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.
