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The Best Of What We Heard 2020

The easy excuse is to say I haven't done this in a while because I was busy... but let's be honest: pop music hasn't been in a great place for a while, and, if anything, composers and songwriters may be the biggest beneficiaries of the Pandemic in the arts: those who write have in many ways been gifted with the time and space to create in a way that there hasn't been in years. While performing artists have struggled, creativity and imagination aren't bound by a quarantine. And the steady, yet persistent appearance of a considerable amount of new music from musicians of all sorts suggests there's definitely been a flowering in the quarantine hothouse. 

For me, it was an amazing year to see pop, but especially dance music, rebound so thoroughly. By the end of the year, two major international stars had returned to their dancefloor roots. and several others were exploring the surprisingly alive, and not merely retro faddish take on classic disco. And I do mean classic... much of the work could have played through the heyday of 1978, and not in a cheesy way at all. And that, my friend, is progress.

In no particular order, but all with a lot of joy:

• Kylie Minogue, Disco. Kylie shot to stardom as a high eighties pop princess with Stock Aitken Waterman in Britain, then left them at the height of success... only to dip back into retro dance grooves (try "Light Years") and then neo New Wave ("Can't Get You Out of My Head"), before heading off into new and different directions, record after record and a string of smash world tours to boot. So it's hilarious and scary to see her loop back around... to a straight up retro seventies disco record that is also a Star at the height of her powers. Disco is pure ear candy of a sort Kylie has made a career on, each song more glittery and joyous than the last. For my money, the best grooves are some combination of France Joli meets The Sylvers at some intersection of Chic and Giorgio Moroder (Spotlight, I Love It)... but there's an embarrassment of riches here for diehard dance fans of all sorts.
• BTS, Dynamite. K-Pop's leading export has smoothly jumped into an American presence after "Boy With Luv" suggested that even a smidge of English splashed across their super sweet grooves would vault them to the top here as in the Far East. But Dynamite goes a step further, finding a new sweet spot in their own take on retro disco, while swiping the feel of Bruno Mars if he overdosed on starshine. If the lure of BTS remains primarily visual (the candy colored videos, spot on choreography and winsome good looks), Dynamite holds up, play after play after play...
  

• Harry Styles, Adore You. I'm not a fan of Styles' heavily overexposed "look at me I'm wearing a dress" attention seeking in Vogue and elsewhere... nor do I think his blandly pleasant (no current song stylist is less readily identifiable) singing is the biggest or best export from One Direction (I'll take Zayn or Liam -- see below -- any day). Which is why no encomiums to "Watermelon Sugar" or its saucy suggestiveness. That said, the man knows his way around good ear candy and Adore You swoops and soars on creamy harmonies and just within reach high notes. A little stalky? Sure. Still a bit oversexed? Absolutely. Without that dress, really, he's just one in a long line of pale male stars.
• The 1975, Notes on a Conditional Form. I find the 1975, and my love of them, hard to quantify... it's like if Yes woke up and decided to be Haircut 100, or something. There's definitely Art Rock in there, and a love of 80s synth pop that's breathtaking to behold... but what's remarkable, really, is how it all makes such brilliant sense. Proving that their run of success is no fluke, Notes on a Conditional Form builds solidly on all they've done so far and moves forward on the art rock, the glorious synths, and the angelic vocal harmonies that accompany them. Fuzzed up lyrics might be less than meets the eye... but is "Leave It" or "Owner of a Lonely Heart" really that deep? I think not... and isn't that really the point?
• Lady Gaga, Chromatica. She continues to go her own way musically, so after A Star is Born and "Shallow" why not... go back and reassert your dominance in dance music? The "larger than life and twice as natural" quality of Gaga can be... a bit much, but as dance divas go, this is a vastly more conceptual and complete record than anything Madonna's done in at least 10 years, and at least a "something for everyone" notion of songs. For my money, she's at her best when it's not trying too hard, which is why "Rain On Me" works best as that Ariana Grande single that shakes the guest's complacency, or why "Sour Candy" isn't so much "Gaga does K pop" as "BlackPink works in American too". Off the guest appearances (why Elton John, why?), "Free Woman", "Replay", "1000 Doves" offer solid grooves and just enough lyrical thoughtfulness to prove that good dance music can think, too. Not everything can be an instant stomper, but mad respect for aiming for the 3rd mezzanine every time.
• Post Malone, Circles. I don't know much, but when rap/hip hop stars are versatile enough to go acoustic eclectic, well, I'll totally show up for it. In a year when rap seems a bit lost (don't get me started on that "WAP" business), Malone made the best case that labels, at best, should mean nothing. "Run away... but we're running in circles..." is just about the best lyrical sum up for life, relationships, and a year like no other.
• Taylor Swift, Betty (and folklore). Swift couldn't quite contain herself, dropping "folklore" in the spring, and then whooshing out "evermore" at the end of the year. It's an overwhelming indication of her talent that she has 2 full (fuller than full, really) albums in her on a slow day... but evermore's endless flow of "sad pieces I wrote at the piano" could perhaps have used some time to percolate. But why quibble? folklore, on its own, isn't just a brilliant Swift album, it's a folk rock arthouse gem that silences virtually all the nitpickers at Swift's ability to stand tall with giants in the music biz. Not necessarily a singles album, and I don't need a "fuzzy sweater and cocoa" record, myself... but "betty" is masterful songwriting at its peak, no matter how you slice it.
• Dan+Shay and Justin Bieber, 10,000 Hours. Bieber is still very much a post rehab work in progress... but there's a lot to suggest he's on the right track.  "10,000 hours" benefits from his vocal drop in... but more than that, it's a reminder that Bieber's real strength as a vocalist doesn't often get the recognition it deserves. Wide open and exposed on this acoustic track, the warmth of Bieber's tenor and his ability to inhabit a lyric isn't anything bravura or showy... it's just stars, after all, are meant to shine.
• Liam Payne, LP1. Amidst a glut of One D solo efforts, Payne has run somewhat under the radar, dropping singles and building interest while the others jumped out fully formed. I'd say the wait was worth it... Payne manages to carve out a pop/dance space for himself that isn't as tortured as Zayn's, not the attention whore of Styles and not afraid to embrace the mix of sex and mass appeal melodies that made him a star. "Strip that Down" and "Stack it Up" aren't subtle... but they are minimalist surprises, while "Bedroom Floor" makes its point without overdoing it. But for me it's "Polaroid" and "Get Low" that suggest the party by way of Ibiza vibe that the others just miss. 

Other notes: I spent the year rounding out and revisiting my favorites: a slew of Jody Watley, moving Thompson Twins to my iTunes, Finally grabbing this Jackie Wilson tune and that Meghan Trainor song that Target used so effectively in ads. That, and I largely gave up on Top 40 radio. Which makes me sad, especially in a pandemic.

They Wuz Robbed: An Alternate History Of The Oscars, Part I

Buzzfeed up-ended Oscar season this year with an absurd post (when is it not, with them) attempting to rank all 85 Best Picture winners from worst to best overall. It's a fool's exercise, made more foolish - and I say this from personal experience - because the writer was not well versed in all of the films. Don't get too far away from what you actually know, as a writer, especially as a critic. It shows.

The problem with the list, though, is deeper. It's not how good or bad the Best Picture winners are or can be seen to be. It's that, for pretty much all 85, there was at least one other film that a large swath of viewers and critics thought should get the top honor. For every Titanic, for every Forrest Gump, even for All About Eve or The Godfather... there's another nominee a lot of people really, really liked. (Okay, maybe not The Godfather. We'll see.)

The Buzzfeed list got me to thinking about this, and sketching out some options... but what really pushed me to pull out the pooter and start composing was this year's awards. Because this year's alternate is especially glaring, and it ought to be said. So that's where I'm going to begin.

Some caveats: I'm working backwards, because mass memory is about recent events, but don't ignore the classics from Oscar's early years - we are talking some great artifacts of film history, which deserve to be seen. Second, I haven't seen everything... but I will be up front about it where necessary. Third, this list is limited to Oscar nominees for Best Picture. If we get into a game of "what about that brilliant film that was shut out" we lose the plot all together, and really, the list of greatest films of all time isn't about Oscar. This is.

Finally, naturally, all of this is subjective. And yes, I'd love the feedback, and a healthy conversation. Don't be shy. And so, without further ado...

2013 - American Hustle. Talk about robbed - last year's smartest caper film woudn up completely shut out on all 8 of its nominations. And all of those were richly deserved. Since his brilliant dark comedy Flirting With Disaster, David O. Russell has made a string of smart, boundary chalenging films with great casts and intellgent scripts. And it's probably too much to ask that work this good get honored repeatedly, since Russell's Silver Linings Playbook was already a dominant winner. Still, Hustle's every bit as brilliant as The Sting, and even better in its attempt to recreate a period in costumes, sets, and songs. Were Hollywood less caught up in righting historical wrongs - including its own shabby history on race - 12 Years A Slave would probably sit in the perfectly acceptable position of having been a great adaptation of a dark, grim story of an horrific experience... but not Best. For my money, Hustle is what you reward for greatness, and timelessness.

2012 - Silver Linings Playbook.... while we're at it. Though I will say this one of those years where I think the Academy got it right - Argo is a great film, even with the overwrought ending.

2011 - Midnight in Paris. No, The Help does not deserve it. And yes, I love The Artist. But Woody Allen's filmmaking, even on Blue Jasmine, has rarely been as finely honed as it was on this gentle, loving film about not getting too caught up in worshipping the past. Masterful recreations of previous eras, gleeful cameos of past masters (especially a charming Zelda Fitzgerald, a drunk Hemingway, and explaining The Discreet Charm of The Bourgoisie to a confused Bunuel), plus a slew of masterful performances (has Owen Wilson ever been better? I think not).... what more do you need? Nothing, that's what.

2010 - Winter's Bone. Having not seen The Social Network or Inception, I feel underqualified to make the case for either; though I think Inception probably has a strong one. I can easily make the case that The King's Speech was sentimental claptrap that could easily be overlooked in the overall history of film. I can also make a strong case that this ambitious independent film, which snuck into major consideration, is way better than it has any right to be, in large measure because Jennifer Lawrence really was that stunningly good right from the beginning. A small, dark film where a win would have shown the Academy's ability to look past the obvious. And they don't, often.

2009 - Precious, based on the novel Push by Sapphire. In one of those harder than usual years (I could make my own compelling cases for The Blind Side and Up, just for starters), I'd say Lee Daniels was robbed; this film takes on nearly every American prejudice, and Hollywood's willful blindness to poverty, race, and size... and spins it into gold. Gabourey Sidibe's performance is undeniable. Mo'Nique will never be this glorious again. And just when you think you've heard or seen it all, the final ten minutes of the film will up-end everything you think you knew. Daniels will get there, eventually, but it will be because he already did.

2008 - Milk. Not a great year, not a great set of choices... but Lord, anything other than the ludicrous Slumdog Millionaire. It might as well be the engaging biopic of the gay community's greatest political hero, which hit the trifecta of a great script, inventive direction, and a bravura lead performance. Or we can give it to a magical fairy tale. Oh well.

2007 - Michael Clayton. An issue pic, a taut thriller, one of George Clooney's easy, masterful performances, the glorious Tilda Swinton. Is this a hard call? I think not. Instead... There Will Be Blood. It was a very dark year. 

2006 - The Queen. Sentimental? Sure. Hogwash? A bit. I really wish the film had won rather than Helen Mirren. But I'd settle for both. The film, at the very least, offers a less varnished, less rosy view of the English royals than we normally get. And anything, to me, would be better than to reward Martin Scorsese for making a pale carbon copy of the vastly superior Infernal Affairs.

2005 - Brokeback Mountain. Obviously. Crash? Oh, where to begin. It's the decade's most inexplicable winner, one that made even its supporters wince as the reality sank in. And then there's Ang Lee's spare, brilliant, quiet paean to doomed love among the cowboys and the mountains. Easy call.

2004 - Sideways. Only because I think Ray was too conventional, too by the numbers in its depiction of a musician biopic. But certainly Charles is a compelling subject and the music soars. Still, Sideways is a charming, offbeat dramedy that stings in unexpected ways. Million Dollar Baby just never intrigued me.

2003 -  Mystic River. In a year that's actually a hard choice - I adore Lost in Translation, and am just sentimental enough to love Seabiscuit - I'd reward Clint Eastwood for a mystery drama that captures the South Boston experience in all its conflicted glory. And I slogged through all 3 episodes of Lord of the Rings. Still, not even close.

2002 - The Pianist. There is a question, naturally, of how many ways we can slice World War 2 movies and Holocaust pictures, but Roman Polanski's take is every bit as masterful as you'd expect from him, an unexpected journey very well told. Yes, that's me overlooking The Hours. And I liked Chicago... but Best? Maybe not so much.

2001 - Gosford Park. Downton Abbey in its concise, feature film form, from the absolute master of overlapping plotlines. It's even got Maggie Smith. As the Dowager Countess. It also has every other british actor you could dream of, doing just the sort of British things you'd want to see them doing.

2000 - Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Because The Academy waffled and gave it Best Foreign Film. Which is totally embarrassing.

1999 - The Insider. How times change. I didn't pick it at the time, and I didn't entirely love it... but time has not been kind to American Beauty, which winds up less than the sum of its parts. I am moderately torn by The Cider House Rules, but in the end, I think its defenders were right - The Insider holds up best.

1998 - Elizabeth. Two films featuring the Virgin Queen will enter. Only one can win. Oops. Yeah, we could have picked the brilliant bloody epic that verified Blanchett as a star... or we could pick Shaespeare in Love. Oh yeah... oops.

1997 - LA Confidential. I would write a long defense of why, but why bother? Titanic. They gave it to Titanic. Big mistake. Huge.

1996 - Fargo. I am not a Coen Brothers fan, and I loved The English Patient. But if a film was ever overlooked while being quietly brilliant, this mystery thriller remains a truy hidden gem.

1995 - Apollo 13. I'm not married to any of the choices; I'd take reading the phone book over Braveheart. I'm sure there's a good case, even, for Babe. But Tom Hanks really likes those astronaut pictures. And people tell me this one's good.

1994 - Quiz Show. Robert Redford's film has never been appreciated for what it is - a searing indictment of WASP privilege and the lies we tell ourselves, especially via television. Even something as simple as opening his credits with Mack the Knife and closing with the actual Moritat from Threepenny Opera makes his point with knifelike sharpness. I can't even begin to discuss the travesty of rewarding Forrest Gump instead.

1993 - In The Name Of The Father. But yes, this is the year of Schindler's List. So let's not push it.

1992 - A Few Good Men. In a sea of good but not great (Howard's End, The Crying Game, and the winning Unforgiven, to be sure; less so Scent of a Woman), it's mostly a toss-up. But Rob Reiner's adaptation of a fairly routine courtroom/court martial drama holds up extremely well, features Tom Cruise and Demi Moore in surprising career highs, and gives Jack Nicholson's best scene chewing room to breathe. You can't handle the truth. And that's not even the best line in that speech. Or in the film.

1991 - The Prince of Tides. Does it outdo Silence of the Lambs? Maybe not... but let's factor in, honestly, the severe anti-Streisand bias of the Academy. Then let's point out that this is Nick Nolte's best work by far, assisted by a slew of strong performances, including the diva herself. And Streisand did a marvelous of distilling a watchable movie out of a really bad, melodramatic book (seriously. It's atrocious). A sweeping cross-generational story, full of dark secrets and stunning revelations... we've given more awards to less. But you could tell me to pick Bugsy instead, and I'd hear you out. But don't start with me on JFK.

1990 - Goodfellas. The real moment when Martin Scorsese was robbed, his finest hour of storytelling on the story he was meant to tell, an amoral fable of gangsters from the height of their cultural importance to the sad dissolution into drugs, degradation and incarceration. Just the dazzling sequence at The Copa alone deserves Best Picture. And instead? We rewarded Dances With Wolves. Seriously? Seriously.

So endeth the first lesson. Up next, the epics of the eighties, and the sad story of seventies realism.

 

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Alone, Yet Not Alone

I'd been trying - as part of my general "time to reboot consistent blogging" strategy - to put together a piece on Justin Bieber, because his arrest really caught my attention.

And then Philip Seymour Hoffman died.

There's been the usual mix of sarcasm and disdain expressed for Bieber's behavior, a sadly familiar spectacle of acting out and getting caught. It's been harder (though not nonexistent) to find those who worry about the kid (he's only 19!) and hope he gets himself some treatment.

There's an awkwardness in America to discussing and dealing with drug use, abuse and addiction issues, a remnant of our distant history of puritanism, a distinctly American sense of privacy and suggestions that difficult family matters be kept behind closed doors. We are at once a people who want uncomfortable matters swept quietly aside, yet fascinated with the intimate details of each other's lives. It doesn't help that popular culture both rewards and gives notoriety to bad behavior and acting out, our fascination with a life that dares to color outside the expected lines vexing our expectations that people stay within those lines at all times.

When a drunken celebrity - often a young woman - is caught on camera stumbling and slurring and causing a scene, it's the mix of fascination and revulsion that propels it, often, into our national consciousness. Less consideration is given to how we (or more to the point, the person doing it) got to that moment, or what happens next. We talk vaguely of "the downward spiral of child stars" as if its an interesting abstraction, and less the painful trajectory of actual people and their actual lives.

I've been thinking about this a lot in the couple of weeks since Bieber's arrest in Miami, about signs and warnings, and downward spirals. Those who follow celebrity gossip closely - or not even, since I really don't invest the time in it writing like this might suggest - could tell you that Bieber's slide has been widely seen and discussed, bubbling just beneath the kind of coverage that happens once an arrest is made, or the problem becomes impossible to hide. Like Lindsay Lohan, Bieber's early life has been carefully dressed for PR purposes as less chaotic and tumultuous than it might seem on closer examination, the kind of warning signs of someone at risk long before the fame and the easy access arrives.

Addicts tell surprisingly similar tales of pain, isolation and loneliness leading to use and abuse of substances. I've thought about that as well with the Bieber story, how sad can it be to have all that he seemingly has, yet to seem so alone, so fragile, so determined to anesthetize oneself?

But what also comes to mind is a grim reality that's less discussed, partly because, I suspect, Bieber's kind of success doesn't necessarily evoke sympathy, or a certain kind of respect. One can miss the kid's obvious talents, his appealing singing voice, the grace of his dancing, his natural ability as a performer. Some talents, once squandered, can be lamented and and missed. Whitney Houston, or Heath  Ledger come to mind. But a Bieber, whose celebrity has trumped his talent... that lament can seem less obvious. But it's still there.

The sad reality is that Bieber's career has been the first, most obvious casualty of his behavior. Though he's toured successfully in the past few years, his status as a teen idol has been almost completely eclipsed by newcomers (One Direction, as well as newer teens like Austin Mahone and Cody Simpson) and established acts (Justin Timberlake, most obviously, has reasserted himself as the kind of heartthrob act Bieber aspires to be). His arrest occurred on the eve of the Grammys, where he was hardly missed, and in no contention for any award. The music world has already moved on, and so has much of the listening public. He hasn't charted a single, or released new material in some time. It's hard to see how he can collect himself, or his thoughts, for a project anytime soon.

That's where, to me, this story of Bieber intersects with Philip Seymour Hoffman. Amidst the lamentations for the loss of a prolific, widely admired actor, there's been the kind of immediate reassessment that happens with death, where the work takes on a fresh glow, and critics tend to emphasize the good and ignore the rest. Hoffman was indeed an actor of amazing range and depth, but he hadn't necessarily enjoyed anything like a career renaissance in recent years. His performances in The Hunger Games were not entirely well received, and underscored a kind of typecasting he endured as a smug, especially cold villain in big budget films. He had more opportunity to showcase his ranginess in smaller dramas, yet even there, it's hard to point to exceptional work in recent years.

Many will protest "but what about The Master?" No doubt his work was intense and skilled; but the film is chilly, dense, hard to love, and failed to find an audience. That's not a failure of the performers, per se, but it goes to a question that lingers about Hoffman, his addiction issues, and his admitted spiral into relapse. What choices might he have made had his addiction been less present, his sobriety more certain? Sober choices are smarter ones, more thought out, riskier yet also less dangerous, based upon more than a check, or a need to prove oneself. Onstage, his turn as Willy Loman was similarly curious, not a bad choice, necessarily, but an awfully big bite for an actor so young, in some ways still maturing and finding all of his potential. It's telling, that the reactions were so mixed, and so extreme; those who loved it, those who didn't have the heart to say it didn't really work.

It's hardest, I think, to have such a phenomenal talent, one that's expressed so young and so well and so naturally that it seems effortless. Hoffman's early roles have a sureness to them that really was breathtaking. Or think of Whitney Houston as Clive Davis found her, such an amazing raw talent for singing and interpreting a song just waiting to fly. And yes, Justin Bieber and his soaring young tenor, that need to be in front of an audience, that eagerness to please and to succeed. Judy Garland always spoke of the inner resources and energy it took just to be the Judy Garland audiences came to expect, capable of singing and performing others just couldn't touch. It should be easier, effortless, not isolating and difficult. And that's not really the case. It isn't easy. There's a lot of effort. And sometimes, it's easier to just fake it. Go onstage a little drunk. Phone it in. When you're that good, you can get away with it. At first, for a while, maybe before people notice, or suspect. For a while anyway. Especially when they don't look. Or pretend not to see.

We'll never know, now, what might have been, the actor Hoffman might have become, the actor he might have been in a more sober state. That loss is genuinely painful to contemplate, as is that question of what or who could have intervened, or knowing that no one could stop a path of self destruction unless he decided himself. If Hoffman's death is a cautionary tale, can someone get it to caution Justin Bieber, to help him see that there's no one to stop him self destructing except himself? I wish he would. I hope he does. The alternative remains too tragic. But not unthinkable, or unforseeable. If we choose to look.

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You'll Be A Bust In The Hall Of Fame

I've finally decided to go back and write a fresh piece about this - I originally tied it to a post that started out about Madonna, and went sideways, but I think this deserves a post (and an action) all its own. Plus, since I've kept watching this, over the years, it's just become more embarrasing.

I'm talking about the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. And it's sorry record of adding women.

Since it began the process of "inducting" notable figures into the Hall, the Hall of Fame has been a decidedly mixed bag. The selection process is, at best, capricious; its standards are questionable, and the failure to properly recognize a number of artists is beyond glaring.

Where this all comes together is around the issue of female representation in American music's only tribute to key contributors of the rock era. It's been a cause that repeatedly gets brought up, year after year, as dozens of men are inducted, but only a few women, year after year. The first woman inducted (Aretha Franklin) wasn't included until the second year. In all, since 1986, 709 people have been inducted. Just over 50 are women. No women were inducted in 2003 or 2004. Seventeen men have been inducted more than once. As I did in the original post, here is a complete list of every woman inducted into the Hall, in chronological order (with designations that are used in the Hall's nomenclature):

Aretha Franklin
Diana Ross, Mary Wilson, Florence Ballard (as The Supremes)
Bessie Smith (as an “Early Influence”)
Carole King (as part of the “non-performer” writing team with Gerry Goffin)
Ma Rainey (Early Influence)
La Vern Baker
Tina Turner (as part of Ike and Tina Turner)
Etta James
Ruth Brown
Dinah Washington (Early Influence)
Martha Reeves, Rosalyn Ashford, Betty Kelly, Lois Reeves and Annette Sterling (as Martha and the Vandellas)
Janis Joplin
Shirley Reeves, Micki Harris, Doris Kenner-Jackson, and Beverly Lee (as the Shirelles)
Grace Slick (as part of Jefferson Airplane)
Gladys Knight (and the Pips)
Joni Mitchell
Mahalia Jackson (Early Influence)
Michelle Phillips and Cass Elliott (as the Mamas, along with the Papas)
Christine McVie and Stevie Nicks (as part of Fleetwood Mac)
Dusty Springfield
Mavis, Cleotha, and Yvonne Staples (as part of The Staples Singers)
Bonnie Raitt
Billie Holiday (Early Influence)
Brenda Lee
Chrissie Hynde (with the Pretenders)
Debbie Harry (as part of Blondie)
Patti Smith
Ronnie Spector, Nedra Talley, and Estelle Bennett (as the Ronettes)
Madonna

Wanda Jackson (2009, Early Influence)

Annafrid and Agnetha with ABBA

Ellie Greenwich (and Jeff Barry as songwriters)

Cynthia Weil (and Barry Mann as songwriters)

Darlene Love (inducted by Bette Midler, who isn't)

Laura Nyro

Claudette Rogers Robinson (as a member of The Miracles - Smokey Robinson was inducted solo in 1987)

Donna Summer

Ann Wilson and Nancy Wilson (as the leaders of Heart)

 

This year, yet again, only 3 women are even nominated: Linda Ronstadt, along with Alfa Anderson and Norma Jean Wright (as original members of Chic). That's out of 16 nominated acts or individuals.

The pace of women inductees is almost unbelievable, and while it's easy to argue that part of this is a function of the overall male culture of rock (a male dominant music industry, a plethora of all male bands), that's hardly an excuse. Nor is it excusable that the selection process seems heavily weighted to a male dominated group of rock critics and "industry experts" whose biases are all too apparent. There are, and continue to be, a variety of related scandals around the pace and timing of inductees into the Hall (such as the reason the Miracles were inducted last year, correcting only the solo representation of Smokey Robinson), around men and groups who should be represented, and that's fair game as well. There's also that ever present question of what consitutes "rock and roll" which the founders of the Hall have struggled with all along, with middling success. None of that, still, explains why, say, Pat Benatar or Joan Jett has never made it into the Hall of Fame, by any standard. Or why Carole King, one of the top selling album artists of all time as a solo act, is only inducted as a songwriter. With her ex-husband (much like Tina Turner, whose solo career goes unrecognized. Still). Never mind Cher. Or Judy Collins. Or Joan Baez... 

It's well past the time that all of this sits, unexplored and unaddressed, passed over year after year while occasionally someone mildly asks why aren't more women included. It's possible Ronstadt would speak up about it, except she's too ill to do it. Few of the women already in ever have spoken extensively about it. This past year, it was Elton John who publicly shamed the Hall over the failure to recognize Donna Summer. She was inducted posthumously.

It's fair to ask if a "Rock and Rol Hall of Fame" deserves to be taken seriously. After more than 25 years, it's clear, at least, that the music industry has adopted the concept fairly wholeheartedly, that fans welcome the recognition for their beloved artists, and the physical structure of the Hall has established a presence. All of which, after more than 25 years, makes the embarrassing failure to properly recignize the contributions of women all the more glaring, depressing, and unacceptable.  It seems clear that one of this will change until voices are raised, loudly, for some sort of improvement.

 

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Worst Song Ever: C'est Quoi?

Back to writing... means back to the music. The really, really, bad music.

If you're just getting started with me... check out the ground rules. And a brief history. Many, many songs have been covered.

But not these. Here, a few gems that make me turn off the radio -

Robin Thicke (featuring T.I. and Pharrell), Blurred Lines. Overdue? Perhaps. Maybe it's just that it takes a while to cross the line into "overplayed." Either way, I feel a little bit bad, because I think Thicke (aka Alan's son) is a talented singer with a dreamy falsetto, a knack for catchy lyrics, and a real love for seventies disco and soft soul. And, at first, Blurred Lines seemed like a cute throwaway to launch his newest project, evoking the best of seventies disco, that moment just before it broke big, when you felt like someone keeping a big secret because you knew about Chic. But much like then, overexposure leads to contempt. That's when you're forced to contemplate the casual misogyny of the video, the inherent rudeness of the lyrics, the fact that you know damn well what rhymes with "hug me" and frankly, it doesn't really rhyme with hug me which is a reminder that the lyrics are actually kind of sloppy and not fully baked. Neither was that embarrassing performance at the VMAs, where the sad, offensive part was less Miley Cyrus gamely providing sardonic irony about life as a video ho, but Thicke's heavy panting as if he were simulating the real thing. Also, that falsetto's wearing itself out in live performances.

Daft Punk, Get Lucky (Featuring Pharrell Williams). For all the claims to art house pretentiousness - yeah, kind of like Art of Noise - Daft Punk has rarely risen above interesting novelty act, and this mildly perky dance number might survive its slight qualities if it hadn't been heralded, right behind Blurred Lines, as some high art version of disco brilliance. And insisting, over and over "we go out basically so we can get laid" is hardly deep thought. Percolating endlessly as if at some point it will get somewhere, Get Lucky mostly just lays there, writhing. And that's not dancing. And dance music can do better. And hey... notice a pattern, Pharrell?

Britney Spears, Work B**ch. I'm torn, honestly; since reviving her career after that very public meltdown, Spears has ridden a razor's edge of overt sexiness that can be refreshing in its directness... except when it slips into heavy breathing porno sleaziness. Three, with its boy/boy/girl implications and "Peter Paul and Mary" lyrical asides makes it work, as did the simmering rage of Womanizer. Work Bitch should work, and just, well, kind of doesn't. Too mechanical, too noisy, too repetitive, Spears sound like a wind up toy who just got reprogrammed to talk dirty. Lyrically lazy (Lamborghini/martini/bi-kini almost works... but  Live fancy/big mansion/party in france isn't even close), The weak excuse of "well, she's throwing cold water on dreamy aspirational living" means hey, she's killing your dreams, and you can dance to it! That's not really how it works. Factor in her own admission that tramping around video shoots in your thirties dressed like a hooker doesn't square with her home life as a mother... and well, this act may need a fresh start.

Bruno Mars, Gorilla. Another rising star capable of genuine brilliance (Treasure!), Mars gets lost, more than a little, in lyrical wastelands ("Grenade" was another real winner) and "let's make love like gorillas" - from a black man! - is hardly something to cheer about. You'd think he knew that. Or at least listened to Jungle Love enough times to know that you can't get away with it unless the campy meter is up at 11. In a ballad? Deadly.

 

Live, And More

I don't really care whether or not Beyonce lip-synched the National Antrhem, so much as I am fascinated by why a fairly modest, unsurprising decision redounded so badly for her. And I think the problem is twofold, and intertwined: a failure to be frank and up front, and a desire to preserve an unrealistic illusion.

Beyonce Knowles is a curious kind of star, at least for me; though she's obviously quite talented, her success has a lot to do with a long term, carefully managed strategy dating back to her childhood. Very little, ever, was left to chance. Destiny's Child (which is, literally, a description of her) went through several iterations before the carefully managed combination of Beyonce, Michelle Williams and Kelly Rowland became the  standard bearers. And even then, this was never a fantasy of Supremes like equality before Diana Ross got pulled forward. The ultimate goal, always, was solo stardom for the lead.

The notion of carefully controlled image, of carefully managed impressions, tends to dog Beyonce constantly. The internet rumors that her pregnancy was faked or stage managed, the presentation of her marriage, the ups and downs of her acting and singing careers... always there's this dissonant sense of what's real and what's "faked", and how to square the public presentation with overheard, "private" impressions.

The first thing that flashed in my head when suggestions of Beyonce's lip-synch surfaced was of Whitney Houston, naturally, and the 1992 Super Bowl, when she, as they said, "performed to a safety track" she'd recorded in advance of her appearance. It was lip synching, and essentially, no one cared. No one cared, I think, for those same couple of reasons: Arista (her label) was pretty up front about what happened, and no one, really, thought Houston couldn't handle live singing. Ever.

Impressions of Beyonce as a live performer tend to be somewhat more precarious. And more pointedly, her public persona is more carefully managed, for better and worse, than Houston's ever quite was.  Houston probably needed more protection, less overexposure. But it'e telling that, even now, neither Beyonce nor her spokespeople have particularly addressed the performance at the Inauguration, even after a week. Even a simple, "yes, she performed to tape" statement would kill a lot of the speculation and surmises that follow from the gossip.

Two things about the performance probably stick: the first is that faking a performance at the Inauguration is not a huge deal, but it's an odd choice, especially when, in the Obama years, Aretha Franklin, James Taylor, and Kelly Clarkson all managed live singing in similar, or identical circumstances (it's worth pointing out, too, that all three of those names are extremely seasoned live performers; and, too, that Franklin's performance wasn't her best... but no one cares). These are the days when, warts and all, the public has come to expect live event singing at particular venues and events. The other point is that Beyonce probably didn't help herself by recording a small, fairly intimate version of the National Anthem that didn't necessarily play well in the expanse of the National Mall. Big events tend to call for a "big" reading of the Anthem; we're full on Americans in our moments of natiuonal patriotism. Beyonce's version was small and quiet in the early going, and it felt small, and kind of tentative. It doesn't mean her performance choices were bad... but I tend to think she's still learning, as a singer, to be the kind of performer her fame suggests she already is - bigger than the room, up there with the legends. Her stardom is huge; her performing abilities are not, always. And again, that tends to be a reflection of her place in her generation, not necessarily a knock on her potential. A lot of these younger stars - whose fame seems outsized, and who have been carefully stage managed - seem overwhelmed when stepping into the shoes of these giant moments.

As I started, I don't care whether she lip synched; and, like RuPaul, I think she probably lip synched it better than most; she made it look so genuine, it was hard to believe the stories, at first. But I think the point is, lip synching wouldn't be a big deal if Beyonce and her people were honest about it, and if they challenged the occasionally absurd expectation that "live" singing should be an expectation or an ideal. But both, really, would be challenging and asking people to let go of their illusions. And that faith in illusions, I think, is still the problem Beyonce Knowles has most. Be fake if you must... but really, you might as well be honest about it. That's how to get to the place where no one cares.

Les Miserables: There's A Grief That Can't Be Spoken

Of all the "big eighties" musicals (Phantom, Cats, Dreamgirls, etc), I've long suspected that Les Miserables is the best known and least understood of the bunch. More than the others - only Phantom really comes close - Les Miz isn't really so much a traditional musical comedy as much as it is light opera, a style very popular early on in American musical theater, but that eventually got subsumed into the opera houses of most of America (along with Gilbert and Sullivan and Porgy and Bess). Light operas and operettas were the sort of thing Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald did for MGM, where there was a lot of emphatic singing and usually little spoken dialogue, but it didn't quite qualify as "serious" opera because they were more recent, and tended towards more popular melodies.

Few people get that Les Miserables, in French, was originally more of a song cycle with some staging, before Cameron Mackintosh swept the whole thing up, translated it into English and gave it an elaborate staging in London. Even then, the initial reaction to it as a piece of theater was as more of an event, not easily categorized as traditional, straight musical theater. As it made its way to Broadway, Les Miz became treated more conventionally, even though, as a show, it actually has next to no spoken dialogue, is mostly sung-through, and relies heavily on recitative as well as traditional "numbers," which often function, in the show, more as solo arias, or duets and trios, amongst main characters. It's a short hop, really, from Les Miz to La Boheme, shorter than the hop to, say, a Phantom. The musical themes assemble and reassemble in the different numbers, and the show's first act closer, "One Day More," gradually blends the different threads preceding it into a stunning thematic whole.

Thus, in some ways, it's unfair to come to Les Miz expecting the familiar contours of the form that's been identified, since World War 2, as the American musical comedy. Les Miz is more thematically dense, more musically demanding, even if it does not, fully, fit the form of conventional opera. More than any show in recent memory, it is a singer's show - it requires, first, singers who can act more than actors who can sing (never mind dancers; the show is almost entirely free of traditional choreography). Arguably, Les Miserables has attained its cult status, and its rabid fan base by being staged as a musical, while playing to its operatic pretensions.

And so Les Miz arrives on film, proving that it still has worlds to conquer, its operatic pretensions in place, its place in pop culture secure. Tom Hooper's adaptation is all the junkies could expect - big, bold, brash and full of soaring musical moments. However well made, it cannot entirely mask the show's book flaws, and while visually magnificent, it can often feel somewhat less than the sum of its parts. And as always, the show rises and falls, most, on the strengths and weaknesses of its singers.

Many have argued that the film's weakest link is Russell Crowe as Javert, obviously the most actorly of the film's lead singers. Crowe has worked hard, and he does have singing experience (a band with him and his brothers is big in Australia), but his limited range is apparent, and at times he does struggle. But I think Crowe is being sold short for what he brings as an actor (and then too, the part of Javert is easy to treat harshly). At his best - his version of Stars, or Javert's eventual death scene - Crowe wisely undersings and retains the humanity of his character where others would go for bombast, or reach for the rafters. Crowe knows film well enough to understand its intimacy, and he connects with the camera in ways that others don't do quite as well. It's an idiosyncratic, star turn performance that works more than it doesn't.

On the other hand, there's Hugh Jackman, muscling his way through Jean Valjean with his usual scene chewing, always "on" qualities, who seems genuinely miscast. Valjean is the show's most brutal part, a screamingly high tenor role where the singer has to hit the highest notes with a full on belt. It's a singing skill that really encompasses a handful of men (there have been, I think, maybe 8-10 Valjeans  on Broadway in the life of the show)... and Jackman just isn't one of them. It's painful, really, to see the vocal strain as he tries to put over crucial numbers, none more so than the cruelly high "Bring Him Home." Lord knows, Jackman's qualities of pure showmanship can overcome most obstacles... but a note out of reach doesn't magically get reachable. And his acting can only take that so far.

The film starts with Valjean being paroled after 19 years in hard labor for stealing a loaf of bread during the French Revolution. Unfortuately, his parole makes him (shades of today) a virtual persona non grata in civilized society, and so he faces an agonizing (those notes!) dilemma of turning to crime or hiding in a new identitity. Assuming a fake name and a false identity, Valjean becomes a town mayor and factory owner, where a young woman named Fantine loses her job when the other women turn on her because of the foreman's obvious preference for her good looks. This leads Fantine on her own downward spiral, which she describes in her number "I Dreamed A Dream."

Anne Hathaway's appearance, 20 minutes in (she's gone by about 20 minutes later) is the film's down payment on greatness, and Hathaway shines so bright the effect is nearly mesmerizing. Gaunt and grim, she slogs her way through Fantine's travails, and though she's not the vocally strongest Fantine (Patti Lupone, for Christ's sake, was the original), Hathaway has that quality I've only seen in Marion Cotillard on film, of truly being able to act a song so thoroughly, all other doubts wash away. Bewildered, hurt, scared and desperate... all of this and more plays across her face as she attacks the song, sometimes letting emotion overwhelm her notes, other times, hitting them all the harder and more accurately to let the music do its job. Her performance is the most solid Oscar entrant I've seen all year.

Les Miz is a sprawling show, and Fantine's death leads to the real meat of the show, where Valjean adopts Fantine's daughter, Cosette, from a rapacious couple of innkeepers whose every thought is stealing (the Thernadiers, here played expertly by Helena Bonham Carter and Sacha Baron Cohen). Still running from his jailer Javert, Valejean and Cosette wind up in Paris in 1832 as an eventualy botched student revolutionary protest sweeps up a group of young men, including Marius, Cosette's suitor, and the Thernadier's daughter, Eponine.

This is one of the great legendarily down shows, and virtually all of the show's most memorable numbers are death scene last gasps, interpsersed with dripping declarations of undying love and the occasional call to stand up and fight for freedom. The ideas are big, the music swells, but the lyrics are often surprisingly small, and often trite. Les Miz succeeds best, and affects most, when its not trying too hard, pushing too high, or smacking us with the obvious. But even its most shameless moments can pack a surprising punch.

After Hathaway, Jackman and Crowe, the biggest vocal surprises are Eddie Redmayne and Amanda Seyfried as the lovers Marius and Cosette. Redmayne is a foursquare romantic tenor in great voice, and Seyfried has a glorious light soprano that lifts her material way higher than I remember when I saw the show. The Eponine role is a natural stunner and she delivers. Carter and Cohen are aces as the Thernadiers. And the smaller roles - Gavroche, Enjolrais - work as reliably as one should expect.

Tom Hooper's direction is less assured than one might expect, as he seems to struggle with balancing the intimacy of the characters and their solos with the bombast and enormity of the action surrounding them. Les Miz, on stage, is memorably presented on a spinning disc, rotating characters on and off, and Hooper does his best to try and recreate the effect with pull backs and dolly shots to surround the sets, but he also frames his soloists in super tight, unforgiving closeups (Hathaway's lack of Hollywood vanity is remarkable), and the mix of shots doesn't make either choice necessarily effective. Hooper's focus on soloists robs "One Day More" of some its punch, Fantine's death is poorly staged, and Jackman's showiness would look less desperate if Hooper pulled back. None of this can diminish the power of the strongest numbers (Dream, On My Own, Empty Chairs at Empty Tables, Master of the House), but  by the end, the show feels more like a slog than a journey.

Still, for its flaws, indeed perhaps because imperfection keeps this monster human scale rather than enormous and bloated, Les Miserables manages a surprising amount of subtlety, genuine emotion, and soaring power. Indeed, the film's attempts at intimacy solve a number of the second act book problems the show carries with it, which allows the show to feel more like an altogether more inclusive whole. All of which make it, for me, the Oscar contender to beat for Best Picture (I'll do Lincoln shortly), and a glorious adaptation of a misunderstood theatrical event. Someone may try again... but good luck with that. This one will stand pretty tall regardless, for a long time. 

Saturday Singalong: The Best Of What We Heard

A couple of caveats about this year: I don't think this was a great year for a diehard pop fan, especially given that a good number of female stars either released little (Katy Perry) or weak new product (Kylie Minogue's ill-advised orchestral rerecordings is one stark example). When a Madonna album comes and goes and almost no one remembers... well, an era has ended, if you ask me. I mean we do even remember American Life. 

Second, technology continues to change, well, everything. This year was all about YouTube and downloaded singles and, for me, the occasional thrill of finding an obscure no-name or small sensation with maybe a keyboard and some digital editing skills. Still, my torch burns brightest for straight-up pop, and this, for me, was what worked best:

Carly Rae Jepsen, Call Me Maybe. There's a thin line between having one of the all-time top singles and teeing up the ultimate Worst Song Ever, and Jepsen walked it pretty miraculously. Absurdly overplayed, way too influential in the zeitgeist... yet somehow Jepsen led the way with the brightest piece of ear candy in years. Maybe it's "ripped jeans, skin was showing", maybe it's the emphatic ambivalence of the title, which can't even sum up the nerve to be commanding (call me... maybe?). Which of course, it is just crazy to hand your number to some stranger you've just met. It's the details, the small but true observational aspects, I suspect, that gave this song wings. And Jepsen may not be able to match it, but the 25 girls who wish they'd sung it don't have anything nearly as catchy.

Psy, Gangnam Style. What am I, dead? Of course I heard it. And couldn't turn it off. Sure it's the arresting video and the YouTube thing, but Psy's real wonder was creating a piece of noisy techno-dance that wasn't so ear insulting as to require turning it off. Catchy, danceable, and a charming lyrical mess (i have no idea what "Gangnam Style" is, but at least we know it isn't some sort of anti-American gang violence). And sure, as it filters down into the wedding reception and prom market it will be.... unfortunate. But by then, shouldn't we just put on our coats, congratulate the lucky couple, and go?

Deadmau5, The Veldt (featuring Chris James). Deadmau5 is already a superstar as a dj and remixer, so why not cross over into making the music as well? The Veldt is one of those dance songs that clears away the clutter of what came before it, a complete rethinking of the rhythm and the tone of the night. That it's also brainy and engaging (adapted from that Ray Bradbury story where kids trap their parents in a videowalled room turned into an African Veldt) isn't just a plus... it's what it lifts it to greatness.

Pink, Blow Me (One Last Kiss). Not her best, but not her worst; much of Pink's material is starting to bleed into one raucous party song where the party always about to get going (and you can stay if you're not a douchebag), contrasted with a long dark ballad in which love is like some sort of addiction. Still, she's balls-out the biggest badass on the block, still outsinging most everyone, and wittier by far. "No more sick whiskey dick" and "we've had a shit day" do count for cutting through the clutter of niceness that tends to prevade pop these days. But perhaps a change-up of some sort, next time...?

Fun., Some Nights. I still think "We Are Young" is something of a disaster, but not for want of trying: the verses of that song are surprisingly thoughtful. But Some Nights is proof that Fun. can do it right and do it well. Maybe it's the creamy Queen-level harmonies, the foursquare marching band rhythm (Tusk?), but for me, it's the sobering, questioning stance of the soaring lyric. "Who the fuck wants to die alone?" Not me. And when I look into my nephews eyes... some of the most amazing things can come from some terrible lives. Gets me every time.

Austin Mahone, Say Something. Keep your Bieber. I'll keep looking.

One Direction, Live While We're Young. Last year, they were teens for the tween set, asking you to believe for yourself what they saw in you. Now it's all one night stands and easy sex... or did no one actually listen to the lyrics of this even catchier ear candy? ""I know we only met but let's pretend it's love... tonight let's get some, and live while we're young." Indeed.

The Ready Sets, Give Me Your Hand (Best Song Ever). Like I said this time last year, I find myself drawn to a slew of these (fairly interchangeable) po-up bands with a lot of digital skillz, peppy tunes and autotune vocoding. A song so airy and content free that it suggests - nay, insists - that some other song is actually the best ever, what I like is how well it sells this with an air of tuneful assurance. That kind of charm is missing from a lot of pop these days.

JTX, Seven Day Weekend. And not just cause he actually took the time to read my praise for him last year. This one is just a cheerful piece of party pop... but at least it's a party that actually sounds like fun.

Olly Murs, Troublemaker. Murs is another contest winner (Britain's Got Talent, I think, or some one of those) who is already enjoying a solid career in the UK, and surely can ride the coattails of 1D to the US. Not just teenboy pop, but teenboy pop that harks back to early Britney, and by extension, the career Justin Timberlake is too big to condescend to.

Bruno Mars, Locked Out of Heavan. A truly wondrous production, some sort of answer to the question of what would have happened if Michael Jackson had gone to England and recorded Beat It with Sting and Andy Summers, circa Roxanne. There may be an eighties revival, and Mars is the reason to hope it brings us more than just recycled cheese.

Maroon 5, Daylight. I've been wondering if "Overexposed" the title of their album is actually an ironic wink to their current reality, or an unwitting confirmation of their slide to selling out. I've already dissed Payphone, I can't even muster the energy to pan the pale white reggae-ish of One More Night, and then there's this. It's a lovely single, with a better soaring lyric than the others... but it's still awfully generic pop, a Chris Brown single with modest pop aspirations. And in a bad year, it's better tha most... if that's enough.

The Beginning Of The End: 2012 Is A Worst Song Ever Treasure Trove

End of year compiling has just begun, and I want in on the madness. Even for a year of light blogging, I got in a good bit of observations for Worst Song Ever... and lo and behold, my choices made the Top of the Pops. Via Jezebel, it seems Spotify (the world's worst App, from what I can tell; I finally had to delete it becaue apparently it won't run if you don't Facebook) has published their top song requests of the year. And.... I rest my case, since "overplayed" is a big piece of the Worst Song Rules. 

(Also, I rest my case about Spotify.)

Anyway, the list:

• 1. Gotye featuring Kimbra — "Somebody That I Used to Know"
• 2. Carly Rae Jepsen — "Call Me Maybe"
• 3. Fun. featuring Janelle Monáe — "We Are Young"
• 4. Flo Rida — "Whistle"
• 5. Flo Rida featuring Sia — "Wild Ones"
• 6. Train — "Drive By"
• 7. Nicki Minaj — "Starships"
• 8. Maroon 5 featuring Wiz Khalifa — "Payphone"
• 9. David Guetta featuring Sia — "Titanium"
• 10. Loreen — "Euphoria"

Yes, 4 of the 10 already made my list this year. Of the others, I would put both Flo Rida songs on the list... but I apparently now Hate All Flo Rida, which means it doesn't count. Whistle and Wild One are but two atrocious station changing examples.  Similarly, I'm not sure which David Guetta assemblage is "Titanium", but Guetta's diluted himself into a cartoon, my opinion (and PS, how does Sia become the go-to nobody for these things?). In any case, I can't dis Carly Rae Jepsen, and Gotye was my first big fave of this year. So maybe I have a little mass taste. But just a little.

Oh, and just to sum up this year in all its (painful) pop misery, one of those really nifty "mashups" of... well, everything.

  

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Ew, It's Gross. I'm Not Doing It (Plus Some Thoughts On Taylor Swift)

 

"We are never ever ever getting into leather" is much fun (via one of my regular must reads, the World of Wonder blog), but then so is the Taylor Swift original which kicked off her album Red.

 

 

Swift has gotten a lot of grief because the song, apparently, is a thinly veiled diss of Jake Gyllenhaal. This is in line with previous songs, her subtextual critics suggest, with a string of songs aimed at exes and occasionally their new girlfriends. For her part, Swift doesn't entirely deny that her songs come out of her experiences, or that some of them are indeed, about a specific person or event.

That is usally how one writes a song.

I'm sort of struck by the obvious sexism at play in this, and by the blindness of otherwise sensitive types (like Jezebel) to the double standard at work. It's as if all that material written by high profile male rockstars to their (often equally high profile) girlfriends and exes never happened. Did nobody hear the backstory of "My Sharona"?  Or how Dylan aimed a string of (actually rather bitchy) singles at his girlfriends from the sixties (including, just as a for instance, Edie Sedgwick)? How about something more recent - did no one listen to the words to "Gives You Hell" by All American Rejects? (Yeah, I don't love it either... but still).

Apparently, it's wrong for a woman to complain about bad boyfriends... or something. Or perhaps it's just that Swift's kiss-offs are aimed at young, handsome, popular celebrity men whose puppy dog reps (even a dog like John Mayer) preclude thinking badly of them in the public sphere. Perhaps it's simply the charmed nature of Swift's career and her own super-sweet public persona. I know I resisted at first, but Swift's chops as a musician and songwriter have become simply impossible to dismiss or ignore. And that, really, is why a song like "We are never ever getting back together" has sting. 

Whatever the case for resistance and ugly backlash, I can't help the feeling that if Swift were a man and the disses in question were aimed at ex-girlfriends we wouldn't be having this backlash and the star would be a hero, not a bitch. And that's just like... ew.