Muppet Monday

Why are there so many songs about rainbows? Because rainbows are fucking awesome, that’s why. Now, when I first heard they were making a new Muppet movie, I was skeptical. Messing with beloved childhood memories is always a tricky proposition. But then I heard that Jason Segel was behind the project and I was really, really skeptical. Keep in mind, this news came out the same year as “Saving Forgetting Sarah Marshall.” So pretty much I knew him as that guy whose junk I saw way too much of. But, mostly, it was the beloved childhood memory thing. I cried the day Jim Henson died, I really did.

So then, as the movie developed, I was anxious to see what direction they’d go. The first trailer was perfectly charming. And now, well, their new parody trailer “The Pig with the Froggy Tattoo” has totally won me over. You had me at “Wocka. Wocka,” new Muppet movie.

The new Muppet movie also comes with a brand new Muppet album, which makes sense because music was such a big part of the original movies and show. NPR streamed the whole album last month. (Sadly, the stream is now over.) But, you can hear the very new, very different Muppet theme song by OK GO. When I first heard it, I hated it. Then it grew on me and I kind of dug it. Then I watched the video and I was a little “Nope, hipster nonsense.”

So, judge for yourself. I actually don’t mind the crunky synth wheeze of the new song. But for some reason when paired with the video it’s just not working for me anymore. I think it’s because the dude with the cap and beard looks more Muppety than the actual Muppets.

And, well, it is hard to improve upon something as flat-out sensational, inspirational, celebrational, Muppetationalas this.

OK, new Muppet movie. I’m going to give you a try. Just don’t go breaking my heart. I already have “The Rainbow Connection” to do that. Talk amongst yourselves, kittens. I’ll just be sitting on this log, reliving my childhood until the new movie comes out.

Independence Day

I can’t think of a better way to honor Independence Day than with a little Ani DiFranco and girls kissing. In fact, I feel like it’s our constitutional duty to celebrate the Fourth of July in this fashion. What did our Founding Fathers fight for anyway if not right for us to have a three-day weekend and use those three days to make videos of hot women kissing. At least, I think that’s what I remember learning in my high school history class. Maybe my textbook was different from yours. Anyway, I clearly used my time wisely this weekend and spent it making this. Please be gentle, it is my first (and possibly last) music video compilation. (Also watch it in HD, it’s prettier that way.) No one else had Ani’s “Independence Day” set to anything. So, you know, I kind of had to. Happy birthday, America. And, you know, happy Monday everyone else.

Little folk singer, redux

While researching a post for Tumblr over the weekend (yes, I haven’t even been on Tumblr a week and I’m already breaking my fun, easy, no words rule), I rediscovered the distinct joy that is listening to Ani DiFranco all night. It’s not that I don’t listen to her anymore. I do. It’s just with the advent of shuffle and Pandora and other such music mixologists, I tend not to listen to one artist exclusively anymore. (Well, that is unless I’ve just bought her CD and can’t stop playing it, cough, Adele, cough.) But I popped in Ani in the early evening and one album led to another and another and another. The rawness of “Imperfectly.” The hurt of “Dilate,” The irreverence of “Little Plastic Castles.” The growth of “Evolve.” I (and imagine Robe Lowe’s character from “Parks & Recreation” saying this here) literally have all of her albums. Yes, all of them. I’ve seen her probably a half dozen times. I even got to interview her once. It will remain a high point in my life forever.

While I didn’t really discover Ani until college, she has since been with me through almost all of my major life developments. Graduating. Finding a job. Moving across the country. Breaking up. Hooking up. Watching presidents come and go. Fighting for change. Growing older, growing up. Each record, especially the older ones, plays like a record of a time and place in my life. Sometimes they remind me of a specific person, sometimes they remind me about myself. But it’s always fascinating, like musical archeology. You uncover layers of your life that you thought were long buried. But once dusted off, given a wash and shined up, the emotions rush back like yesterday.

Just a few favorites, out of too many to count.

Shy


Dilate


Little Plastic Castles


Swan Dive


Evolve

Oh, Ani. You’ll be in my neck of the woods this week and I won’t be able to make it. But I’ll be there in spirit, singing along to every single word. I’m sure many a gal – gay or otherwise – feels the same way. Or perhaps you have another musical time capsule. Well, by all means, don’t be shy – share.

All of these lines across my face

Usually when actresses also sing, I cringe. Do they really have enough talent to stretch across the multi-hyphenate actress-singer? And usually the answer is a resounding no. Some are just exceptionally mediocre at both (cough, J-Lo, cough). Others try admirably with mixed results. (Oh, Gwyneth, I loved “Landslide,” but you’re no Loretta Lynn.) But then there are those who deserve the hyphen and then some. In fact, they’ve got too much talent for a simple hyphen to contain. They’re your Judy Garlands. Your Barbra Streisands. Your Kristin Chenoweths. And then, there is our Sara Ramirez. Heavens, that girl can sing. Like, really, really, really sing. Of course, you knew this already since she got her start on Broadway. She went to Juilliard School. And there’s always that Tony on her mantel in case you still don’t believe.

So it’s only for the sheer power of Sara’s voice that I plan to watch the very special “Grey’s Anatomy” musical episode March 31. I’m not a Grey’s watcher (though no disrespect to those who do – sexy people in scrubs are all good). But I do enjoy the Callie and Arizona coupling and I’ve kept an eye on what’s happening with their impending bundle of joy. The previews for the musical episode look crazy emotional and then there’s Callie ominously singing through the hallways.

Wild guess, but I think something bad happens.

To promote the musical episode, and as a generous gift to the universe, Sara sang a song from the episode at The Grove earlier this week. It was live, unedited, unAuto-Tuned. And it was perfect – flaws and all. She apparently did two takes. I rather prefer the first, especially when her voice breaks.

Though, as a public service, here is the second take shot up close. You know, just in case you want to count Sara’s pores. Those are some gorgeous pores.

I love Brandi Carlile’s music anyway. But to hear the unbridled sexy that is Sara put so much emotion into what is ostensibly a big lesbian anthem is pretty otherworldly.

OK, “Grey’s Anatomy.” I’m in. Bring on the melodrama. Just let Sara sing.

p.s. How do I get this job? I’d apply more than a little gloss to those lips.

[Photo via weltintoweeds Flickr]

Pitch imperfect

Auto-Tune is the Photoshop of music. Just as the perennial picture perfector is ruining our perceptions of beauty, reality and basic human anatomy, Auto-Tune is dismantling our expectations of music. It’s turning the human voice an unrecognizable mishmash of synthesized wails and moans. The voice isn’t a uniform instrument with perfect pitch. It doesn’t modulate mid note. In fact, it’s those very breaks and imperfections that Auto-Tune covers up that can make music so memorable. Instead, Auto-Tune makes it inherently forgettable. We shouldn’t treat voices like disposable instruments, easily interchanged with each other. Imagine Auto-Tuning Billie Holiday? The exquisite grate and slur of her voice makes it sublime. She makes us feel those rough edges, and they take us someplace that a computerized high C never could.

And the thing that’s most infuriating is that many singers don’t even need it. Just as fashion industry overcorrect the already impossibly beautiful (See: Kate Winslet), the music industry is overcorrecting the already impossibly good singers. Yesterday Jezebel pointed out that up-and-coming pop starlet (and out bisexual lady) Jessie J can actually sing. And she can. I saw her on “Saturday Night Live” and thought she was OK. But seeing her in this subway video is even more impressive (partly because the song choice is better).

Now compare that to her Auto-Tuned hit “Do It Like a Dude.”

Um, what? Are those the same singers? Why strip away that voice and turn it into a collection of electronic pops and whistles? Digitally enhanced is an oxymoron in this case, and many others.

Even some of the most egregious of the current crop of Auto-Tunites simply don’t need the digital enhancement. Like, and stay with me here, Ke$ha. Yes, Ke$ha. She of the Jack Daniels toothpaste. She of the perpetually smeared eyeliner. She of the “Get Sleazy Tour.” (Get Sleazy? Nice. Aspirational.) I have a strange soft spot for Ke$ha, which I have previously admitted much to my continual shame. It’s not her persona, which is intentionally awful. It’s that I think her songs are ridiculously catchy and almost whimsical. It’s like gummy ear worm candy. And whenever I feel particularly ashamed of singing along in my car, I unearth this video of a pre-fame, pre-sleazy Ke$ha.

Dammit, Ke-Dollar Sign- Ha can really sing. Like really, really sing.

Singing is a talent, not a digital experiment. Auto-Tune has made one of our most divine abilities into a boring exercise in perfection. Billie is what the human voice sounds like. This is heartbreak and triumph and our shared humanity. This is music. This is how we know we’re still better than the machines.

Sick sounds

Yesterday I stayed home sick. It wasn’t fun sick, where you throw on your jammies, watch daytime TV and get reindoctrinated into the Oprah cult. It was more like my body’s been hit by a truck, then backed back over, then hit again and then called a friend to come and hit me with another truck. I don’t think it was the flu, just the beginning of allergies. It’s basically spring here and everything has decided to bloom and mold all at once. So I took a bunch of Benadryl and basically was passed out all day. This is fascinating for you, I know. But bear with me. What the day did give me was the chance to listen to a lot of music, because I was too tired to watch TV. I could only handle once sense at a time: sounds or pictures or smells or touch or taste. So I listened, and when I got tired of my CDs I turned on Pandora. And then Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” came on and I remembered, in an instant, why music could be so exciting. That driving beat, that commanding voice. So I dragged my weary body up from the bed, popped on iTunes and bought her new album “21” on the spot. So good, kittens, so good. So now, I’m passing my find along to you. You shouldn’t have to get hit by a metaphorical truck to enjoy some damn good music. Though, with a voice like that, it’s almost the same thing – though considerably less painful. Enjoy.

Case study

So Neko Case can’t get laid. OK, wait, let me rephrase that. I am sure Neko Case can and does get laid, but she’s not getting laid by groupies at the rate of her male singer counterparts. And, to extrapolate further, it seems no female musicians are getting laid at the rate, frequency and intensity of their male counterparts. There is, apparently, just no such thing as the male groupie. Salon did an interesting piece on Neko’s recent Twitter admission that “ladies in bands don’t get ANY action.” It’s interesting but also kind of a bummer because someone as talented and beautiful and smart and successful as Neko Case should be awash in whatever kind of sexual smorgasbord her heart desires. She is Neko goddamnfucking Case. Take her to bed immediately, men of this planet.

But it also illustrates a broader, equally bummer truth in our society. Most men simply find it easier to get action than most women. And this is especially true when it comes to smart, successful men and women. While men are awash in lady loving, their female counterparts find their options more limited. Why? Well, we could be here for weeks talking about sexual politics and societal patriarchy, power dynamics and gender norms. But let’s just mutually agree that this is a fact, like gravity and the impossibility of eating just one Pringle. Or, now that I think about it, Twizzler.

So here is the obvious follow-up question: Is this true to gay women? Does this mean we doubled down on the inability to get some? Or does this make it total cake? I can tell you from my own totally unscientific empirical observations, lesbians really suck at hitting on each other, even when none of the parties involved are famous. Obviously, someone needs to interview Tegan & Sara on this subject immediately. I have no idea whether lesbian artists have ardent and active fanbases willing to drop and fling their panties at them. I don’t know if they’ve got to hire double security to block the stage door or can saunter out into darkness unnoticed. I know I’ve seen many, many a lesbian performer on stage and have never waited outside of the tour bus to see if I could my own private encore. But then, I’m not really the groupie type. Though, as always, I would wait at the stage door to hell forever and always for just one shot at Tina Fey. (Had to put it out there one more time. You understand, universe.)

I guess, in a way, I’m a little glad that female musicians don’t partake in the bedroom buffet line that many of their male counterparts do, where they open the door and point. Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with sex for sex’s sake between two consenting adults. Sex is natural, sex is fun. Sex is usually best when it’s one-on-one. But mostly this is just because any more than one other person and the experience becomes a complicated timing exercise of how much and how well one spends attending to each separate partner – or so I’ve, um, heard. Right, where was I? Ever the ERA backer, I think her refusal to board this particular sexual gravy train should be entirely the female artist’s choice. As Neko tweeted after her groupie lament: “I realize for myself, I didn’t want to be hit on BY lots of men so much as I wanted to be hit on AS MUCH as men. Competitive inferior complex.”

Neko, darling, if you’re interested in testing your theory with the other team, I am more than willing to help. Point me to your stage door. I’ll be happily waiting.

Really, men aren’t lining up for that? God, they can be such idiots.

It Gets Awesome

This video made the rounds last month, yet somehow I managed to not watch it until just recently. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested, it’s just at that point I was a tad It Gets Bettered out. (And, again, not that I have anything at all against the campaign – it’s wonderful and amazing and should go on forever and ever). But, you know, I know it gets better so I wasn’t sure I needed to hear it again. But then, out of my normal mix of insomnia and procrastination, I finally clicked the link I’d favorite for a rainy day. And, boy, was I thrilled I did. Not only is Rebecca Drysdale’s “It Gets Better” music video the funniest and cleverest (and danciest) of all the It Gets Better campaign, it’s also one of the most unexpectedly encouraging. So if you, like me, were suffering from a little inspirational burn out, please fight through the doldrums and hit play instead. I promise you, this video is the better we’ve been getting at – and then some. (Note: Mild NSFW language, so just wear headphones.)

Like I was saying, awesome. So awesome it’s been in my head for days – and I’m happy about it. Some of you might be familiar with delightfully naughty comedian Rebecca Drysdale already. But if it was your first introduction, my, wasn’t that a treat? Others of you will remember Beck D from her equally hilarious “The L Word Serenade” music video from a few years back. Not ringing a bell? How about a refresher. (Same NSFW language, so keep those headphones on.)

Damn, now that’s stuck in my head. And by “damn,” I mean “awesome.”

p.s. Obscure, but cool fact: “30 Rock” writer and fellow comedian Kay Cannon was a producer for this “It Gets Better” video. Everyone involved with that show is just continually high fiving a million angels.

Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen

You know when you first hear a song and think, “OK, that’s dumb.” Then you hear it again and go, “OK, that’s dumb, but it has a good beat.” And then by the third time you hear it you’re singing the chorus at the top of your lungs in the car? Yeah, it’s like that.

So right now that song for me is “Whip My Hair.” There really isn’t anything to it. The title is two-thirds of the lyrics. In fact, on its surface the song’s pedigree is its most interesting attribute. You see, the insanely precocious half-pint whipping her hair back-and-forth like a pro is none other than Willow Smith, the 9-year-old daughter of Will Smith and Jada Pinkett Smith. Yes, that’s right, another one. The couple’s son Jaden was in “The Karate Kid” remake this summer and now Willow has a hit single. I swear, at this rate I’m pretty sure one of the Pinkett-Smith offspring will run for president in 2012.

What makes the whole hair whipping phenomena more interesting is its juxtaposition with the also just-released “I Love My Hair” video by Sesame Street. The cherry little number is an ode to African-American hair and, well, adorable. So damn cute.

So, well, you can see where this is all going? Yes, kittens, the inevitable “Whip My Hair”/“I Love My Hair” mash-up. Please, by all means, enjoy.

Not to over-intellectualize the reasons for one’s possible enjoyment for any or all of these videos, but - um, you know – sometimes a gal just wants her hair to look good.

My Weekend Crush

Few things stay beautiful forever. Photos fade. Paintings crack. Books yellow with time. Most music feels out-of-date a few weeks after it falls off of heavy rotation. But some songs stay beautiful. Some songs never age, always enchant. Yesterday my friend Lesley tweeted that “Fade Into You” was quite possibly the perfect song. And it is, it really is. For 4 minutes and 28 seconds Mazzy Star and the also forever beautiful Hope Sandoval take you someplace not of this Earth. Dreamy, moody, melancholy, achingly gorgeous. You don’t hear the song as much as it melts slowly into your body. Plus we could talk for hours about that tiny, downcast slip of a thing hiding behind her hair. And darn it, if that isn't the prettiest, saddest tambourine in all the world. While the song is 16 years old, its emotions are ageless. Whenever I hear “Fade Into You,” I just can't help it. I fall in love all over again. Happy weekend, all.

Burn, baby, burn

“I love the smell of napalm in the morning, it smells like victory.” Violence has always been a part of our popular culture. It’s as much an American pastime as baseball, apple pie and scurrilous Wall Street money grubbing. But when the lines blur so easily, so seductively between entertainment and anger, sex and violence, perhaps it’s time for a new hobby.

I’ve been bothered by Eminem and Rihanna’s “Love the Way You Lie” video since it debuted last week. Actually, I’d been bothered by the song since it came out several weeks ago. Is her rapping about, wait, yes, he’s rapping about how he and his wife used to beat the shit out of each other. All righty then. Now, granted, it’s unmistakably catchy. Eminem has always had a way with a hook. Still the song also follows the musical gimmick du jour of having a pretty female vocalist sing a few pretty verses in between all the hip hop. (p.s. “Ghetto Supastar” called and wants its idea back. Oh, and then “Rapture” called and said, “Not so fast with the ‘your idea’ stuff, Pras and Mya.”) But that’s all peripheral when it comes to the video. This video.

The video with Eminem and Rihanna in front of a burning house and Megan Fox and Dominic Monaghan burning said house down – metaphorically and plain old literally. The video that features two of the biggest celebrities with high-profile, highly volatile run-ins with domestic violence. The video that shows both Megan and Dominic hitting each other, making out with each other and, yes, catching ablaze with the passionate, crazy, angry intensity of their love for each other. Or is it hate? Whatever, have I mentioned it’s sexy?

The problem with “Love the Way You Lie” is not so much that it glorifies domestic violence as it wallows in the beauty of its rage. The video is pretty. It has Megan Fox and Rihanna, it can’t help but be pretty. The violence is, well, violence. But it’s also all-consuming, yearning and, yes, kind of beautiful. And therein lies the problem. Because through all the punched walls and tonsil hockey, Eminem also raps “If she ever tries to fucking leave again I’m going to tie her to the bed and set this house on fire.”

Which, I think we can all agree, is in no way beautiful. There’s too much sex in my violence. Love that burns the house down, that is the real lie.

Tank Top Tuesday: Lilith Edition

So yesterday I partied like it was 1999. Meaning, of course, I went to Lilith Fair. The show was great. The artists were great. There was such a great number of lesbians I thought maybe I got my dates wrong and stumbled on the Dyke March again instead. But no, it was just a bunch of amazing, amazing female performers who also happen to look amazing, amazing in tank tops. That is what I call a twofer. Though the one thing I did learn, I can’t bounce back from partying like it’s 1999 like I used to be able to in 1999. Hence, the lateness of my post. Please forgive me and my tired little brain.

Sarah McLachlanOh, Sarah. Even though every time you sing these days I have to fight the urge to adopt a stray puppy, I still love you. You, in your tank top, is better than ice cream.

The BanglesAs a teen I wasn’t sure who it liked more – delicate, doe-eyed Susanna Hoffs or tough, guitar-slinging Vicki Peterson? Now, as an adult, I know – why choose?

Miranda LambertFYI, country music girls do not look bad in a tank top. Not at all.

Colbie CaillatWell, something starts in my toes when I look at Colbie.

HeartSo, um, Fergie is wearing the tank top here. Proximity counts.

A Fine FrenzyRed hair, everywhere.

And here are a few I wish were in my lineup.

Brandi Carlile
Metric
Janelle MonaeYeah, I know this isn’t a tank top. But it’s only two days until Thursday. So consider Janelle a preview.

p.s. I think bikini tops should count as quasi tank tops. So now it’s a rule.
[Look for my full review of the show tomorrow this week on AfterEllen.com.]

Memorial Day Music Monday

Here in the states, today is Memorial Day. It’s a day traditionally seen as the start of summer and a perfect time to engage in a little hot grill-on-grill action. And you can’t grill without a) beer and b) music. So kick back, crack open a cold one, tip your hat to those who have served, and enjoy this joyful noise. Good thing it’s a holiday, too. Since some of this noise is a tad NSFW.

La Roux, “I’m Not Your Toy”

Elly Jackson’s pompadour rivals Janelle Monáe in sheer architectural audacity. Also, how is she not gay?

Hunter Valentine, “The Stalker”

Now, on the other hand, Hunter Valentine lead singer Kiyomi McCloskey is gay. I think the term you’re searching for is lesbothrob.

Goldfrapp, “Alive”

Let’s get physical, with vampires and Satanists. Naturally.

Metric, “Stadium Love”

So this video is not approved by PETA. I could do without the gruesome slo-mo National Geographic footage. But the song is good. Basically look away whenever Emily Haines isn’t on screen.

Rihanna, “Te Amo”

Rihanna frolics with Laeticia Casta in a Parisian castle. Or, as I call it, just another Monday.

Complicated Universal Cum, “I Can’t Hardly Wait”

Girls kissing. Yes, it’s that simple.

Happy Memorial Day, all.

Full of grace

I did not know who Jennifer Knapp was before last week. Really, no idea. You could have told me we went to high school together and I would have smiled and nodded. But then she came out, and all of a sudden I know and care about who Jennifer Knapp is. It’s not just that she’s gay – though congrats and expect your toaster oven in four to six weeks. It’s that she was a hero to the evangelical Christian community and is now openly gay. Which, you know, whoa.

Religion is not a topic I talk about with any authority or frequency. I grew up in a liberal household, science was our champion. Church happened sometimes at Christmas, but basically just for the music as midnight mass. I don’t believe you need religion to teach you right from wrong, but I understand the inclination to feel faith in something larger than yourself. It’s the application of faith by some that bothers me so. They use it as a weapon to deny, denigrate and dominate others. And I have a big, big problem with that.

So to see someone who has so clearly thought long and hard about what it means to be a person of a faith in a faith that does not necessarily have faith in her is both fascinating and inspiring. Jennifer has sold a million albums, won a Dove award and has been nominated for a Grammy. Apparently there had always been rumors throughout her career that she was a lesbian. But then in 2002 she left music, for seven years. And now she is back with interviews in The Advocate and Christianity Today (that’s not a combo you see every day, eh?), where she comes out and talks about her long-term relationship with her girlfriend. [Also, look for her interview in the coming days with Heather Hogan at AfterEllen.com.]

Having heard her new album, “Letting Go” (available May 11), I can tell you that it is very gay. Not Katy Perry gay, but gay-gay. There is nothing coquettish or teasing about her words. They are straight-forward, open. They speak of a love that is finally now speaking its name. They’re freeing. They’re lovely. Have I mentioned that they’re so very gay?

For those unfamiliar with her work, she sounds a bit like a younger Melissa Etheridge. She is also a Kansas gal with a big booming voice, deep in that way that tends to weaken gay gals’ knees. She is a classic singer-songwriter type who would fit seamlessly into a Lilith Fair lineup, which she just so happens to be doing this summer. Her new album is not explicitly Christian, though that is very firmly her background and her fanbase. So for her to come out is – to get all Joe Biden on the situation – a Big Fucking Deal.

And now we wait and see how it all turns out. I have to say, I’m not too optimistic that everyone will embrace her. I went to find her music on YouTube and the first video that came up was titled “Jennifer Knapp symbolizes hell-bound Christianity.” It went on to explain how there is no such thing as a gay Christian. You know, kind of like a unicorn – a gay unicorn. P.S. Don’t read the comments on some of her videos. They’ll just make your head explode. At times it seems that the chasm between us and those who think we are abominations will never be bridged. It only grows deeper and darker. The will is just not there, at least from their side. But perhaps people who loved Jennifer then will realize that she is the same Jennifer now. Just happier. Honest. Loved.

Still even if those who once flocked to her now turn their backs, she should certainly find a warm and welcoming home among her gay fans – the old ones and what I suspect will be many more new ones. I think that she will discover that we, too, are a faithful lot. Once we love you, we’ll love you forever. And your cat. Hey, we’re being honest here.

A few live sampling:

“Letting Go”


“Dive In”


“Inside”

See what I was saying? She is so gay. So gay.

My source for some definitive

So this past week I went to go see some old friends. Truth be told, we hadn’t visited face-to-face in about eight years. But there was a time, ages ago, when we spent almost every day together. I’d listen intently, absorbing each word and meditating on its meaning. And the car trips, oh heavens, they were fun. Still, somehow we drifted apart. Sure, we’d run into each other from time to time – often on accident. Yet each meeting was like slipping on a favorite sweater for the first time of the season: warm, comfortable, soothingly familiar.

[Crap quality, I know. iPhone cameras suck at concerts.]

Gosh, it was nice seeing the Indigo Girls again. At times they might seem like a cliché, the lesbian band we all at least flirted with at some point in our lives. Knowing all the words to “Closer to Fine” is pretty much a requisite to earning your toaster oven. But there is a reason they’ve endured. Their voices, those harmonies, that music. Granted, over the years my tastes have changed. But as they played I could still sing along to almost every song. The whole crowd could. Some songs brought me back immediately to a certain time and place: alone in my bedroom, together in my dorm room. Some music, you never outgrow. You might not listen that much anymore, but it will always be part of your soundtrack. So when you hear it again, even years later, you have to listen.

“Closer to Fine,” circa 1989

ZOMG, basically everything – hair, jeans, Dave, VINYL RECORDS!

“Power of Two,” 20 years later

Considerably less hairspray, thankfully.

Two other interesting tidbits about my show: 1) I was surprised by the number of husbands (no, not really butch lesbians, I double checked) that came with their wives. Guess even L.U.G.s like to get nostalgic. And 2) I realized during the show that while my younger self preferred Emily’s sweet soprano, the older me now gravitates towards Amy’s darker alto. Who knows, maybe in another 20 years I’ll flip flop again.

It’s been seven hours and 7,304 days

This week marks the 20th anniversary of Sinéad O’Connor’s breakthrough album “I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got.” This news makes me feel a lot of things, nostalgic and old are the two of them. Crap, my copy of this CD is 20 years old? But what it really makes me feel like is those two lonely tears that fell defiantly down her face in “Nothing Compares U 2.”

Of course a tear can signify many things: joy, loss, grief. For Sinéad what I primarily feel is loss. Because on this is one fucking amazingly talented woman. And she is nowhere to be found on the musical landscape right now. It’s hard to quantify what makes Sinéad so spectacular. Her voice, of course. Her rebellion, naturally. And her honesty, to a fault.

Some of the reason she has disappeared from our collective conscience are of her own doing. She was kooky. She was a priest. She was a lesbian. She was not a lesbian. But others are of our own doing – or undoing, as the case may be.

While others may feel differently, I’ve never harbored any ill will toward her tearing up of the picture of the pope. First, it’s a picture. Second, she had a point. The church was covering up sexual abuse. That she was before her time in sounding the alarm should be commended, not condemned. But I am not here to talk about politics or religion or belief systems. Instead, I want to celebrate raw talent.

Because that is what Sinéad is best at, being raw. She shines when she opens her mouth and lets the truth wail out, be it uncomfortable or tragic, joyous or confessional. While “I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got” is her most famous album (and a real beauty that still holds up, two decades later), those of you who stopped paying attention to the striking bald lady with the big beautiful eyes and even bigger voice shortly after it missed her next great album: “Faith & Courage.”

Released 10 years ago, it is a more hushed but no less truthful snapshot of an artist in full. This album is gorgeous. Her voice, the lyrics, the melodies. Gorgeous. And if you think her lesbian conversion was just a publicity stunt, listen to “Emma’s Song.” Something there was real, even if it wasn’t handled well outwardly.

Sinéad spoke with Entertainment Weekly briefly about her 20th anniversary and revealed that she is releasing a new studio album soon. I think I’ll give it a try. Because, above all else, that lady can just flat-out fucking sing. And we should never forget that.

Also, if you’ve never heard Sinéad cover Cole Porter’s “You Do Something to Me,” consider this my St. Patrick’s Day gift to you.

My Weekend Crush

If Lady Gaga didn’t exist, we’d be hard-pressed to invent anything remotely close to her. At this moment, she just might be the most fabulous weirdo on the planet. Unquestionably queer, unforgettably fun, she is part disco ball, part performance art and part circus sideshow. Her songs fill me with the simple, unmistakable joy of pop music. In short, she makes me want to dance – hard. But more than just a pusher of dance floor delights, Gaga has elevated her performances to an otherworldly experience. Even if you’re not a fan, you have to admit she is never dull. And now with the premiere of “Telephone,” she has us squirming like happy puppies in the palm of her hand. Think of the last video you were this excited/curious/impatient to see. And the lady did not disappoint. Women in prison! Gaga kissing girls! Crime scene tape in lieu of clothing! Crudely named lesbian dating sites! The Pussy Wagon! Cigarette sunglasses! Dick jokes! Murder! Dancing! Thelma & Louise without the cliff! Beyon-FUCKING-cé! They say truth is stranger than fiction. And Lady Gaga is stranger than truth, in the best way possible. Happy weekend, all.

[Click to enjoy in big, glorious high-def.]

I love rock 'n' roll

You know, I’m officially excited for this movie now. I was worried; I still have worries. But this first photo from “The Runaways” (formerly “Cherry Bomb”) is so fucking fierce that I don’t care. I just want to go to there. Immediately. It’s not necessarily the hot girls – though they are hot and, I might add, very much girls (Dakota is 15, FIFTEEN!) – but the rock and roll attitude. It oozes from that photo. It makes me want to pick up a guitar – or lick one. But most of all, it makes me want to revel in the awesome that is Joan Jett and Cherie Currie.

Holy shit, those girls were bad ass.

OK, now I’m worried again. How the fuck can Kristen Stewart and Dakota Fanning ever, ever, ever be that rock and roll? Answer: They can’t. But they sure might look good trying.

p.s. Good luck looking as good as Joan Jett when you’re 51, Kristen. I think that woman made her own Robert Johnson-like deal at the crossroads. She hasn’t aged a damn day. And, yes, Joan still gets more chicks than all of us. This is just a fact.

p.p.s. The movie will be released in March 19.
p.p.p.s. And, yes, the kiss is happening.
p.p.p.p.s. Oh, and then there is this.

Glam or Gaga

Dear Adam Lambert,

Hey there, you big gaymo. Look, I didn’t say anything when you came out with your My Pretty Pony meets Space Camp meets your cousin Sheila’s high school yearbook photo from 1985 during her experimental eyeliner phase album cover for “For Your Entertainment.” And I didn’t say anything when the editor of Out wrote that open letter complaining about you even as he put you on the magazine’s cover (for the record, I think I might be on your side on that one). But you leave me no choice after your American Music Awards performance last night. Now, I don’t normally watch the AMAs. They’re basically not a real awards show but paperweights given out as an excuse for superstars to get on stage and sell records. But I keep reading about people falling and fire and fellatio on my Twitter feed last night so I was forced to tune in. (Note: The West Coast feed had JLo’s assplant cut from its broadcast. Don’t you know moments like that are the only reason we watch in the first place?)

Anyway, the night was basically two performances for me. 1. Lady Gaga and 2. You. So let me break this down as simply as we can.

This is how you do outrageous right. Please note the wearing of lighted exoskeletons and control-top pantyhose in lieu of clothing.

And, then, of course, fire.

This is how you do outrageous wrong. Please note that simulated blow jobs are never, ever good TV. (p.s. This was also cut from the West Coast feed. p.p.s. You suck, AMA editors).

Also, while as a rule I approve wholeheartedly of kissing androgynous bandmates on live television, that kiss was about as hot as the Al and Tipper Gore smooch at the 2000 Democratic Convention.

The main problem I have is that your performance smacked of shock for shock’s sake. It wanted to badly to be shocking and failed even at that. Also, you were kinda pitchy, dawg. Look, Lady Gaga works not because she is shocking but because she is ambitious. She wants to be different and aggressively so, so even if she fails sometimes it is never dull. And she does it all with vision. There is nothing visionary about grinding a dude’s face in your man bits and grabbing ladies by their lady business.

Having said all that, I do appreciate how unabashedly you are bringing the gay these days. Don’t ever stop. Same goes for the sparkly pants. But, seriously, fire your choreographer.

Kisses,
Ms. Snarker