Months before Drake brought "hotline" back into pop vocabulary, dial-a-star numbers were already having a moment. Neon Indian, Tanlines, Shamir, and Speedy Ortiz weren’t just singing about hotlines—they’d set up connections between themselves and fans.
It’s a call-up that began in the '80s, when AT&T figured out they could restructure the 900 area code to make money off the rubes who dialed in. These hotlines were often $2 for the first minute, $.45 for each additional minute ("ask your parents before you call"). And they all had promo commercials: The New Rap Hotline might have put you in touch with the Fresh Prince and DJ Jazzy Jeff; you might "hear a joke" or "a couple of rhymes" if you dialed the MC Hammer line; the New Kids On the Block promised to "love you forever"; KISS had one, as did Paula Abdul and Warrant.
Arguably, They Might Be Giants were the most altruistic of the OG crew. Not trying to bilk their fans, the two Johns offered a 718 (not 900) Brooklyn phone number that played back original music to the caller, via an answering machine. Called Dial-A-Song, the service originally ran between 1983 and 2006. It was revived as Dial-A-Song Direct in January, as the band has released a new song each Tuesday since then, at 844-387-6962 (and digitally).
In April of this year, the Vegas disco prince Shamir offered a relationship advice hotline to coincide with the release of his "Call It Off" single. In May, the Brooklyn dance duo Tanlines debuted their second LP for fans and journalists via a dial-in conference call. This August, Neon Indian set up a congenial message and sound clip, to prep fans for his upcoming LP. The Boston rockers Speedy Ortiz launched a hotline this September, dedicated to ensuring their fans felt safe at shows.
Between the '80s, '90s, and now, the difference is that these numbers are offering a service, at no significant cost to the consumer. There’s a value-added element, far removed from the naïve promise of talking with Vanilla Ice or whomever. Maybe the most infamous of these is the Corey Hotline, where callers listened to recorded messages of Corey Haim (no relation) and Corey Feldman, with the nebulous promise that you may receive one of the Coreys’ personal numbers.
Consumer-service music hotlines did exist a couple decades ago. David Bowie had one in 1990, where fans called in to request tunes on his upcoming tour. It’s the Epitaph Records hotline that sticks in my memory, how I first heard the Descendents (specifically "I’m the One" from the 1996 album Everything Sucks, though the 34-second "Coffee Mug" would have been easier on my parent’s phone bill). Elsewhere, a Spin Magazine 900 allowed callers to hear records reviewed in that month’s issue. Publications could only dream of netting that per-minute money off of streams today.
Though the artists are no longer trying to collect a paycheck, the novelty of the hotline remains the same: the promise of intimacy or connection, inching closer to the revered. When the singer Tiffany unleashed her own 900 number, her promo didn’t mask this exploit: "I have so many things I’d like to tell you. You’re my friend, so call me."
On "Hotline Bling", Drake’s lover already has his number. Drake’s crush is leaving the city, the distance between him and his lover telescoping their connection. In 2015, when we all have personal pocket hotlines, proximity is still all we really want.