Political correctness suddenly raised its head as I began these comments on today’s popular music. I started to refer to a particular “songstress,” but with the banishment of actress, waitress etc. I feared irate comments and letters from those enraged by my use of an “ess” word; a pre-Middle English Latin/French suffix denoting a female (cisgendered, presumably. Dare I even say that?).
I rejected “songster” in favor of the dull, yet functional, “singer.” I confess my failure to appreciate the current hit parade with its often repetitious riffs and lyrics which, to my untrained ear, are garbled to the point of gibberish; enunciation being a lost art. Even when I understand the words, the meaning is obscured by the deluge of unfamiliar slang. True, in our day, words got scrambled, but on purpose for a comedic effect. For example, “maizydotsandozydots…” Ask a senior. They’ll probably reply, “Akiddleetivytoo. Wouldn’t you?” If they don’t, ask someone older.
Back to the songstr…, I mean singer. I am partial to an attractive person, non-tattooed (Not condemning; just saying. Don’t write.) with a beautiful voice expressing understandable sentiments wrapped in a singable refrain. These thoughts arose as I enjoyed the beautiful and lovely Rihanna serenading her fans with a ballad from her popular repertoire. The four-letter words, plus the N word, clearly qualify it as non-PC, yet the language is mild compared to some other million sellers. But a hit is a hit.
Join me as I let my mind wander to a time long ago and envision the charming, tuneful “Bitch, I want my money” being performed, as a friend suggested, by the Lennon Sisters.
Banish the unanswerable
Some of the mysteries which have filled our lives have nagged us for years while others lasted only until further education or street smarts gave us some answers. For example, I recall after receiving human reproductive information from a required boys-only mass lecture, I was confused as to what a minstrel cycle had to do with babies or, from the same source, why gentile warts were thus restricted.
I also wondered, and still do, what happened to Dumbo as he got older and larger or the impenetrable quandary whether or not the refrigerator light stays on when the door is shut. More serious perplexities have continued to keep us awake.
When we came out and people said, “Oh. I know,” how did they know? Which of your trusted girlfriends stole your “Sweet Honey in the Rock” albums? Who told your boyfriend you were making it with his ex? We search for answers to such puzzles to no avail.
This never ending battle for peace of mind and relaxation often occurs at bedtime detouring our trip to slumberland. My solution is to notice and take action at once when the camel’s nose has peeped through the tent as they say. (Oh, I don’t know who. They! Please. I’m trying to help).
When a disruptive idea forms, swiftly force your mind onto a pleasant alternative thus breaking the thought line and allowing Morpheus to descend. Beware; the new topic can be so engrossing as to keep you awake even more. Recently, resisting flashbacks of an ill-advised tryst, I switched to a scene from my trove of art films: a brutal Jeff Stryker was my cell-mate. A long, shameful scenario ensued, but I took things in hand and finally slept.
