The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
b-side
Thursday, February 15, 2018 — 3B
In 2017, singer-songwriter
Annie Clark, better known by
her stage name St. Vincent,
coyly fielded questions in an
interview with The New Yorker
about her supposed position
as
the
queer
protagonist
of
her
then-upcoming
album
Masseduction.
She
responded to the interviewer’s
questions with, “Songs are
like prophecies. They can be
stronger than you are.”
Three
years
before
that
interview,
I
heard
Romy
Madley-Croft, one of the lead
singers of the band The xx,
croon the first few lines of
“Shelter” from a bruised iPod
Nano: “I find shelter in this
way / Undercover hideaway
/ Can you hear when I say / ‘I
have never felt this way.’” She
sings above sparse background
instrumentation,
and
the
yawning ambiguity of her voice
turns the song into a seemingly
endless
line
of
possibility,
which — at the time — matched
the seemingly endless line of
long black hair that belonged to
the girl who always sat next to
me in seventh period art class.
She liked to paint flowers, and
the careful way her fingers
sketched the curving outline
of a rose made something in
my chest bloom. I don’t know
what to call this kind of quiet
attraction
—
easy
laughter
passed between us like love
letters
in
an
after-school
special — but I did match
the uptick of my heartbeat
whenever she turned to talk
to me with the tempo of the
beat during the second half of
“Shelter,” so I think I have a
start.
Many years later, in an
interview with The Fader, The
xx would describe their music
as “A queer space. We avoid
gender, we avoid sexuality, we
avoid time and place, so people
can have that room to connect
and to set their own ideas to it.”
Songs that can take any
form desired; music to free the
questioning soul.
It’s a liberation that can
be seen time and time again
within the musical archives.
The androgynous legacy of
Prince — with his blown out
curls,
platform
heels
and
affinity for wearing sequined
suits during performances —
highlights the allure of art’s
nonconformity, the lines that
can be blurred in expressions
of
identity.
“My
name
is
Prince, and I am funky,” the
opening song off of Prince’s
historic album [Love Symbol]
declares, embossed with the
golden arches of The Love
Symbol itself. The glyph Prince
invented to take the place of
his name during the early ’90s
defied phonetics and defied
labels, an icon that melded the
astrological Mars-Venus, male-
female signs into something
new: a bold announcement of
fluidity.
Ziggy Stardust, the first of
David Bowie’s many elaborate
personas, inspired a similar
sentiment
of
eccentricity.
Stardust dazzles in Bowie’s
1972 album, The Rise and
Fall of Ziggy Stardust and
the Spiders from Mars, as
an
extraterrestrial
sort
of
hero,
descending
from
the
heavens
with
a
sleek
red
mullet,
heavy
makeup
and
an iconic lighting bolt streak
of red and blue, destined to
save Earth’s slow, apocalyptic
demise with the power of
rock ‘n’ roll. Unfortunately,
he eventually weaves his own
demise. As both the spider
and the insect caught in its
web, he finds himself trapped
by the destructive nature of
the very cult of personality he
has created. The album closes
with the song “Rock ‘N’ Roll
Suicide,” and Stardust, knees
cracked under the weight of his
own stardom, implores anyone,
everyone, “Let’s turn on and be
not alone (wonderful) / Gimme
your
hands
cause
you’re
wonderful.”
More than just convoluted
spectacle
of
glam
rock,
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy
Stardust melded music and
social
commentary
within
the splendor of an eclectic,
space-age narrative. It wasn’t
queer music in the traditional
sense — speaking directly to
LGBTQ experiences — yet this
particular album, as well as
the persona it catapulted into
prominence, is still heralded
as an icon for many who
question labels of sexuality, of
gender and of the interplay of
the two. Within the strange
effervescence
of
Ziggy
Stardust,
the
outcasts
and
misfits who questioned their
place in society’s norms at the
time found a hand onto which
to grab, a space to traverse
their own forms of creative
expression.
A few months after her
New Yorker interview, Clark
dropped
Masseduction
and,
much like David Bowie’s work,
it is more illustrative of the St.
Vincent persona she created
than of Clark herself. The
overtly sexual figure that graces
the album’s cover in a leopard-
print thong and hot pink tights,
a glaring reminder of the neon
glow of the 1980s, is one of
St. Vincent’s many elaborate
manifestations. She embodies
the rattle of pill bottles and
throws cheeky winks that are
half-hidden
behind
plastic
surgery bandages. “Sugarboy,
I’m in need / How I wish, for
something sweet,” she sings on
the album’s fourth track, and
then immediately parries with,
“Sugargirl, figurine / Pledge
all your allegiance to me.”
Songs have gleaming edges —
sensuality oftentimes is used
as a weapon — and the world
she develops is one that is
fraught with personal tension,
different from Bowie’s and
Prince’s softer, more grandiose
expressions. Yet, all three pop
phenomena can be considered
related in the distinct ways
they eschew orthodoxy.
As Clark herself said in
a series of interviews with
Pitchfork, “All human beings
create their own mythologies,
and I’m in the somewhat
bizarre
circumstance
of
creating a big mythology that
gets shared with a lot of people.
In some ways, doing the work
that I do is about reinventing
a value system. More or less,
there’s
a
ubiquitous
value
system
in
America,
these
markers that signify your rite
of passage into adulthood or
into validity: getting married
and having kids and having
mortgages. But I always felt a
little bit like an alien cocking
my head to the side at various
cultural milestones, going, ‘I
would never aspire to that.’”
The transcendent power of
these artists — Prince, Bowie,
St. Vincent and countless others
— lies in their imaginative
exploration of the self through
their
music.
The
various
personas
and
characters
conceived may not be accurate
representations of the artist
but to be autobiographical is
not the point. In the hyper-
surreal landscapes of Ziggy
Stardust, [The Love Symbol]
and Masseduction, individuals
can find echoes of private
desires that are too fluid, too
subjective and too nuanced to
be so easily categorized.
“When people are growing
up they’re generally looking for
something in the culture that
reflects
their
subconscious
yearnings,” Grayson Perry told
The Guardian as he described
the effect Bowie’s pop had on
his generation in the ’70s. I
can’t help but be reminded of
a certain song that one bruised
iPod Nano used to contain.
Secondary: Music recs for
the queer & questioning
SHIMA SADAGHIYANI
Daily Music Editor
SINGLE REVIEW: “ONLY ACTING”
Kero Kero Bonito’s new-
est single “Only Acting”
finds the British trio exper-
imenting with elements
of rock ‘n’ roll, punk and
industrial music. The track
opens simply, with a drum
machine and vocalist Sarah
Midori Perry delivering her
signature light, comfort-
able flow. An easy bassline
works its way in next — a
definite sonic shift for Kero
Kero Bonito — which is
then followed by a crescen-
doing flurry of harsh synth.
It’s exciting to see Kero
Kero Bonito, well known
for their stellar saccharine
J-pop style, experimenting
with sounds that are a little
edgier and more intense.
The real payoff of “Only
Acting” is the interplay
between Perry’s lyrics
and the new techniques
employed. Perry opens
with an assertion: “When
I step onto the stage, I
see the curtain raise / It’s
apparent, I’ve got someone
to play.” The couplet is a
tongue-in-cheek nod to how
embodying an aesthetic can
be useful, but also limiting.
In Kero Kero Bonito’s case,
Perry is making it clear that
the past pop-centric style
has become cumbersome,
and that the group is ready
to grow out of it. However,
that isn’t to say that they
completely abandon the
fun, sugary electro-pop that
put them on the map. That
same energy is infused with
a tense desire for release,
culminating in skipping
effects, errant cymbals and
synth as the track trips
over itself during the final
moments. “Only Acting” is
a morsel of what the next
iteration of Kero Kero Boni-
to will sound like — innova-
tive, self-aware but as fun
as ever.
- Jack Brandon,
Daily Film Editor
DOUBLE DENIM
“Only Acting”
Kero Kero Bonito
Double Denim
YOUNG TURKS
More than just
convoluted
spectacle of glam
rock, The Rise
and Fall of Ziggy
Stardust melded
music and social
commentary
The transcendent
power of these
artists — Prince,
Bowie, St. Vincent
and countless
others — lies in
their imaginative
exploration of the
self through their
music
“The
original
show
was
fighting for tolerance, our fight is
for acceptance.”
This is the sentiment that
opens the first minute of “Queer
Eye,” a Netflix reboot of the
2003 Bravo series “Queer Eye
for the Straight Guy.” For those
unfamiliar with the show, the
concept may seem offensive or
demeaning. Five gay men, each
an expert in either food, culture,
grooming, fashion or design,
take a disheveled straight man
and turn him into something
beautiful. Yet the show is not an
exploitation of stereotypes or a
gaudy attempt at reality; rather, it
is truly “a fight for acceptance,” as
on-cast fashion expert Tan says.
Dallas, Ga. isn’t exactly a town
that
anyone
would
consider
progressive. Located in the Deep
South with a population of just
13,000, it encapsulates the classic
hometown Southern attitude that
is practically immune to change.
But this is where Bobby, Karamo,
Tan, Antoni and Jonathan, better
known as the “Fab 5,” find their
first project.
Tom
is
a
self-described
“country boy.” He’s got a lush
beard, a rotund belly and a thick
Southern drawl — the type of
character who would seem more
comfortable adorning a certain
red trucker hat than a pair of
suede Oxford shoes picked out
for him by a gay man. When the
Fab 5 find him, Tom is sitting in
a stained recliner, drinking his
special mix of Mountain Dew
and tequila. He may look like a
lost cause, and with his mantra of
“You can’t fix ugly,” it’s clear that
he certainly thinks he is.
Yet the last thing that “Queer
Eye” will stand for is insecurity.
This is a show about acceptance,
and that means accepting every
part of yourself and expecting
others to do the same. The Fab 5
are unapologetically themselves,
and they each have a vibrant
personality that transcends the
career stereotypes that people
may try to fit them into. The same
goes for Tom, who I myself am
guilty of placing into a certain
category. But Tom is a delightful
character whose transformation
from a jort-clad lonely man to
a confident, flat-cap wearing
grandpa
was
honestly
tear-
inducing.
And
it’s
through
this
realization
and
through
the
interaction between the men
that the significance of the show
becomes so evident. The politics
are not obvious, but they are
certainly present. Nobody has
to ask what might be strange
about bringing together these
two demographics that are so
often pitted against each other.
But watching Tom cuddle up on
a mattress with Jonathan and
Bobby, talk love with Antoni and
be vulnerable with Karamo — it
makes a person start to question
everything they thought they
knew about how we should view
and treat each other.
Normalizing this behavior is
why it is so important that we
have such queer representation
on television. This decade is no
stranger to a proliferation of queer
characters on hit TV shows. From
“Modern Family” to “Andi Mack”
to “Will & Grace,” queer people
are representing all different
walks of life. And while all of that
is wonderful, “Queer Eye” brings
a new, perhaps more favored form
of representation. In “Queer Eye,”
queerness is obviously central,
but it isn’t a plotline or conflict
or ploy to get publicity. Rather, it
is just something that permeates
every aspect of the show, in all
of its pure-fun glory. If you’re
watching “Queer Eye,” you are
going to be having a good time.
Incorporating
queerness
into
such a feel-good, relatable show
not only encourages, but also
fosters, acceptance.
As humans, our differences
may seem far more important
than our commonalities. It is
hard to look at someone who
leads such a vastly different
lifestyle and believe that they too
share the same hopes and wants
and insecurities as you do. But if
“Queer Eye” teaches us anything,
it is that some prejudices and
assumptions run only skin-deep
and no matter the circumstances,
there is nothing that a great
makeover can’t fix.
SAMANTHA DELLA FERRA
Daily Arts Writer
‘Queer Eye’ begins a new
quest for representation
NETFLIX
SECONDARY
TV REVIEW
“Queer Eye”
Netflix