voiced solo artist and mother of two — collaborated on a covers album of songs released through Chart Records, which was owned and operated by Tidwell’s grandfather in the late 1960s and early ‘70s. The label was relatively adventurous, its roster diverse: “Invariable Heartache” ranges from sturdy heartbreak laments like “Incredibly Lonely” to country-psych exercises like “Penetration,” but all are uniformly eloquent, witty and emotionally dignified. Kurt and Cortney have Loretta-and-Conway chemistry, revealing all the sharp turns of phrase and bitter emotional revelations in a tribute to all the artists who came before them. In that regard, it’s less a piece of local history than a musical genealogy — a family tree set to music.

For fans of: Lynn Anderson, Lambchop

Abigail Washburn: City of Refuge (Rounder)

Abigail Washburn’s second solo album begins with the sound of children shouting and playing — a bit of ambient chatter accompanied only by the scratches of a lonely violin. It’s a short, quiet intro, but it lends “City of Refuge” its particular gravity. Washburn made the recordings several years ago in the Sichuan province of China, as part of the Shanghai Restoration Project; the children had recently been left homeless by a massive earthquake. “City of Refuge” is an album about finding solace and compassion in the face of tragedy, and Washburn’s approach to collaboration lends those themes special resonance. A student of international law who gave up the books for a clawhammer banjo, she recruited musicians from America and China, including members of My Morning Jacket and the Mongolian folk group Hanggai. The result is a mashup of traditions that sound surprisingly harmonious instead of forced or awkward. These songs sound immediately familiar yet constantly surprising, darkly gorgeous yet assuredly optimistic, making “City of Refuge” one of the year’s most powerful pieces of international diplomacy.

For fans of: Andrew Bird, Patty Griffin

Waters: “Out in the Light” (TBD Records)

At a recent show in Chicago, Waters closed their set with an unlikely singalong: frontman Van Pierszalowski jumped off the stage and performed the acoustic ballad “Mickey Mantle” in the middle of the audience. Coming from other artists, it might have looked like a calculated rock-star move, but Waters sold it as an act of humility, with Pierszalowski busking the song as the crowd shouted back its simple chorus of “Forever! Forever!” It was a magical moment, but not out of place for Waters, who rose from the ashes of Pierszalowski’s former band, Port O’Brien. Recorded in Dallas with super-producer John Congleton, Waters traces West Coast classic rock down Highway 1 and maps out a moral system, as though Pierszalowski realizes that singing songs like “O Holy Break of Day” and “If I Run” every night will make him a better man.

For fans of: Neil Young, Will Oldham

Well, damn. As soon as I finished this list, reshelved all the records, and got ready to move on to 2012, a friend recommended what turned out to be one last great, overlooked album of 2011. It’s a late-year release on a tiny label out of North Carolina, but it’s good enough to stand on anyone’s year-end list. Just consider it a New Year’s bonus.

Hiss Golden Messenger: “Poor Moon” (Paradise of Bachelors)

For nearly a decade M.C. Taylor fronted the Court & Spark, a semi-obscure San Francisco band that specialized in a moody brand of alt-country. Shortly after moving cross-country to Durham, N.C., the band broke up and Taylor went solo as Hiss Golden Messenger. On his second full-length, he explores the seemingly endless possibilities of drums-guitar-bass. “Poor Moon” represents a personal, very expansive view of America and Americana music, alternately recalling Dylan, Hank Williams and any back-porch pickup band, yet the superlatively breezy country-rock vibe conceals bleak implications about morality, fatherhood, and country. Taylor sees a darkness, and to his considerable credit, he never flinches.

For fans of: Bob Dylan, Bonnie “Prince” Billy

With all that in mind, getting upset over the annual Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductions is a bit like grousing over the Oscars or the National Book Award or baseball’s increasingly labyrinthine postseason. There’s always something to disagree with or to rage against — and to a certain extent, that grumbling is part of the point. On the most basic level, these institutions, from the Academy to pro sports, exist to get people talking. And the Hall of Fame announcements certainly accomplish that goal, dominating the entertainment news cycle for at least a day or two before getting picked up by print media for another belated round.

But is it too much to ask that the institution better represent the full breadth and diversity of the rock ‘n’ roll era? Couldn’t it just try to be as edgy and challenging and broadminded as the music it seeks to enshrine? This year’s list of inductees, announced on Monday night, is almost a parody of cloistered, white-dude rock concerns, adhering to the moldy boomer ideal of rock stars as guys playing “real” instruments, lodging smash hits and sticking around for a couple of years too long.

They’re worthy inductees, but still barely manage more than a yawn, much less a headline. Guns n’ Roses may be one of the best rock acts of the hair-metal era, but lately they (or, more precisely, Axl Rose) serve as a cautionary tale of the dangers of long hiatuses, canceled concerts and cornrows. The Red Hot Chili Peppers pioneered a particular brand of funk/punk rock, but influenced exactly no one. And there’s the Beastie Boys, a trio of white rappers who started out as fight-for-your-right punks and ended up as Brooklyn farmers’ market rappers. Rounding out the list: belated inductions for insufferable ‘60s folkie Donovan, underpraised songwriter Laura Nyro and the curious combination of Faces/Small Faces.

But another list puts this one to shame: The nominees who fell short of induction — who didn’t garner enough votes from the 500 or so Hall of Fame members — include Joan Jett & the Blackhearts, Rufus & Chaka Khan, Donna Summer, War, the Cure and Eric B. & Rakim. For the Hall of Fame, these acts represent the margins of rock ‘n’ roll — not because they’re black, female or black and female, but because their accomplishments don’t fall into an accepted definition of rock success. Eric B. & Rakim are considered to be one of the most important hip-hop acts of the 1980s, developing an intricate vocal style that bridges the sing-speak rhyming of early rap to the tongue-twisting flow of more recent acts. They may not have had a No. 1 record, but their influence cannot be understated.

Rock fans have never been kind to disco, and likewise, the Hall of Fame has never been kind to disco artists. Many of the genre’s biggest stars have been kept out of the Hall of Fame, now including Summer, who should have been a shoo-in based on her work with Giorgio Moroder alone. But disco sucks, right? Well, not really. Over the past few years, a slew of books — notably, Peter Shapiro’s “Turn the Beat Around” to Alice Echols’ “Hot Stuff: Disco and the Remaking of American Culture” — have argued very persuasively for disco as an innovative genre that provided both a loud voice and a safe haven for post-civil rights African-Americans and post-Stonewall gays. At least, that is, until the mainstream picked up on it and diluted it with lame acts like Rick Dees and the Village People. Disco is undergoing a much-needed reevaluation, but once again the Hall of Fame lags behind the most important rock history and criticism.

Since its inception in 1983, the Hall of Fame has borne its share of naysaying. Detractors argue that rock is youth music corrupted by adults, that putting rock musicians in a museum only negates their rebellion, or that rock has become as entrenched in the establishment as the dull music of the ‘40s and ‘50s it was originally intended to displace. There’s no doubt that the Hall of Fame represents a dinosaur-act approach to rock success, which appears increasingly out of touch in the Internet age: More than ever before, access to all forms and genres of music is limited only by bandwidth and curiosity, which means listeners even outside the most active scenes are hearing more kinds of music and artists are incorporating much wider ranges of influence. They’re rediscovering acts like Joy Division (not inducted), the Cure (not inducted), John Fahey (not inducted), and Love (not inducted?!), among countless other obscure or semi-obscure acts. It’s more than any one lumbering institution can keep up with.

Of course, many would argue that the Hall of Fame’s true mission isn’t curatorial, but commercial. According to a recent article in the New York Times, “Weekly record sales for a performer or band leap 40 to 60 percent, on average, in the weeks after selection, says David Bakula, a senior vice president at Nielsen SoundScan. While winning a Grammy often helps one album, a nod from Cleveland can lift an entire back catalog.” That’s great news for a faltering industry, especially when back catalog sales already dwarf new albums sales. In other words, the Hall of Fame isn’t going anywhere, even if it’s incredibly ill-suited for its self-appointed job of promoting rock’s back pages.

For the second year in a row, however, the Grammys have played Grinch by actually getting the major categories right. Mostly right. Well, they certainly didn’t embarrass themselves.

Just like last year, when album/song/record of the year trifecta actually included some intriguing and even excellent artists, this year’s top nominees include some incredibly deserving musicians. Sure, you could argue that the Foo Fighters’ aggressively mediocre “Wasting Light” would have been safely forgotten if not included among the nominees, and I’d argue that any list that includes the enormously insufferable Mumford & Sons — surely one of the most baffling grass-roots success stories since Insane Clown Posse — is essentially flawed. And just to remind you that the Grammys have some of the weirdest time-frame regulations, there are nominations for Kanye West’s still excellent “My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy” and Rihanna’s “LOUD,” both from late 2010 and already feted on innumerable year-end lists.

But the list also includes two nominations for Bon Iver’s gorgeous “Holocene,” from the band’s self-titled second record. And in retrospect, Adele was a shoo-in, but what’s amazing about her juggernaut second album “21″ is that it’s just as good as — maybe even better than — all those sales would indicate. And Bruno Mars’ forward-thinking revivalism gets a few mentions, as does Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way,” to which I say, finally: Uncle.

The inclusions are mostly worthy, and the omissions likewise promising: There are no desperate bids for ratings (sorry, Bieber) and no self-congratulatory nods to industry veterans releasing would-be comeback albums (see: Herbie Hancock in 2008, Steely Dan in 2002). In fact, the lists for album of the year, record of the year, song of the year and even best new artist all seem strangely democratic, representing a variety of pop genres. That means there’s going to be some serious competition here. Will Katy Perry and Lady Gaga split the dance-pop vote? Could Bruno Mars pull an upset? Is Bon Iver the Jon Huntsman in this scenario? I’ll probably put all my money on Adele for a sweep, but a win by Gaga or Bon or Bruno or Ye wouldn’t prompt a sledgehammer to my television set.

On the other hand, let’s remember back to Feb. 13, when the last batch of Grammy winners was announced. At the end of the broadcast, Canadian indie rock mainstays the Arcade Fire won a surprise victory for album of the year. Their appropriately sprawling third album, “The Suburbs,” beat a humorless bout of navel gazing by Eminem, a collection of candy-coated pop by Katy Perry, a country-in-name-only album by Lady Antebellum and a monster hit by Lady Gaga. It was the Arcade Fire’s biggest triumph, swiftly followed by their greatest indignity: Overnight tweets and blog posts decried the decision, and a Tumblr posed the question Who Is Arcade Fire? Some guy even took out a full-page ad in the New York Times to bitch about it.

A similar fate could befall Bon Iver if “Holocene” beats out “Rolling the Deep” and “The Edge of Glory” this February, making a Grammy less a gleaming crown than a set of lead boots. More interestingly, the Arcade Fire debacle illustrates just how fragmented contemporary audiences have become and just how ill-suited the Grammys are to represent those vying constituencies. For many viewers (myself included), the Arcade Fire weren’t just obscure nobodies; they were as close to the Biggest Band in the World as you can get these days. “The Suburbs” debuted at No. 1 on the Billboard album charts just a few months previous, and the group had sold out Madison Square Garden. They had even licensed a song to the Super Bowl (with all royalties benefiting Partners in Health’s relief efforts in Haiti).

Their win may have shocked legions of Little Monsters and Eminem diehards, but others were shocked that so many people were shocked. It was an eye opener: A band that all but defined a particular audience could still be virtually unknown to the larger music-listening population. It’s yet another sign of the fragmentation and entrenchment of music audiences in the digital age, and surprisingly the major Grammy categories — record/album/song of the year, and possibly best new artist — seem to be well equipped to mirror this development. For two years at least, they’ve spotlighted diverse nominations that speak to the breadth and ambition of contemporary pop music, with a strong sense of the past but an eye squarely on the future.

Oh, but keep scrolling down that list and things start to look a little less impressive. The Grammys’ annual forays into specific genres reveals a voting block that defines pop music too broadly but thinks of metal, R&B, dance, Americana and jazz in only the most superficial terms. Consider the award for best hard rock/metal performance. The term “hard rock” is an obvious catchall, but Dream Theater and Sum 41 certainly don’t belong on this list (and a win for either would reenact the ’89 Jethro Tull/Metallica debacle all over again). As one of the most popular traditional metal bands, Mastodon isn’t a bad choice, nor is Megadeth, who’ve proved durably heavy while many of their peers have softened. But there’s not much depth here, especially considering that metal has undergone a renaissance over the past few years, allowing acts like Skeletonwitch, Kylesa, Wolves in the Throne Room and Hammers of Misfortune to redefine many of the genre’s most historically rigid conventions.

Or look at the Americana category. There’s nothing wrong with Levon Helm, Ry Cooder or Emmylou Harris, and apparently I’m the only person who thought “Blessed” was a seriously subpar Lucinda Williams effort. But you could have compiled this list at any time over the last 25 years. These acts are being recognized less for their music and more for their longevity. Only the obscure and kinda doofy Linda Chorney, nominated for her sixth album, “Emotional Jukebox,” is a surprise. But you could scratch any of these names and substitute lesser-known but much better albums by Hayes Carll, A.A. Bondy, Amanda Shires, Buddy Miller and Abigail Washburn.

Similar arguments could be made this year about the alternative rock, contemporary blues, and folk categories. In fact, the Grammys aren’t truly representing the realities and innovations of these genres, but instead what seems like an uninterested, third-person perspective on them. They’re skimming the surface for obvious names rather than spotlighting the genres’ greatest accomplishments. And while the major categories seem to be evolving and even becoming more adventurous, the future doesn’t look especially bright for categories further down the list. Earlier this year, NARAS announced that it was cutting more than 30 awards, including best Hawaiian album, best Native American album, and several from the Latin category.

Historically, the organization  has treated these categories as somewhat fluid, making changes to reflect new social, technological, musical or business developments. For example, there are no longer Grammys for best jazz composition of more than five minutes duration, nor are there separate gospel awards for white and black artists. But these severe cuts mark an awkward consolidation at a time when audiences are dividing. If they want to remain relevant, the Grammys should not only add more categories, but explore them more thoroughly. Otherwise, we’ll all just have to keep bitching about them being out of touch and irrelevant.