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.