I was watching MTV the other night, something I don’t do very often so when I do it’s like I go crash-course on it and watch entirely too much in an attempt to remind myself that I really most likely don’t “want my MTV”, and considering that it was Grammy Night, I got an eye and ear-full of it in all it’s ultra-edifying from-the-inside-out, tabloid-like, reality-TV, gritty-rockumentary, and moralizing Scared Straight-style programmed glory. Imagine, all of those manipulative lowest-common-denominator sub-genres of modern television all rolled up and spewed out to a viewing audience in a matter of just a few hours and you’ve got a good basic idea of what MTV has evolved into over the last two decades. I won’t even go into the ridiculous retarded and rendered meaningless by it’s own history of absurd and inept recognition of achievement in the music industry the Grammy’s are. For many, this award show has come to mean little more than a chance to see if some of the biggest but not necessarily brightest stars in popular music have any sort of knowledge regarding formal attire or a personal sense of style strong enough to pull off an eccentric or unique look. For the artists in attendance, they must be aware that their outfits will be scrutinized, picked apart, criticized and have entire shows for two weeks after devoted to approval or disapproval of what everyone chose to wear that night. This makes for a big fashion showdown, a plethora of statements made by a motley crew of those crazy musician types, dressing up and down for effect, making statements with fashion of personal cultural identity, unkempt unclean anti-fashion maverick, anorexia couture, slutty like J-Lo or slutty like Lil Kim, proper black tie formal, glittery cleavage, jeweled eyebrows and wigs, Chanel in capital letter logo, patriotic stars and stripes (isn’t it amazing how something that could be viewed as so wrong, even retro-bicentennial, could suddenly become fashionable due to terrorist attack on America? But then again, I’ve often thought that terrorists should have an active part in fashion dictate.), urban street wear chic, sci-fi Patti Labelle, or the combination of an Indian Sare with jeans sported by the night’s big winner Alicia Keyes. I had to wonder if the men appearing at this event stood before their closets in preparation for this night and asked themselves, “What would P. Diddy do?” It was pretty clear that Kid Rock didn’t, clad in his best Coors beer t-shirt, sweaty hat, and casual short pants, with his girlfriend the properly blonde and uber-chesty pass-around-rock-and-roll-party-mol Pamela Anderson on his arm. And why did one member of hip-hop duo Outkast seemingly opt for Cher’s new blonde wig and a pink gaucho jumpsuit?
As I clicked through the multi-channel wasteland known as cable TV that night there was one Grammy moment that I’m truly glad I caught, and that was Mary J. Blige singing her current hit song “No More Drama.” I must admit that in the past two years I’ve become a sort of closet Mary J. Blige fan, as she isn’t an artist that most people would associate with my general tastes in music and definite leanings toward alternative or independent rock and roll. People might think I was losing my edge or something, that I was just a few steps away from mainstream gay diva idolatry, soon to be caught in the act of purchasing a Celine Dion box set or something. But Mary J. Blige’s last three releases have really gotten under my skin, culminating with this epic, powerful statement of a song about something she has seen plenty of, but isn’t having it any more, “No More Drama.” The sentiment and message are very strong, spiritual and mature, personal yet applicable to most lives, cathartic and tough yet positive, whipping you up into a swelling crescendo of orchestrated gospel bravado and pure emotional fury, then ending, as it began, with the simple piano piece recognized as the theme from the soap opera The Young and The Restless. It’s a brilliantly crafted soulfully delivered song. I like it a lot but that in no way prepared me for what Mary J Blige did with it at the Grammys. In a slightly more up-tempo rendition the undisputed queen of hip hop soul vehemently sank her teeth into this song, giving a performance of such passion and fervor you could hear the crowd roar as she single-handedly blew the doors off of every act in the entire Grammy’s ceremony. I’d even go as far as saying that what she did in just that one unforgettable five minute song practically topped the entire careers of most of the awarded artists that night. It seems kind of dangerous or scary in our already youth-obsessed culture, that the new contemporary pop stars, Alicia Keyes, Nelly Furtado, Christina Aguilerra, Britney Spears, Pink, etc. are all 12 years old, (and stardom has seemingly taken its toll on Christina who could pass for 38). If the trend continues on like this I could likely live to see embryonic pop stars, ripped from the womb like veal in my lifetime. Mary J Blige was so good it shocked me, I mean I know she’s good, but I had no idea I’d be getting goosebumps and flipping out while merely watching her on television. She gave a performance that showed the little ones how to get back to Magic Mountain because they’re just not big enough to go on a ride like this. She reigned supreme and I was satisfied enough to ignore the rest of The Grammys and channel surf through the rest of what cable TV has to offer.
I caught an episode of MTV’s The Real World, a show I thought they had stopped doing but apparently not, and this group of seven young people, planted in Chicago, live in a highly stylized Sharper Image catalogue human habitrail and hamster fun house, complete with a freight elevator, bubbling spa and, as if that weren’t enough, a large communal bathroom for boys and girls alike. Clever move, MTV! That will certainly heat up the small screen with more bare nude male torsos and digitally blurred female nude torsos frolicking about titillating each other into that “should I fuck or not fuck my room mate” danger zone. Sex does seem to be a preoccupation with this group, especially homo sex, as the episode I saw was mostly devoted to everyone speculating about the sexual orientation of one of the two model-like good-looking, accomplished and educated white male room mates. One black female member of the household came out as gay, comfortable with her own nudity, and a total cock tease, all at the same time in the first 20 minutes, driving the one black male roommate crazy with disbelief that she has seen him in the shower and still doesn’t want him. Then there’s the fun loving sex-in-the-city-damaged white girl who attends a concert of a popular musical artist whose identity is not divulged and she stays the night with him and I’m just going to assume that it’s either Ole Dirty Bastard or Paul McCartney. The other white girl is always on the phone and doesn’t agree with the gay lifestyle in general and they failed to focus much on the very pretty very quiet girl. The fag first comes out to the dyke, then the non-fag white guy, so secure in his hetero-orientation and acceptance of the gay lifestyle, actually sort of brings the fag out—like a coach. Being openly gay is a pivotal detail to the shows future and direction—they need to show him on a date which hopefully will end with an on camera male to male kiss—something even these adult themed progressive too-real-TV-like programs are still totally obsessed with. It’s all so giddy/retardo in the cheap thrills department, and so much more sexual than the crew of seven who settled in to this cow town a few years ago. Our gay guy did things like whine about hygiene issues, spoke at high schools about HIV, held hands with his boyfriend a bit then died. We didn’t even catch a glimpse of his washboard abs or see him out slumming in gay bars with his lesbo exhibitionist cock tease roomie. Yeah, the SF Real World folks were dull as can be. I can hardly wait for gay communal shower night in Chicago. I bet that each cast member will be gay for at least one episode, except the black guy who is dead set on converting the lesbian, who is always naked. Sound like fun? It’s not. It’s as insulting and lame as date rape, it’s not Queer As Folk (which I watched and enjoyed a bit until I was sadly overwhelmed with the thought “We’re here, we’re queer, we’re over.”), it’s more like Queer For Folk, again and again and again. Is this progress? Has gayness moved way ahead towards mainstream understanding and acceptance? I don’t think so, and
I still wanna fuck the straight guy most.
There was one other atrocity I encountered on MTV and it was in the form of a public service announcement. Modeling itself after those commercials that itemize certain props and list their price then mention some sappy family-like precious moment and say, “priceless”, this particular PSA starts listing things like Fake ID–$18, Safe House rental $800, Computer–$899, box cutters–$3.59, aviation courses $600, cell phones $79, plastic explosives, $250 and then when you expect to see the twin towers exploding followed by a “Priceless,” it flashes the question, “Where do terrorists get their money?” then another question, “Do they get money when you buy drugs?” and the final frame says “Maybe.”
I don’t know what group devised this ad or why but I found it as offensive as Falwell’s comments on the Pat Robertson show post September 11. For the group responsible for this manipulative reactionary propaganda I have three words: Iran Contra Affair.
Mary J Blige has three words for you too.