I have a confession. I’m Britney’s Bitch. I’m one of those mindless, clothingless women who jump up and down in clubs to some sugary, pre-processed bite of Britney’s auto-tuned sighing and writhing. Basically I have no music taste. At all.
I’m very jealous of people who do have an ear for music. Especially if they can explain to me why they like a song without using the word “fusion” or “post-punk-neo-wave-rave-house-Crayola-caffeine-electro.” I admire people who are passionate and knowledgeable on a subject; music is no exception to that. Plus if they’re really passionate their eyes will sparkle and they’ll start waving their hands excitedly like they’ve seen an elephant playing the Sax. Which is fun to watch.
So I’m very jealous of genuine musos. What I’m not jealous of is people who love music, but who’s first (and often subsequently last) comment to me is “what do you listen to?” Because when I say Pussycat Dolls, and they stare at me like I said I like to pierce my underarms, they’re just being pretentious.
Yes, the lyrics of “I know you want me, I know you do” are perhaps light on literary merit, but the PCD made millions and millions. And the ability to turn a profit is a criteria we generally judge success on. So can’t we say that they’re a successful band? It’s like people who make their money in shipping; it’s not fascinating but we still revere them as businessmen. Can’t I admire them for their ability to turn scant talent, and scanter clothing into a multi million empire?
Admittedly that’s not why I like them, I genuinely just like dancing and if it’s loud, bouncy and not trying to analyse the pain of modern capitalist youth, I’m down. And sometimes, liking things which are as devoid of artistic integrity as a painting by numbers Mona Lisa, are just fun.
When I was 16, you could give any of my friends a few drinks and oserve the Justin Beiber phenomenon; skinny, middle class white girls under the illusion they’re black rappers. This is why after a few shots, the dance floor will fill up with girls swaggering, twerking and flipping their hands around like they’ve just touched a hot iron.
I was one of these girls. My dancing looks like a giraffe having an epileptic fit. But because self awareness and drunkenness are inversely proportional, that never bothered me at the time.
But perhaps God decided he’d had enough of teenage girls. (I understand that feeling. I, at 19, am now thoroughly disgusted with decadence and frivolity of such youths. Wasn’t like that in my day….) Anyway, there was one evening when all of my girls turned up at a blokes house. He was a thoroughly underwhelming guy, made attractive by the ownership of a house without parents home.
Up we turned. We started to drink something sugary and pink – because that was sophisticated, darling – and dance.
Now earlier that day, I decided that if I were to name my boobs, they would be christened ‘Disappointing.’ So I adopted the full proof plan of stuffing them with cotton wool (tissue left conspicuous crinkle marks. Rookie mistake.) After my DIY boob job, I felt much better. So full of confidence that I danced with even more than my usual enthusiasm.
That was until my friend pointed out I’d lost a boob. In my spirited throwing-my-hands-in -the-air -like-i’m-drowning move my bra had hoiked up. And out had come my C cup filling.
I swore that day that I was never gonna dance again. And if someone asked, it was because these guilty feet had got no rythm. As opposed to because I’d lost a boob on the dancefloor, ironically, dancing to “my milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard.”
Firstly, I found out the street where the PM of NZ has a holiday home, along with several other high flying, elegantly feathered birds, is called ‘Success Lane.’ I never knew town planners had a sense of humour.
Secondly, I watched a Katy Perry documentary that said that she cries at the emotional significance of her lyrics. I quite agree. “Let’s go all the way tonight” has the linguistic subtlety to make Shakespeare weep.
Thirdly, I put henna in my hair. It looks like a swan got diarrhoea on my head, as my dad so elegantly put it. See the photo.