2B — Thursday, February 13, 2020
b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
“Once upon a time, not long ago, I was
a hoe,” sang rapper/singer/Internet meme
Mariahlynn through our phone speaker,
my two best friends and I singing along
as we hurtled across Europe in a rickety
passenger train. This was not the first
time any of us had mimicked her risque
lyrics in public. By the end of our trip
to Vienna last year, we had memorized
the entirety of “Once Upon a Time” and
several other incredibly explicit songs.
Sitting on that train, whisper-screaming
lines like “But I fuck him though / And I
don’ even care if his mother know,” I had
a momentary thought — would songs like
this have even existed 15 years ago?
Sure, maybe from a male writer or
singer, but not from a woman, at least
not so brazenly. The reinvention of lust
in music has turned what used to be
unmentionable into a badge of pride for
some female-identifying artists, as glitter
and sweat and everything in between
mixes to create the new sound of sex.
This sound seems so commonplace now,
with samples that would fit right in on
PornHub, littering songs like the popular
“Deepthroat” by CupcakKe. They are
created by somewhat fringe artists, but the
shock value of their work and its positive
embrace of sexuality have catapulted this
new idea of popstar sexuality into the
spotlight. Though CupcakKe announced
she was retiring in September 2019, in
December she came back to announce
she had not only lost 30 pounds, but also
signed an $8 million deal with Sony Music
Entertainment. That’s right, SONY.
The same company that boasts Beyonce,
Michael Jackson and Prince in their ranks
not only signed CupcakKe, but gave
her millions of dollars, of which she is
allegedly donating $60,000. If that’s not
evidence of a major paradigm shift, I don’t
know what is. In the age of the internet,
anyone can cultivate their own audience,
regardless
of
the
content
they
are
producing. For artists like CupcakKe, this
independent following is what supported
her brash acceptance of sex and its motifs
in her music. But even for those who
aren’t putting orgasm-like sounds in the
first seconds of their singles, things are
changing for the sex-positive artist.
This change began in the late ‘90s and
early aughts for artists like Peaches, whose
2002 record The Teaches of Peaches
includes titles such as the ultra-popular
“Fuck the Pain Away.” Her early songs are
a cacophony of machine-generated drums
and cymbals, the artist’s languid talk-
singing detailing her sexual escapades
in emotional and physical detail. It’s this
nonchalant acknowledgement of female
sexuality that marks the difference from
previous artists, as the hidden secrets of
‘70s songs like The Starland Vocal Band’s
“Afternoon Delight” are now made clear
for a listener to plainly understand.
These moments of heightened femme
pleasure-seeking exist on a scale, ranging
from the drawling lyrics of artists like
Lana Del Rey to the intensely explicit
Brooke Candy, but the fact that they exist
at all in the mainstream is a wonder of its
own. Del Rey sings “My pussy tastes like
Pepsi-Cola / My eyes are wide like cherry
pies,” and an audience of millions listens.
Del Rey in particular represents a niche
of the sexualised pop-star that bridges
the gap between traditional songwriting
and the new world of increasingly
devoted internet fanbases. Her fans love
her because she is transparent about the
harsh realities of hypersexuality, about
the turmoil and violence of relationships
with bad men and good men all the same.
One could argue that Del Rey, real name
Lizzie Grant, is a character immune
to the flak of sharing her sexuality so
plainly in the public eye. But I’d say that
her presence in the mainstream media is
that of an interloper from the internet age,
where her flower-child inspired persona
grew into what it is today.
The reason she can sing lyrics like “In
the land of gods and monsters / I was
an angel, lookin’ to get fucked hard,”
is because of her fanbase, much like
CupcakKe’s, yet she has hidden them in
a traditionally pop format. If you don’t
look closely, she could be singing about
anything in a sexy voice, seemingly
slurring her words in a stylized old-
Hollywood persona. As one of the initial
female artists to bring the complexity of
bold sexuality from an internet subgenre
to top-40 stardom, Del Rey’s popularity
signaled the introduction of newer, even
more intense and honest artists than
herself.
This shift is in part due to these artists,
as the audiences for their music become
desensitized to the shock value and
up-front crudeness of their lyrics, but it
has also been influenced by the massive
changes in the music industry at large. We
no longer rely on sanitized, FCC-regulated
radio to get our music — not even in the car
or on a train — as my friends and I found
that day on the way to Austria. Listeners
are now able to choose what they want
from their musicians, supporting artists
that would not have made it to the ears
of record executives, let alone the radio,
because of their niche status or subjects.
We are now able to directly support
artists like Del Rey, CupcakKe, Peaches
and Brooke Candy, at the same time
proving the existence of an audience
for them and furthering the presence of
sex-positive music for femme, queer and
other
traditionally
underrepresented
demographics. The personalization of
music in the last two decades has made
it possible to bring what has always been
private into the public eye, thus allowing
the hushed existence of female lust and
sexuality to enter the spotlight it so
desperately needs.
From Lana to CupcakKe, the crucial
reinvention of pop-star sexuality
CLARA SCOTT
Daily Arts Writer
B-SIDE: MUSIC
TUNECORE
B-SIDE: BOOKS
Doing nothing for
as long as possible
EMILY YANG
Daily Arts Writer
Not long after I sat down
to
write
about
Ottessa
Moshfegh’s third novel, “My
Year Of Rest And Relaxation,”
I got an email notification
from the campus health center
informing me that I had mono.
I wasn’t surprised, exactly:
when I went in for tests, I
figured I had the flu but with
an abnormally prolonged and
intense sore throat. As it turns
out, I somehow have something
worse than the flu: a disease
that stays latent in a person
for months, slowly taking out a
tide of fever and fatigue.
I was mortified about this,
obviously, but I was also a bit
relieved. I had something to
call the feelings that were
amassing in my body and a
satisfactory
explanation
for
everything. I could send emails
to my professors and safely
take a few days off to “recover,”
which is to say sit around and
do nothing. In the meantime
I would get sympathetic coos
from friends and housemates
who would wander into the
room and see me in my pathetic
state curled up in a blanket.
The unnamed protagonist
in
Moshfegh’s
novel,
who
tries to sleep off her malaise
for
a
year,
doesn’t
have
anything to call it — the word
“depression” doesn’t make a
single appearance in the book
— but she does give her vague
feelings a shape. She gives
herself a year of nothing, an
allotted time for her to change.
Moshfegh writes: “I thought
life would be more tolerable
if my brain were slower to
condemn the world around
me.” She wants to detach, to
not care. And so she goes to a
disreputable psychiatrist and
gets prescribed all manner
of anti-anxiety medications,
sleep aids and sedatives, and
self-medicates herself into a
stupor
somewhere
between
wakefulness and sleep.
The novel manages to be
engaging despite this premise.
There’s still a whiff of agency
and rebellion in this dramatic
act of refusal, a sense in which
the
protagonist
is
taking
control of her life (or at least
attempting to) by refusing to
live it. Given what the rest
of her world looks like — an
unsatisfying job at a gallery,
a
humiliating
on-again-off-
again relationship with an
older
Wall
Street
type,
a
single friend with whom she
has a codependent, resentful
relationship. It’s additionally
implied that the protagonist is
trying to undo her memories of
her emotionally cold parents,
both of whom died a few
months before the plot of the
novel started. In this light, her
decision to just try to remove
herself totally has its merits
and even comes across as
eminently reasonable given the
circumstances. The excessive,
self-destructive rest she goes
through
is
both
a
coping
mechanism and a way (in her
mind) of shaping herself into
someone better, without the
baggage of her previous life.
There’s a sense in which her
self-administered care is a way
of forgetting, of purging, of
becoming clean and pure.
It’s clear that the scheme
isn’t going to work, at least not
in the way the narrator thinks
it will. Moshfegh knows that
you can’t rest yourself into
wholeness, or even wellness,
really. Even in my case, where
I’m resting off an affliction
of the body rather than of the
spirit, I understand that rest
can only do so much. When I
return to class next week, I
will have a degree of the same
fatigue and aches, and I will
still have more to do. This
is the fundamental problem
with rest, relaxation, so-called
“self-care” and a good portion
of “wellness” — that in the
end you have to return to your
life. It’s possible, in the end,
that rest is only ever its own
reward, something Moshfegh
seems to understand: there’s
a
particular
pleasure
the
protagonist feels throughout
her voided months, somewhere
between active and passive,
sadistic and masochistic. The
ambiguity of this desire forms
the dramatic tension of this
book. For now I can have long
languid hours to stew in my
dizzy mind, which feels to me
the point.
The seven sins and the swag bags
Greed
Leonardo
DiCaprio,
Tom
Hanks,
Saoirse
Ronan,
Margot
Robbie
and
Quentin Tarantino: some of the biggest
stars of the principal categories of the 2020
Oscars who left without a golden man.
However, these stars did not exactly leave
empty-handed. In 2001, The Academy
began administering swag bags for all of
the nominees in the leading categories:
Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Supporting
Roles and Best Director. Recognized by
their luxurious gifts and expensive cost,
the bags were soon investigated by IRS,
and The Academy officially put an end to
the superfluous gifts.
This is when Distinctive Assets stepped
in.
Unaffiliated with the Oscars, it is now
Distinctive Assets who sponsors these
swag bags for the top nominees. Those
who accept are subject to an income tax,
and in recent years the refusal of the swag
bag has occurred. But the 2020 Oscar
swag bags entail the most luxurious items
of them all — how could anyone resist?
Pride
A tried-and-true initiation to “thank
you” speeches usually follows along the
lines of being so “humbled” to have been
chosen. That they are undeserving. Small
hints of hesitation may be disclosed, but
all is forgotten when the gift bag arrives.
The winners may take more pleasure
with their goodies while the losers find
solace on their 12-day “Scenic Eclipse”
cruise, during their secluded getaway in
a Spanish lighthouse or perhaps during
one of their cosmetic treatments, worth
around $25,000 in itself.
How embarrassing it must be for
Margot Robbie, Scarlett Johansson and
Charlize Theron (all included in Forbes’
List
of
Highest-Paid
Actresses
this
year) to be snubbed for their incredible
performances. Money couldn’t buy them
an Oscar, but it could buy stays at Wellness
Resorts and phone calls with a Life Coach
to help them push forward.
Gluttony
Though
the
nominees
may
be
Hollywood
stars
leading
entirely
different lives to that of average citizens
like us, all of us are connected by our
universal appreciation for comfort food.
Is there anyone in need of more comfort
following the Oscars than the forgotten
nominees? While there are McDonalds in
Hollywood, what better way to welcome
a win or cope with a loss than with Mad
Mac Macarons, dinner for two at Flora’s
Field Kitchen in Cabo, Mexico, a guided
tasting of Coda’s Signature Chocolate
edibles and more.
Sloth
Distinctive Assets ensure the nominees
feel rewarded. Guaranteed relaxation is
tacked on to the luxuries in the swag bags,
persuading the stars to take a break. To
let loose and enjoy themselves. After all,
life is hard for millionaires.
Lust
The swag bag has all one could ever
need to partake in rather than merely
lustful activities. Romantic getaways,
gold-infused bath bombs, trips to a
destination spa, everything condoning
pleasure and indulgence, sealed with a
red ribbon and placed into the hands of
the biggest faces in film today.
Wrath
Distinctive Assets knows just the route
to take to prevent stars from speaking
out. Dilute their anger with gifts, let
them know they will get to take a prize
home. Smother them with jokes about
the lack of women nominations for Best
Director and rather repetitive jokes
about the lack of representation present
in the nominations and the audience,
preventing them from insisting that those
with power do something about it. Find
the fury and diminish it with hydrogen-
infused water and a brain-wave sensing
meditation headband. Turn their anger
into gratitude. Turn their wrath into
acceptance.
Envy
Envy, our final sin, does not belong to
the argued perpetrator.
The final sin belongs to us.
While the Oscars swag bags may not be
the most moral signifiers of achievement
for our beloved Hollywood stars, is it
not our own envy that drives us to make
these claims of dubious intent? These
accusations are reeking with jealousy. I
enviously type away, framing these stars
and their acknowledgments, deeming
them unworthy of such acclaim due to my
own insecurity that my own achievements
and impacts will never equate. But these
celebrities are doing their job. A job we
liken to worth, notability and success. A
job we label as impressive, a necessary
asset to the functioning of our society.
Are we not the engine driving such award
shows to take place?
We are greedy for quality films, prideful
in our original opinions, gluttonous for
movie snacks, lazy as we stream from
our beds, lustful in our engagement with
the indecent scenes, angry when our top
pick doesn’t win, and we. Are. Envious.
Jealous in our recognition that we have
such small odds of being on that stage.
That we will never be gifted anything as
salivating.
Perhaps we are the most sinful of all.
The 2020 Oscar swag
bags entail the most
luxurious items of them
all — how could anyone
resist?
Ottessa Moshfegh via WATERSTONES
I was mortified
about this,
obviously, but
I was also a bit
relieved. I had
something to call
the feelings that
were amassing
in my body and
a satisfactory
explanation for
everything
This is the
fundamental
problem with
rest, relaxation,
so-called “self-
care” and a
good portion of
“wellness” — that
in the end you
have to return to
your life
B-SIDE: COMMUNITY CULTURE
LILLY PEARCE
For The Daily