As a new acquaintance (a terribly clinical term I use for someone who is not just a friend but not committed to me) and I were doing our second “get to know you” meetup/date/whatever, I recounted the story of the first time I went to goth night.
“I walked in and ‘Policy of Truth’ was playing, and I thought ‘I’m home.'”
Thus, my dinner companion pretty much knew most of what I’d been listening to since: goth stuff, synthpop, industrial and a little pop on the side. I usually don’t get into this with new people because they usually have no idea what half of those genre names even mean (dark wave? really?), much less any of the bands. I start trying to explain Skinny Puppy or Das Ich and, upon receiving bewildered looks, I just start rounding off. My musical history, in their eyes, becomes little more than The Cure, Nine Inch Nails and “those German dudes that did ‘Du Hast.'” I can’t explain why it feels like home. It’s like trying to get someone to understand why you like your favorite color: you just do.
“So, if that was college, what did you listen to before that?”
It was Prince when I was 4, sitting in front of the TV watching him prance around in that shiny purple trench coat. It was Prince when I was 8, dancing around in purple satin pajamas, putting on lip sync shows for my sister. It was Prince when I was 16, playing a pseudo-audition for my would-be piano teacher. For all of these reasons (and just because it’s funny), Prince occupies the locket I wear all the time.
This led to a conversation about early 90s R&B, entire chunks that I’d forgotten because no one ever brings them up. Years of time when I would rush home from school and sit in front of the TV eating single-serve Red Baron pizzas and flipping between MTV, Vh-1 and BET. Shai. Silk. Jodeci. Al B. Sure. Bobby Brown. Tony Toni Tone. Troop. New Edition. Boyz II Men. The list of harmonizing black men stretches out as far as the eye can see, but the tenors were always my favorites.
“And ‘Freak Me!’ That was such a filthy song, to just be getting played on the radio like that!”
Now that we have Sean Paul and the Ying Yang Twins singing about blue balls and seeing someone’s dick respectively, the idea of licking someone up & down seems sort of quaint and sweet by comparison. I mean, who wouldn’t enjoy being licked up & down?
A person with a prosthesis made of Jolly Ranchers.
All of this got me thinking about what the effect of today’s music will be. What kind of relationship are children going to have with sex when they’ve been getting pelted with “Fuck Me Like You Hate Me” all their lives? And when they’re not getting fucked in a hateful manner, they’re being fed sugary fairy tales written by Taylor Swift and Carly Rae Jepsen. Listening to all of that, what are you supposed to think love IS, anyway?
Maybe I’m looking in the wrong places. Maybe pop music is stupid now because it’s always been stupid. Let’s not forget, the 90s also gave us Adina Howard’s “Freak Like Me,” while the 00s have given us songs like “Miss Independent” (both the Kelly Clarkson and Ne-Yo versions make the point) and one song urging women to have standards. Ne-Yo’s over there doing his best, and Rihanna waltzes in and poops out “Birthday,” a half-assed effort made with her abusive ex. It seems so unfair.
All of this curiosity led me down a narrow alley of question. Does listening to slap-dash music turn people into slap-dash lovers? Or is somebody somewhere having caring, meaningful sex while listening to Hinder? I wonder a lot about the cult of the slap-dash, wonder whether instant access to everything is causing us to be impatient about things that really deserve to take a long time. Whether Twitter is somehow going to turn all of us into clock watchers with A.D.D. Whether our approach to conversation, sex and love will turn into our approach to food and information. Where faster is better at the expense of quality.
All of this from listening to some Bobby Brown, ladies and gentlemen.
The answer is probably “Amy, a lot of people are doing a lot of things, in a lot of different ways.” Still, I thought I’d throw the thought out there and see what came echoing back at me from you guys. In art school, we called this “creating a dialog.” In English class, they call it “not finishing your essay.” Potayto, potahto.