Another one bites the dust

There are certain episodes in your life that shake you to your very core, and disturb you in ways you couldn’t even begin to fathom. One such episode occurred last night when I was sitting down to watch Eastenders and was forced to witness a sobbing Samantha Janus sing Cher’s ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’ to her dead daughter’s coffin. No wonder the girl gormlessly walked into an oncoming car…

There are some traumas that not even the most adept power-showers can wash off.

Which got me thinking about the nature of death, funerals and music in general.

When a rare 70s soul track was played at Jade Goody’s funeral recently, a herd of Jade-ites from Essex reportedly bombarded their local HMV with requests for the track.

Staff at HMV revealed they were inundated with people trying to get their hands on a CD of ‘Ooh Child’ by The Five Stairsteps….and I quote, “it obviously had a real impact.”

This might be a controversial confession to make, but of all the tunes I’d imagine Jade picking, this one ain’t one of them. Thinking about it further, the song choices you make during (arguably) the two “biggest” events in your life – marriage and death, say an awful lot about how you view yourself, and….more importantly, how you wish others to view you. Are the two necessarily compatable? Of course not…

When Hunter S Thompson was laid to rest, he ensured the oppositive would happen in true Gonzo style by having Johnny Depp fire his ashes from out of a canon to the tune of Bob Dylan. Not bad, not bad at all…

Which singular track sums you up?

When I asked folks to send me the songs they’d like to be played at their wake, the results were gloriously eclectic: from The Who, to The Stones, Patti Smith and Green Day…

Top marks, however, goes to my mate Guy for revealing he’d like to be cremated to the melody of Prodigy’s ‘Firestarter’. Guy, if you’re reading, you win a mars bar.

On record, the official list of the most popular tunes played at funerals range from the predictable, to the bizarre, to the sublime.

Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ took the gold medal, but up there with him sits AC/DC with ‘Highway To Hell’, Queen’s ‘Another One Bites The Dust’ and Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’.

Which just shows the divide between people who still wanna wind people up at their own funeral, and those who are determined to get every single member of their congregation miserably blubbing into their cut-price Tescos flowers.

In fact, the UK top three is currently:

1. ‘My Way’ – Frank Sinatra/Shirley Bassey
2. ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ – Bette Midler
3. ‘Time To Say Goodbye’ – Sarah Brightman/Andrea Bocelli

Which only goes to show how many deceased people still lack musical integrity – even in the afterlife.

For the record, the song I would most like played at my own funeral is T-Rex’s ‘Cosmic Dancer’.  Closely followed by: Verve’s ‘History’, Melanie’s ‘Little Bit Of Me’, Cat Steven’s ‘Lilywhite’ and PJ Harvey’s ‘The Desperate Kingdom of Love’.

So someone please write that down before some Co-Operative idiot whacks on Bette Midler…

Ta. I’ll leave you with Marc Bolan:

Boys Keep Swinging

So, in the same weekend that I had a lengthy (*add insubstantial and frivolous to that mix actually – this was less about battling the throes of theology and more about whiling away my bored Saturday night with inane observations on throwaway subjects I am unequivocally unqualified to comment on, yet still seem to have a wealth of un-researched opinions about*)…

Do you know what? I’m complicating things. Lets start this again.

So, in the same weekend that I had a (actually, not so lengthy) “discussion” with my mate Andy about how I reckon Jesus was the first feminist (in so far as any man can actually be a feminist…which is another theological issue altogether), I put on some David Bowie and…yes, you’ve guessed it! Bowie and Jesus really do have more in common than you’d think.

Gender issues as a given (I’m also sure Bowie must’ve worn a loin cloth at some point in his career), I’ve been looking at his lyrics with refreshed interest. David Bowie: un-championed male feminist in rock music?

I mean, lets look at the facts. Most of the rock ‘n’ roll greats have cemented an entire career upon the burning embers of their glorious misogyny. We’ve all acknowledged the likes of Bob Dylan (“I didn’t mean to treat you so bad/You shouldn’t take it so personal/I didn’t mean to make you so sad/You just happened to be there, that’s all.”), Neil Young (“A man needs a maid”), Leonard Cohen (to an extent, I guess if you’re talking about categorising a woman as merely a “muse” above all other things) and The Rolling Stones (“It’s down to me, the difference in the clothes she wears, down to me, the change has come, she’s under my thumb”), but kudos to The Beatles for slipping past the net. I don’t know any other band that could pull off a cheery tune like ‘Getting Better’ and whack the most blatant wife-beating discourse over the top.

“I used to be cruel to my woman, I beat her, and kept her apart from the things that she loved. Then I was mean, but I’m changing my scene, I’m doing the best that I can…”

(Well that’s fine then Maccas, as long as you’re doing the best that you can…that’s all that matters. Why don’t you lay another shiner on her whilst you’re at it? All in the name of rehabilitation, naturally…) Are these the same boys that most mothers in the 60s claimed they’d prefer their daughters brought home, over The Rolling Stones? Top marks for misogyny-under-the-radar, kids! I mean, how many of us have whistled along to lyrics that in the cold light of day, read like a Jeremy Kyle transcript? Hands up, we’ve all done it…

Then you have something like David Bowie’s ‘Boy Keep Swinging’ which really does hit you right between the eyes, in terms of the kind of sharp summation that you easily could’ve been written by a woman.

Heaven loves ya

The clouds part for ya

Nothing stands in your way

When you’re a boy

 

Clothes always fit ya

Life is a pop of the cherry

When you’re a boy

 

When you’re a boy

You can wear a uniform

When you’re a boy

Other boys check you out

You get a girl

These are your favourite things

When you’re a boy

Which I guess is the crux here – many men try and satirise machismo, yet few pull it off with such insightful ease. Throw in the video for good measure – a suited Bowie backed by backing singers that turn out to be Bowie again in drag – and the WI has themselves a cracking good pop tune.

I’ll await Lily Allen’s rendition with bated breath…

Girls Like Us

“This is a man’s world”.

James Brown sung it. Music breathes it. Have I got the masses groaning yet?

I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t been an ongoing aspiration of mine to write a non-fiction book on the status of women in the music industry.

How revealing then, that whenever I’ve expressed this particular interest to colleagues and friends, the statement has been ritually met with a raised eyebrow or a knowing smirk.

“Are you a feminist?” is the usual response. It’s even more revealing that this response is not just concentrated to a strictly male camp. Whisper the word “feminism” and the term evokes a shudder from most people. My relayed response used to be this: “I’m not a feminist, I’m all for equal rights”. But was this just a defensive reaction to divert people away from picturing me as some kind of greasy-haired lesbian in DM boots and dungarees, burning my bra against a chorus of “votes for women!”?

Does championing against the blatant sexism in the music industry (of which I have personally experienced at first hand) make me a feminist? More importantly: should feminism really be something to shy away from?

When did “feminism” become a dirty word?

Getting back on track with my interest in writing this book: Sure, I’ve dabbled around the outskirts of the subject on a few occasions, writing two features on my frustrations at the portrayal and treatment of women within the industry. With both features I always had the sneaking suspicion that my editors were “indulging” me in a flight of fancy, un-convinced at my belief that women are still denied equal footing. They’re entitled to their opinion – but lets face it. Most rock the Y chromosome themselves. Is it any wonder?

Let me back this rant up with a small anecdote: having decided that this was something I wished to write more about, I set about sending out proposals and synopsis to various book publishers. A few got back to me: a polite “thanks but no thanks” was all that was required.

But wait…One well known publishing house surprisingly got back to me with a shocking “maybe”. My ears pricked up as I read through his email. And then my heart sank at his investigative questions in response:

“We already have two female writers on our books already. Both of whom have written musical biogs. My question to you is: what makes you so different to the women we already represent?”

Now, for many of you, this may seem a fairly inoffensive question to ask. For me, it highlighted the obvious:

“The fact that you are even asking me what makes me different from the minimal two female writers you already represent exactly proves why I want to write this book in the first place” I bluntly responded back.

“If you can honestly tell me that you would ask a male writer what made him different from the twenty male writers you already have on your burgeoning books, then I’ll happily explain to you why I should be considered as an individual journalist as opposed to a gender that needs to be minimised.”

Of course I never heard from that particular editor ever again. I’m sure he blamed it on my hormones.

So it is with great interest that I have been reading various reviews for Sheila Weller’s latest non-fiction book ‘Girls Like Us’ (a book which aims to dissect and compare the musical careers of Joni Mitchell, Carole King and Carly Simon).

My first grievance is as follows…Actually, it’s concentrated in the one word: Girls. This book title sounds like the kind of Mills & Boon romance trash you find free with your August edition of Glamour. These artists weren’t girls, they were women. And should be celebrated as such. Is the term “girls” supposed to make them non-offensive acoustic guitar-strumming hippies? Would you ever call a novel comparing the careers of Neil Young, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen “Boys Like Us”?

The next grievance is not so much with the book itself (I’m yet to pick up a copy in Waterstones – I’m sure there will be more de-constructions to follow…I’m polishing my Doc Martins as I write) but with the reviews that have commented on it. I find it incredibly telling that each review centres around the men they shagged as opposed to the songs they wrote. 

And I quote: “…how the bedsit singer/songwriter princesses of the early 1970s became rock royalty and feminist role models, a leap that saw everyone from James Taylor and Mick Jagger to Warren Beatty and Jack Nicholson leaping between their songsheets. Although not, sadly at the same time.”

That’s Metro Lite. The reviewer in question is, of course, a man (by the name of Keith Watson).

Keith, Keith, Keith. Where do I start? For one thing, did you seriously just use the phrase “between their songsheets”? Secondly, did you really just identify them as feminist role models in the same sentence that you role-called their various sexual conquests? Is this your clumsy and simpleton view of feminist role models? Do the men that they slept with personally validate the music that they made in your professional opinion?

It may seem like I’m ganging up on poor Keith. But actually, he only represents the majority of reviews which have stereotyped the book in the same way. Maybe the book is a stereotype itself, who knows. What I do know is that I’m sick and tired of reading some mis-guided feature on the nature of female musicianship by ageing male journalists who haven’t the foggiest idea on what it’s about and how it should be explored.

Having “personally” experienced an editor’s hand up my skirt as he suggested I might sleep with him in return for him “perusing” my written portfolio, forgive me if I’m a little prickly about this subject…

Surely this is a side to the music industry that truly needs to be exposed: a side that still continues to un-repently indulge in its own dated brand of over-bloated and blatant sexism?