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thongs executing McDonaldsland parabolas
Wednesday, June 12 2002I truly believe that people are so profoundly modified by the metamorphosis of puberty that they are essentially different human beings after it happens. When I underwent the trauma of puberty back in 1981, the grand rewiring of my brain and refocusing of my interests was so profound that I occasionally had delirium and hallucinations, psychedelic experiences that I wouldn't have again until I started taking drugs (and supporting terrorists) at the age of nineteen. I remember one afternoon back then I was lying in my bed looking up at the subtle relief pattern in the semi-gloss paint on my bedroom ceiling and I gradually became aware of armies of shapes: squares, triangles, circles, all interacting in some complicated way that had a direct and profound bearing on me. I can't find words to describe what exactly this profound bearing amounted to, but I'm sure my brain was undergoing a particularly complicated hormone-induced neural restructuring at that precise moment. It was a restructuring that ultimately gave me an awareness of how much the bathroom stunk after someone used it. The restructuring also left me with an unexpected interest in popular rock music. I found this aspect of my puberty particularly embarrassing, because for three years I'd been teasing my older brother about his sudden interest in popular rock music, completely unaware of how helpless he and I both were to the dictates of our hormones.
I'm looking down the pop chart for the year 1981, trying to see what music I liked back then. I remember I really loved "Burnin' For You" by Blue Oyster Cult. Then there was "Rapture" by Blondie. It was weird and slightly annoying, but I liked it too, partly because it was so long. Similarly, "Tom Sawyer" by Rush had the feel of something that was good simply because it was smart and a little ahead of its time. Even back then I was never one to like something simply because it was wildly popular. I was particularly struck by the Moody Blues' "the Voice," and in the process of researching the band further (in record stores, mostly), I gradually became obsessed with late-60s/early-70s psychedelic white boy pop.
This was in the early days of MTV, the days before widespread cable teevee, so I never had a very good idea of what any of my favorite musicians looked like. For me it didn't matter; it was always about the music. Indeed, I gradually came to be repulsed by the musicians who seemed to be trading on their looks. Video was killing the radio star.Fast forward to tonight. I spent much of the day sorting through my MP3s, fixing inconsistencies in file names and throwing away duplicates. Towards the end there I was mostly just listening to My Bloody Valentine on my headphones. Their hopeful pitch-bending wall-of-sound melancholy was perfectly suited to my mood. By the way, on the insistence of pundits and friends nationwide, I've tried listening to the new Wilco album Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, but it does absolutely nothing for me at all.
At nine o'clock sharp, Gretchen and I tuned in to Fox to watch tonight's installment of American Idol, a show more addictive for what is wrong with it than what is right with it. The whole premise of tracking down the next big pop music star is utterly repulsive to me, but yet I must watch. At any moment someone is likely to say something really stupid or fall onto the floor in the irrational throes of a temper tantrum, and I certainly wouldn't want to miss it.
The most infuriating moment of tonight's episode came during the first winnowing in Hollywood. A big unattractive black girl with a beautiful voice was told that she "didn't look like an American Idol" and was summarily sent home. I don't want to beat a dead horse that others have beaten better, but I find the notion that someone must have a certain appearance in order to become a pop music sensation a form of corporate-sponsored synthesia. This American Idol exercise is supposed to be about music, stuff that is heard and not seen. Remember, the quality of the music was all that mattered to me when I was a teenager. You'd think that in an age in which MTV has ceased playing videos, a musician's image would have begun to decline in importance. Image has risen and been dethroned several times in the history of modern mass-market pop culture, and I would venture to say it's poised for another dethroning. In the meantime, though (Beck and Moby, stars that they are - or are made of - not withstanding), for men it's still all about bleached and gunked hair. For women, the key to success appears to be preternaturally flat (and fully exposed) navel-ring-adorned bellies and thongs executing McDonaldsland parabolas above me-too low-cut pre-faded blue jeans. God I hate blue jeans. They're the veritable SUV of outer buttwear. But I'm not cool; don't listen to me. 
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