There is a dearth of soul in the music that is being foisted upon us today, and with the female vocalists in particular.
The highly produced music that is being popularized by the likes of Beyonce, Jennifer Lopez, Lady Gaga, Shakira, and other supposed superstars, simply pretends at being important; it masquerades as original, and presents itself as being from the soul of some iconic goddess.
But there is no soul there. There is no originality, and there is nothing of importance. The mega productions strip the songs of their already own faux worthiness. The computer-programmed digital arrangements and pitch-enhanced vocals ensure that no actual organic sound will ever grace the ears of the listener. Perfection, rather than authenticity, is the overriding purpose. Inspiration is subjugated to electronic predictability. There is no intrinsic musical accountability. Effect takes precedence over the honesty of intention. And it is all about the money.
Have you noticed how most of the popular female singers have also become little more than celebrity strippers performing to those bloated arrangements, and, more often than not, lip-syncing to their own recordings? Back-up vocals are thickly layered over the lead vocal like multiple frostings on a packaged, stale, and then frozen cake. With trite lyrics, shallow motivation, and overblown staging is it any wonder that the public performances reduce themselves to the stadium equivalent of private strip clubs? When money and fame are the primary motivation, would you really expect any other eventuality?
I have no problem with strip clubs, except, of course, that the dancers exploit already attention-starved men. I know, you probably think the men are exploiting the dancers, but hey, if you’re an adult you pay your money and get what you get. And, if I’m not mistaken, they don’t yet let kids into those kinds of clubs. Not so with these concerts. All the male horn-dogs, adult goddess-wannabe’s, and star-struck little adolescent girls trip over themselves to be at the shows, dreaming of becoming pop-star strippers themselves.
Even entertainers who do not need to become strippers have jumped willingly, and enthusiastically, into these personally demeaning performances. Pink (Alicia Beth Moore), one of the most supremely talented artists on the world stage today, still takes her concerts to the depths of self-loathing, as well as reverse misogyny, as if stripping is the pinnacle of success. As if the exploitation of one’s own body and psyche is the measure by which a woman can consider herself to be liberated. Troubling to be sure.
Taylor Swift, the anorexic country-pop star, who, by the way, should keep her clothes on, if for no other reason than to not frighten the children, has stooped to the same level of exhibitionism as well. But, as just another shill for the entertainment business puppet masters, she sells records, and she sells out shows. Now Hannah Montana, I mean Miley Cyrus, has become what former mousketeer Brittany Spears had once become, who had become what Madonna had become before her. And now even the young Justin Bieber has become the male-child-stripper equivalent of all of these forgettable females.
Support authentic music folks; music with purpose, music with artistry, music with soul.