As general manager of the New York-based dance-music label Astralwerks, selling music is the essence of Errol Kolosine's job. In particular, he's responsible for licensing songs by Astralwerks artists to advertising agencies, for use in spots such as the current Pringles campaign, which shows three young people and their can of Pringles chips, happily frolicking to the sound of the Basement Jaxx single Where's Your Head At. At points, the animated head of Mr. Pringle joins in, singing "Where's your head at?" straight from the can.

As a piece of cross-marketing, the Where's Your Head At ad has been a stunning success for Basement Jaxx. Sales of the English house duo's current album, Rooty, are up, and the group's newly elevated profile has earned it airplay in four major U.S. markets.

Naturally, all this makes Kolosine a happy man. To hear him talk, however, it's clear that his greatest glee comes from his sense of having put one over on the establishment. "I see putting our music in these commercials as one of the most subversive things you can do," he says.

Wait a minute -- selling out is subversive?

Welcome to the music industry's new economic reality. Where once pop musicians and their fans were revolted at the thought of letting beloved singles be used to sell sports cars, software or beer, today's fans are largely accepting while many musicians are eager to sign on.

To some degree, this change in attitude represents a shift away from the Sixties-schooled idealism of the Baby Boomers and toward the media-savvy cynicism of Generations X and Y. Any listener who has grown up listening to rap stars stressing the importance of "getting paid" is unlikely to see anything wrong with cashing in.

But this eagerness to license pop singles also reflects a growing sense of desperation among recording artists. As radio-station playlists -- particularly those in the United States -- grow ever more restricted, it becomes increasingly difficult for music outside the mainstream to get an airing. However much the music press might rave about the moody alt-rock band Magnetic Fields or the feral blues of R. L. Burnside, average listeners have a better chance of hearing their songs in TV ads (for Southern Comfort and Nissan, respectively) than they do on commercial radio.

Things are even tougher for dance-music artists such as Basement Jaxx. With the introduction of "antirave" laws, it has become all-but-impossible to stage dance-music concerts or even club events in some parts of the U.S. "There's a concerted effort to hurt dance music in America right now," says Kolosine, warming to the subject of subversion. "In some cases, the commercials offer the last hope for somebody in one of these areas to hear these tracks."

Still, Astralwerks's success with Basement Jaxx pales in comparison to what V2 Records managed with Moby's 1999 album, Play. Every one of its 18 tracks was licensed out, resulting in more than 100 different deals placing his music in advertisements or movie and TV soundtracks. Moby himself was reputed to have pocketed nearly $1-million (U.S.) from the process, but according to David Steel, head of special projects at V2, the singer and composer didn't pursue licensing as a means to make money.

"All he's ever wanted was to have his music heard by people," says Steel. "And when you can't get your music on the radio, and you don't get your video on MTV, that doesn't leave a lot of options. So if a TV show is going to play it, or a commercial is going to use it, it's hard to say that that's a sellout."

It wasn't always that way. In 1986, Nike launched an ad campaign built around the classic Beatles single Revolution. Beatles fans, in turn, were revolted. Not only did it seem sacrilegious to use the song -- an impassioned comment on social idealism -- to sell footwear, but the Beatles themselves had no say in the process. The Nike deal had been brokered by Michael Jackson, who had bought the publishing rights to Revolution (and much of the Beatles catalogue) the year before.

Stung, Nike and Jackson backed off. The ad was abandoned, and plans to license other Beatles oldies were quietly shelved. This didn't stop the use of rock songs in advertising, of course, but after Bruce Springsteen declined a $12-million offer from Chrysler to use Born in the U.S.A., the moral high ground seemed pretty clearly defined. Letting an ad agency link your music to some sales pitch was the worst form of selling out.

Of course, there's a world of difference between hearing a Beatles song in an ad, and hearing the Basement Jaxx. Any recording old and famous enough to be considered part of the pop canon is going to engender strong feelings in some listeners if tied to crass commerce. On the other hand, recognizing an underground dance hit or alt-rock single in a TV ad will leave some people secretly excited at hearing such "subversive" fare in prime time, while leading others to seek out that cool song from the commercial.

Some commercials, in fact, have even managed to "break" records the way radio once did. Sting's Desert Rose was initially ignored when it was released to radio in early 2000. But after the video, which showed him riding in a Jaguar sedan, was adapted for use as a Jaguar ad, demand for the single took off, revitalizing sales for his Brand New Day album. Fellow Brit-rocker Phil Collins is taking that approach a step further with his new album, Testify. In addition to licensing the single Can't Stop Loving You for a Toyota ad campaign, copies of Collins's album will bear a sticker reading, "As featured in the new Toyota Avalon commercial."

Nor are the beneficiaries of ad exposure always current singles. In 1996, a commercial for the Volkswagon Jetta featured the hauntingly beautiful Theme from Harry's Game by the Irish group Clannad. Although it had been a U.K. Top-Five hit in 1982, it made no impression on the North American market -- until the VW ad made it an underground hit. Similarly, a spot for the 2000 VW Cabrio featuring Nick Drake's dark, sleepy Pink Moon helped spur a revival of interest in the late guitarists' albums.

Still, risks remain. If a star is already successful, he or she runs the risk of appearing greedy. "I feel that way about Madonna right now," admits Steel. "She's got her song Secret in a GM commercial, and I thought, 'What does she need the money for?' "

Meanwhile, less-successful acts -- particularly those on the alt-rock circuit -- wind up alienating hard-core fans who think their favourite band has whored itself for a hefty payday. But as Steel points out, there's not as much money in "selling out" as people think.

"People . . . have the misconception that just because a song's in a commercial there's millions of dollars involved," he says. "It's very often not the case. Between the economy and the notion that these spots are helping to break artists, budgets are shrinking.

"So the consumer may think, 'Oh, they put their song in that commercial. That's a sell-out.' But the artist wants to get heard -- and they're not getting filthy rich from allowing their music to be used."