 | By Jenna Sauers  Courtney Love — stripper, actor, rock star, widow, drug addict, Nelson College for Girls alumna, deadbeat mom, author, litigant, blogger, vintage enthusiast, and all-around Bad Girl — is an individual who seemingly has an uncommon devotion to making bad choices.
Times writer Eric Wilson, the latest cannon fodder for the fusillade of Love's personality, was sent to document the Hole frontwoman's apparent delivery into Hermès-toting middle-aged respectability. The piece isn't a take-down — Wilson scrupulously notes examples of Love's intelligence, and states outright that she is canny enough to use the fashion industry and its media just as much as they are using her — but if one were looking to paint a picture of Love the victim, Love the pathetic "train wreck," she serves up plenty of raw material. Ahem: Shortly after 8pm, Ms. Love burst into the room with the Marchesa dress slung on one arm and the noted German Neo-Expressionist artist Anselm Kiefer on the other. She was entirely naked. She made one lap around the room, walking in front of a photographer, an assistant, a hairstylist and me. She pulled over her head a transparent lace dress that covered up nothing, and demanded my assistance — "Not you," she said to Mr. Kiefer, who was bent over trying to help her — to stuff her feet into a pair of black Givenchy heels that were zipped up the back and tied with delicate laces in the front. Then she applied a slash of red lipstick in the vicinity of her mouth. And: At one point, she took me upstairs to her room to show me some clothes. The bed was unmade, and there was an overflowing ashtray on the night stand next to five prescription bottles and some junk food. "These are my wakeup cupcakes, some anti-depressants and a cellphone book," she said without embarrassment. "I speak to you as someone who doesn't want to be perceived as a train wreck," she said. Now that the descriptor "polarizing" is, like everything else, getting defined downwards by our controversy-chasing hyperbolic media, it's bracing but not altogether unpleasant to encounter a figure actually worthy of the term. Of the woman who wrote, for starters, "Doll Parts," "Miss World," and all of Celebrity Skin, I will forgive a lot. But even apart from the undeniable force of her talent — and even I accept, or at least I know rationally, when I'm not actually listening to "Violet", that it's specious to argue that talent alone is a fig leaf for the mad, bad, and/or dangerous behavior that it so often accompanies — Courtney Love is important. If you caught me good and drunk, late at night, I might even argue she is in certain ways admirable. What other woman in recent memory, having been given (hell, earned) the media's Bad Girl label, has snarled at the designation — and then continued on her own, misguided but apparently basically contented, way? (Angelina Jolie wriggled out of her "reputation" with supermotherhood and charity photo-ops; Juliette Lewis found God, or at least Scientology.) Courtney Love is unwilling to become boring — I don't think carrying a Birkin and telling André Leon Talley about how high she was on Letterman counts — and for that alone, it seems some must condemn her. Perhaps she realizes that women are judged for their personal lives in a way that men in the public eye rarely are — where male rock stars who are neglectful parents with histories of drug abuse are concerned, the press narrative is, shall we say, markedly different — and that trying to please those strangers who have come to feel they have a stake in her family, her personal life, or her choices is a losing game. Perhaps, as Wilson writes, Love has an "apparent inability to neither ignore the public expectation of another outlandish performance, nor to resist the temptation" to give us what we want. Perhaps she just doesn't give a fuck. Courtney Love has been the subject of vicious takedowns and spirited defenses for over twenty years. The vastly different interpretations served up, I would suggest, say more about the journalists who write them and the audiences who consume them than they do about Love herself. For Love presents a conundrum: even at her most drug-addled, she's as cheerful and self-secure as she is self-destructive. We truly don't have enough women capable of or willing to play the bad girl with a smile — and without a trace of victimhood. So even though she is a bad singer (the point of Courtney Love is kind of that she's a bad singer) and (probably) a bad mother, and even though her Twitter was like a harrowing download from her Id, and even though I do not really understand what she was doing wandering a hotel naked with Anselm Kiefer and I do not believe that "a combination of Zoloft and a cocktail" really explains it, I love Courtney Love. Because she's not a role model — and, even more, because she has never aspired to be. Because she's not passive. Because she's a woman who takes issue with the view that she ought to be defined by who she used to fuck in the early 90s and who she gave birth to as a result. Because she auditioned for the bloody Mickey Mouse Club at age 12 by reciting Sylvia Plath's "Daddy." Because she is subjected (and subjects herself) to industrial-strength moral and legal scrutiny at every turn and still gets up in the afternoon, applies lipstick in the vicinity of her mouth, and faces the world. Are these achievements too small to cheer? In a world that still orders up sacrificial pop virgins — Britney, Lindsay, Demi — to swallow down whole, I'd argue they're anything but. Courtney Love: "I'd Like To Be Trusted Again" [NYTimes]
Strange Love [Vanity Fair, via The Black Hole]
Love Conquers All [Spin, via Google Books]  |
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The Art of Noise (featuring Mahlathini and the Mahotella Queens) I think this is from 1989 or 1990. The fusion between traditional African music and Euro-pop inspires.
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Madonna and me
THIS IS SO LONG!
(...that's what he said.)
I'm a little over 30 minutes into my Madonna video-watching marathon (thanks to the new, just-shy-of-complete-so-as-to-be-totally-infuriating 2-DVD set, Celebration). I started with Disc 2, as I'm less familiar with her later work, and was eager to rediscover gems I'd unfairly dismissed, and learn where I'd been wrong. I skip over "Ray of Light," because, well, it's hideous. I land on "The Power of Goodbye," and after 30 seconds, I'm seized by anxiety. I feel a weight on me, like my body's been hijacked and there's attempt to force something out of me. I flash back 12 years ago to my freshman year in college. I feel sad, I feel remorseful, I feel like the power of goodbye has nothing on the power of regret. This feeling that the wind, or maybe my soul, has been knocked out of me only intensifies as Madonna broods around under a blueish filter in a fabulous house on a fabulous cliff, and then on a fabulous beach, solemnly crooning words that are as painful as she is pained: "Your heart is not open, so I must go / The spell has been broken, I loved you so..." I'm seeing her drama. I'm raising it.
If this sounds gay to you, welcome to my point.
Despite its one-sided nature, my relationship with Madonna is more complicated than just about any of my personal ones. I'm lucky to get along very easily with my family, and I otherwise do not suffer fools. Shutting out people that prove toxic or time-wasting is easy; if you follow pop music like I do, shutting out Madonna is not. Even when she isn't riding the wave of an omnipresent hit, her shit hovers, provoking at least an eye roll or two (remember "American Life?"). Even while viewing her with disdain for a good part of the past 15 years, I have found her fundamentally irresistible on a visceral level. I can't not feel something for whatever she does, be it good, bad or...well, that's it, really.
Partially because I do find pleasure in being proven wrong and discovering something I'd been closed off to, and partially because I've noticed myself softening on Madonna in recent years, I decided to take the opportunity in reexamining her that was offered by the release of Celebration both in its double-CD and -DVD formats. Taking in the second half of her career (as designated by the chronological DVDs, which split the halves between Erotica and Bedtime Stories), proved eye-opening and at times painful, but the first half was shocking as well for the memories it elicited. I guess I'd repressed them to resolve with my evolving hatred, but I fucking loved this woman from an extremely early age. I remember being completely transfixed by the "Material Girl" video, virtually praying to the gods of MTV to play it when it wasn't on. I remember worrying about her toes being hurt when she kicked the pole in the "Borderline" video, or watching "Lucky Star" before there was even MTV and they played those weird syndicated music video half hours on TV. I remember being the only person on the dance floor of my cousin's Sweet 16 party in 1985, singing "Holiday" with desperation to the onlooking crowd. We needed a holiday. Why was I the only one who could see that? I remember attempting to hog the camera with an "Open Your Heart" lip sync rendition as my father filmed something that I can say with certainty now, from an objective if not quite fully recollected point of view, was just barely more interesting (a birthday party of my toddler sisters or some shit). I remember learning about what patchouli was via the scent of Like a Prayer. I remember dancing in my parents' room to the Dick Tracy soundtrack/inspired-songs collection/whatever the fuck that was -- all of it, not just "Vogue." I remember sneaking into Truth or Dare with a friend who was too much of a clod to play it stealthy - he jumped over some seats and got us thrown out of that theater and into the one we'd actually bought tickets for, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. (Incidentally, I never stopped loving Truth or Dare. I watch it whenever I find it on TV, and I pine for a DVD rerelease. I'll still take the masturbation scene over "(Everything I Do) I Do It for You" any day.) I remember being in school and crawling out of my skin with antipation on the day Erotica was released, because I knew it was waiting for me at home, thanks to my mall-going mom. I remember singing "Secret" at my friend Jessica's Sweet 16 party in high school, not caring whether people were going to call me a fag, because whatever, they were going to anyway.
Indeed, from around the time of "Vogue," and probably before, I was aware (and made aware and remade aware) of how gay it was to like Madonna (this despite having the vaguest of vague awareness of Paris Is Burning, thinking it was about gay people in French hell or queer arson or something). I get angry when I think of how complacent I was in the face of steady gay bashing from the time I was in second grade through high school, but I do credit myself for not caring what people though about what I thought about Madonna. I just went right on loving her loudly and singing her even louder.
I guess she was something of an outlet to my repression. I didn't come to realize that I was gay, I was told it constantly, everywhere I went. Gay was bad bad bad bad, according to everyone, so I was determined not to be that even through my college years. I really related to Whitney when she told Oprah that part of the reason she stayed with Bobby Brown so long was to show up the very vocal naysayers. People could talk all they wanted, but I wasn't going to let anyone determine my identity. I guess instead of exploding on them, I restricted myself. It was self abuse to such an extreme that during my teens, I would steal Playgirls (and Hustlers, since there were always a few dudes in there) from my father's drug store (I worked there), jerk off to them, and consciously tell myself, "You are straight, Rich. Straight." If this had the effect of shaking the soda bottle of my psyche, Internet porn put me in a fucking centrifuge. I can almost relate to the religious zealots who hate me on principle, since I lived through years and years of rejecting reason for faith in the absolute impossible.
Loving Madonna in the midst of all this was no coincidence. People wonder what attracts gay men to her and the larger-than-life women of her ilk. I think some of it has to do with the fact that when you are gay, there are really no restrictions on taste -- you can enjoy the girliest of girly things because what are people going to do, call you a fag for liking something? They already have. But that's more circumstantial that specific. More to the point, I think gay men take an active interest in Madonna, because when whipped into her entertaining frenzy, she seems so free. While masculinity is so often defined by restraint (Sports have so many rules! Real men don't cry!), iconic women like Madonna are characterized by their lack of it. They're allowed to put it all out there, to be as emotional as they want (maybe they aren't always praised for it, but they don't receive questions about their womanhood or death threats as a result). For those of us who feel repressed in any way for being what we are, the Madonnas of the world offer a vicarious thrill, an exuberance in one's identity. It's something to aspire to.
After Evita, things changed. As fixed on delusion as I was, it was becoming harder and harder to ignore my homosexuality. Like transubstantiation, it didn't make sense (Incidentally, I also stopped going to church entirely around this time, though I had been raised Catholic). My freshman year of college at NYU, Ray of Light came out and I dismissed it on the spot, now wary of the gay association. Paradoxically, a few months after the release of Ray that I attended by first gay-oriented event, the 18+ party Curfew at Twilo. I went with a girl because (don't laugh) there was some Tori Amos-themed giveaway going on (OK, you can laugh). You can't even imagine how confusing this was for me. I mostly avoided eye contact with everyone entirely, except for these two guys that came and sat across from us, repeatedly asking if we knew where they could get ecstasy. I was 19, at a gay party with a girl, fixated on my shoes. I can't believe they asked for E, when all signs pointed to K-hole.
Anyway, some dub of "Sky Fits Heaven" played that night (I recognized it because my Freshman year roommate -- gay, of course -- owned Ray of Light). The song just felt so...definitive. As much as I distanced myself from this world, my arms were only so long and so strong, and I kinda always knew that. I remember the dub being mostly instrumental, but one couplet that remained in tact was, "Think I'll follow my heart / It's a very good place to start." I didn't want to face it, but I could barely argue with it. I loved that song from that second on, and it remains pretty much the only thing that I fully adore from Ray of Light. (Though, obviously, in its ability to take me back to that feeling of closeted hopelessness, "The Power of Goodbye," has a place on my heart, as well.)
But those are exceptions -- I mostly disliked everything else through Confessions on a Dance Floor, which came out years after I finally did. (Biggest regret of my life: I didn't so much as kiss a guy until my last semester of college. I could have had so much fun, though given the fact that it wasn't until I was 25 that I realized I was mortal, I also could have put myself in grave danger. Maybe things worked out for the best?) Even though I still don't like Confessions (whatever good ideas Stuart Price has, he compresses into this hissing brick of sound), and even though when I lashed out about it on this blog, so many years ago, it was mostly in response to what I perceived as the thoughtless adoration from my online gay brothers, there were still some kind of unresolved issues with my sexuality going on that were coming out in my bashing. I didn't like Madonna because I wasn't one of those gays (despite the myriad other gay shit I loved and gushed about gaily). What nonsense. But, you know, self-acceptance is a process. I like to think that I'm finally there, but I also look forward to a time in the future where I look back and realize that I didn't even know the half of it at this point.
If Madonna is my barometer, as she has been all my life, I'm making strides. I enjoyed Hard Candy. Despite my tendency to grind my teeth whenever she aspires any kind of meaningful discussion, I loved what she had to say about Michael Jackson at this year's VMAs. Via Celebration, I've even gone back and learned to appreciate stuff that I'd turned up my nose at previously. I understand why I hated "Frozen" at the time of its release -- it sounded instantly dated, with a percussive rattling not unlike Massive Attack's "Unfinished Sympathy," from 1991, which was not a good look in '98. Now if something came out mimicking that sound, I'd fucking flip for it. (Ray of Light, as a whole, does strike me as entirely too po'faced -- it's forced maturity at the expense of fun, which is kind of a sucky thing for pop music to be). Indeed, Madonna's rep as a pioneer still boggles my mind, as she repeatedly was behind trends (she cut her new jack swing album in '94, dabbled with trip-hop in '98, incorporated French house into her sound in '00, did the very electroclash thing of constantly referencing Giorgio Moroder in '05 and didn't get around to working with Timbaland and Pharrell until '08). On the other hand, "Die Another Day" now strikes me as way ahead of its time -- it's Autotuned electropop that would have no problem fitting in (and being better than most of) today's Top 40 programming. I even enjoy "Hung Up," now (the "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)" sample is genius), although Stuart Price's lisping mess of percussion is infuriating.
As I've come to value the importance of logic and reason (to an almost zealous extent), I realize that when it comes to Madonna, there is no need for extremes. I can handle adoring "Everybody," and hating "Sorry" (and "Don't Tell Me" and "Hollywood" and most of True Blue and Like a Prayer) without feeling particularly conflicted. I can admire Madonna's seeming fearlessness and engagement with the unfamilair without fully giving myself over to her (to do so, I think, is to invest more in opportunism and the importance of popularity than I'm comfortable with). See, right now, I'm all about aspiring to balance. Madonna has allowed me to see myself, again and again, and as recently as this post. It turns out that she's meant more to me than I've wanted to admit, to the point where the prospect of hitting "Publish" is making me uneasy.
But fuck it. Here's to freedom
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