I'm getting too old for this
Something is wrong with my biological clock.
At 23 I should be saying "Pete Murray pub gig? Hooray!"
Such things always include plentiful beverages (at extreme cost), lots of young bodies tightly packed against one another, and music.
I'm not really a drinker, beyond a cocktail or a celebratory bubbly, so the allure of alcohol is never enough to entice me. I also gained no pleasure from having to stand so close to so many strangers, all jostling and smoking and intruding upon my personal space. An arrogant, yet ridiculously tall 'see you next Tuesday' decided that I, at 5'6", was the best person to stand in front of, and I almost incited a pub brawl trying to let him know how he had inconvenienced me.
It was so freaking hot in there, I was afraid that I might cause a scene by fainting. I wondered if I should remove my top to reveal the cute pink cami / black skirt combo that I had going on, but my internal dialogue warned me against it "Look at all these hot, tanned 20 year old chicks in their uniform of double layered singlets and tight jeans. I don't need their male counterparts making comparisons and verbalising their disapproval. The top stays on." So sweat coursed its way down the small of my back in rivulets of protest, and my hair hung as lank as sodden grass.
Stu was kind enough to say that I was as sexy as any of the other girls there, but at the time I just felt ungainly. And as he so knowingly rationalised, had the music been 'my type', I might not have noticed all of these factors, being preoccupied with the singing and dancing and general good times. But rock music, even the fairly laid back, sensitive musings of the admittedly attractive Pete Muray, just doesn't float my boat. Especially when I can't even see him.
They say "you can't knock it untill you've tried it", and I've certainly tried, many times, for the sake of sharing something with my delicious man. But this just proved that I'm better suited to a walk along the beach, a good coffee, and a nice, thick magazine.
I need a good dose of soul music, interlaced with a bit of funk, where the rhythms will lift me to my feet, where the beat will mimic that of my heart, and where I'm so captivated by the voice that I forget how wide my hips are, and just dance with wild abandon.
That said, I'm so over the 'word, homey, peeps in tha hood' blingy lingo that accompanies mainstream r'n'b. I don't care about your hoes, your cars, your ill-deserved dollars, you're tacky, and your message is corrupt. Hence why I shy away from it, searching for songs with meaning, artists with integrity... a hunt that leaves me turning to old time jazz and modern poets who set their powerful words to equally stirring sounds.
Really, there's an old woman rattling around amongst these curves.
At 23 I should be saying "Pete Murray pub gig? Hooray!"
Such things always include plentiful beverages (at extreme cost), lots of young bodies tightly packed against one another, and music.
I'm not really a drinker, beyond a cocktail or a celebratory bubbly, so the allure of alcohol is never enough to entice me. I also gained no pleasure from having to stand so close to so many strangers, all jostling and smoking and intruding upon my personal space. An arrogant, yet ridiculously tall 'see you next Tuesday' decided that I, at 5'6", was the best person to stand in front of, and I almost incited a pub brawl trying to let him know how he had inconvenienced me.
It was so freaking hot in there, I was afraid that I might cause a scene by fainting. I wondered if I should remove my top to reveal the cute pink cami / black skirt combo that I had going on, but my internal dialogue warned me against it "Look at all these hot, tanned 20 year old chicks in their uniform of double layered singlets and tight jeans. I don't need their male counterparts making comparisons and verbalising their disapproval. The top stays on." So sweat coursed its way down the small of my back in rivulets of protest, and my hair hung as lank as sodden grass.
Stu was kind enough to say that I was as sexy as any of the other girls there, but at the time I just felt ungainly. And as he so knowingly rationalised, had the music been 'my type', I might not have noticed all of these factors, being preoccupied with the singing and dancing and general good times. But rock music, even the fairly laid back, sensitive musings of the admittedly attractive Pete Muray, just doesn't float my boat. Especially when I can't even see him.
They say "you can't knock it untill you've tried it", and I've certainly tried, many times, for the sake of sharing something with my delicious man. But this just proved that I'm better suited to a walk along the beach, a good coffee, and a nice, thick magazine.
I need a good dose of soul music, interlaced with a bit of funk, where the rhythms will lift me to my feet, where the beat will mimic that of my heart, and where I'm so captivated by the voice that I forget how wide my hips are, and just dance with wild abandon.
That said, I'm so over the 'word, homey, peeps in tha hood' blingy lingo that accompanies mainstream r'n'b. I don't care about your hoes, your cars, your ill-deserved dollars, you're tacky, and your message is corrupt. Hence why I shy away from it, searching for songs with meaning, artists with integrity... a hunt that leaves me turning to old time jazz and modern poets who set their powerful words to equally stirring sounds.
Really, there's an old woman rattling around amongst these curves.
posted by Janet | 11:27 am
2 Comments:
"My humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps..."
C'mon with soaring demonstratable intellect like that how can you NOT be into the current wave of so-called "R&B"?
Ok I'm taking a dig, you know my views on this topic.
I can't say I'm a fan of Pete Murray, nor am I fan of David Gray, Jack Johnson, Alex Lloyd or any of the other male singers that seems to be in touch with their inner Zen - it doesn't move me at all, well perhaps to find a bucket, but mot in any other way.
As for Michael Bubble... thats a topic for a post all to itself...
Alrighty, since you've open the pandora's box of what is "R&B" let me state for the record that anything current that is African-American inspired or as I choose to call it "Black person's pop" is most definately not "Rhythm and Blues" or R&B.
Pity the poor unfortunate 12-20 year olds who think its all jiggy and bling-bling, have chosen to steal the moniker "R&B" for their own use.
Infact here in Australia there is no direct correlation between the music and our population i.e. we have no ghettos, no "hoods", no black people (Well not as a major or even minor sector of our population), no race riots, no bling, no gangstas, no nothing.
Logically there should be no place for this kind of music here, but kids being kids and this music being an rebellious outlet, it gets airtime, and popular rotation on the airwaves.
I despise it. Just incase I needed to come out and say it - there it is.
As for Black Eyed Peas - They're America's "Steps" - make really dumb, forulaeic, repetitive songs that have no sense, no meaning, no substance and aim them at the kinds just hitting puberty. Voila! formula for success chesse-pop 2005 style. Add a bit of rebellion as was the case with "Shut up" and "Let's get retarded" and you've got the rebellious kids hooked.
There you go. Sermon over.
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