Paying Lip Service to Abuse

The other night, I watched the Grammy Awards with my teenage daughter. Well, to be more specific, I watched the first two hours or so (or less, most likely) with her, then excused myself and went to bed while she finished the show without her lovin' mama.

I don't know about y'all, but I just can't stay up that late these days.

Anyway, the presentation was fairly fast-paced, moving quickly from aging metal stars (AC/DC) to pop princesses (Taylor Swift) to significant artistes (Madonna and her bevy of bulls — btw, were those things creepy or what? Almost as creepy as the Material Girl's shiny (dare we say "plastic?") cheekbones.)

There were some inevitable political statements: both Pharrell and Beyonce had backup dancers strike the now infamous and unutterably sad "don't shoot" pose. Prince, channeling his inner Hindu in orange silk pajamas, explained that "Like books and black lives, albums still matter." But, the biggest, most coordinated statement was around the issue of domestic violence.

President Obama, in a prerecorded video, stated that "It’s not okay and it has to stop ... it’s on us, all of us, to create a culture where violence isn’t tolerated, where survivors are supported and where all our young people, men and women, can go as far as their talents and their dreams will take them."

Domestic abuse survivor, activist and poet Brooke Axtell performed a powerful autobiographical written-word piece. And Katy Perry (backed, it seemed by the ghost of Martha Graham), shed her violet hair and dancing sharks for a very serious rendition of "By the Grace of God," a very serious song about a very serious topic.

The whole thing would have been very serious.

If it didn't seem so hypocritical.

Sitting in the audience (and nominated for awards that evening) was Chris Brown, along with his ex-girlfriend (and alleged victim) Rihanna. You may remember that both musicians missed the Grammy Awards back in 2012: Brown, because he was being detained; Rihanna, because her face was smashed in.

And while they may currently be the most popular poster children for domestic violence, their abusive relationship (should I denature it by saying "domestic incident?") is by no means unique or new. The music industry has a long history of physical and sexual abuse. And some of the accused — in many cases, universally acknowledged — perps are among our most beloved idols: Paul McCartney, James Brown, Ike Turner, Tommy Lee, Ozzy Osbourne, Michael Jackson, Cee Lo Green, Slash, Vanilla Ice, Axl Rose, Vince Neil, Lou Rawls, Scott Weiland, even Yanni. 

Apparently, the issue crosses boundaries of age, race and musical genre.

I'm not complaining about the domestic violence PSA inserted into the Grammy Awards. The President's message was important, Axtell's poem was moving and even Perry's kind of dull performance was well-intentioned. But, I would encourage the music industry to take a closer, harder look at itself. Standing up against domestic violence in an awards broadcast is all well and good, but more substantive change needs to take place. Songs and performances that objectify women's bodies, that undermine women's roles as equals, that, in some cases, celebrate rape and violence. These need to be stopped. 

The trouble is, all of the above make money.

So until the recording industry is willing to forego its ill-gotten gains, it all seems like lip service to me.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

Lyrics, Only Teenage Lyrics

Several times a week, I drive my teenage daughter to and from the stable where we board her horse. At this point, with the permission (and permit) of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, plus several hours of professional instruction under her skinny little belt, she could actually do the driving. 

Except she can't. Because I'll have a heart attack. And then where would we be?

I could write an entire post — multiple posts, really — about the sheer and almost illogical terror I'm experiencing when the fruit of my womb is behind the wheel of my car. And, I'm sure I will. 

But, not now.

Right now, I want to talk about another rite of teenage passage. Song lyrics, those anthems of angst that define today's adolescents just as they did when you and I were sixteen.

You see, on one of our recent car trips, the oldies station (yes, I'm an oldie, I admit it) was playing The Who. I was singing along without much thought, when I realized how silly I (not to mention Roger Daltrey) sounded:

Don't cry
Don't raise your eye
It's only teenage wasteland

I'm nearly 52. (Holy crap.) Daltrey is nearly 70. (HOLY CRAP.) Meanwhile, the only teenager in the picture was quietly texting in her seat, ignoring  her mother, ignoring the ancient rockstar, ignoring all that teen trauma from long, long ago.

I wasn't a huge Who fan (although I did see the Tommy movie a couple, well several, okay about a hundred times). My teen years were all about Elton John:

I'll be a teenage idol, just give me a break
I'm gonna be a teenage  idol, no matter how long it takes
You can't imagine what it means to me
I'm gonna grab myself a place in history
A teenage idol, that's what I'm gonna be


And Meatloaf:

Ain't no doubt about it
Baby got to go out and shout it
Ain't no doubt about it
We were doubly blessed
'Cause we were barely seventeen
And we were barely dressed

Of course, my daughter and her friends have their own musician gods and their own anthems of angst. Today's pop music includes countless songs about the trials and tribulations (and torture) of being a teen, about first love, about partying. For example, "Up All Night" by One Direction, "Teenage Dream" by Katy Perry, "We Are Young," by Fun.

Or anything at all by Taylor Swift.

My daughter's musical tastes run more toward small, indie groups. She and her BFFs go to a concert every month or so (long nights of fun for them; long nights, period, for the parents). "Their" bands often open for better known acts. On more than one occasion, they've gotten to meet them, take selfies, snag a broken, autographed drumstick. 

Good times.

Every generation has its own soundtrack. And, every decade produces an extensive catalog of teen music. Years from now (years and years and years from now), my daughter will probably find herself driving her own teenager somewhere. A song will come on and — miraculously, musically — the years will peel away. She'll feel sixteen again, like I did a couple of days ago.

And the generation gap will never feel wider.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

Radio Gaga

In 1983, Pat Benetar warned that "Love is a Battlefield." In our family, battles often happen on roadtrips because each of our cars only has — gasp — one radio.

I like soft rock; give me a little Elton John or Fleetwood Mac and you have one very happy mamma. My husband prefers classic or album rock, a little harder, longer hair, more guitar riffs. Then, there's our daughter.

Our daughter is a tween living in the greater Boston area. She recognizes no station other than KISS 108!

No indoor voices, please. There seems to be some unwritten rule that you have to practically yell KISS 108! whenever you say it.

At any given time, KISS 108! has only about a dozen songs in rotation. This means that if it's Tuesday afternoon and you are driving to and from the stable for a riding lesson, you're likely to hear the same three songs, four times apiece. Do you know what an "earworm" is? Well, if you don't, try listening to KISS 108!

Sometimes, they break things up a little. They'll play a timeless deep cut classic like Katy Perry's Teenage Dream, which is almost a year old. Can you believe it? I actually have no issues with Ms. Perry, although I'm a bit confused by her choice of spouse. Perry is bright and creative, and she writes her own lyrics which always wins big points in my book. Her song Firework is an anthem urging misfit young people to have faith in themselves. Her earlier songs I Kissed a Girl and You're So Gay may be politically incorrect, but you have to admit they're funny.

So, when KISS 108! plays a Katy Perry song, I'm down with it. When they play something by Ke$ha? Uh ... not so much.

Ke$ha, described by Glee's airhead Britney as someone who has "been a cultural icon for weeks," seems to be building her career on the tried-and-true values of sex and booze. Seriously, based on her hit songs Tik Tok, Take it Off and We R Who We R, we can only assume she is both a slut and an alcoholic. Also, sometimes she wears blue lipstick, which makes her look like the cadaver of someone who was both a slut and an alcoholic. My daughter doesn't agree with Ke$ha's values (or lack thereof), but she likes the music.

This particular mom will be very happy when Ke$ha's 15 minutes of fame are over. The millions she's already made will pay for an awful lot of "bottles of Jack," with which she allegedly brushes her teeth. Ouch.

And, no posting about contemporary radio would be complete without a mention of that queen of bizarre Lady Gaga. Again, the woman is a singer and songwriter, and from what I understand a talented and serious musician. (My six degrees of gaga separation story is that my sister-in-law's mother remembers teaching piano to a little girl named Stefani Germanotta — how cool is that?) Many of her songs preach a kind of girl power, although her attitude about her own sexuality is a bit suspect. I haven't had to explain to my daughter what "I'm just bluffin' with my muffin" means and I'm not looking forward to the conversation. Most of the men in her videos end up dead, poisoned or incinerated by a lethal blast from her brassiere. And, speaking of the House of Gaga, the Lady G. dresses even more outrageously than her pop music grandmother Madonna. After all, Madonna always tried to look good even when she was wearing party hats in unexpected places. Gaga, on the other hand, doesn't seem to mind looking hideous, like a demon or an animal or an alien. She actually wore a dress made out of meat to the MTV Video Music Awards. Was it a comment about the objectification of young women in entertainment? A protest against industrial farming for PETA? I don't get it.

And there's the rub (no pun intended). I don't get it. When my daughter begs for KISS 108!, my husband and I react differently. He resists and then when he finally gives in, he makes fun of the singers and the songs. I let her listen, happy that she's still willing to sit in the car with me without retreating into her iPod earbuds. Like my husband, I really don't like most of the music that comes on. But, I've realized that if I say anything, anything at all, it will simply confirm what she already believes: that I just don't get it.

So, to quote the Go-Go's, rather than Gaga, when we listen to KISS 108!, and we will, "my lips are sealed."