May, 2007 ------ It's quite possible that our economy would collapse if everyone stopped objectifying women for a second. I'm not going to bore everyone with a lecture on why this is fucked up. I'm just going to assume that you are all doing your part by not singing along to the tired old "woman-as-object" patriarchal anthem. As long as the capitalists keep making new verses, the song is here to stay. It's the most boring song I've ever heard. Sorry strippers. Sorry fashion industry. Sorry pin-up magazines. Sorry Hollywood. Isn't your time up? Can we have our pubic hair back already?
No? Fine then. Can you at least give us something to objectify? Something good. Something solid. In case you were confused (because it seems like you might be), we have no interest in "money shots" or romantic comedies. We don't cum from eating chocolate or other deserts. We don't need any rose petals on the fucking bed or pictures of your genitals. Seriously, why is it always virgin or whore anyway? There's a balance. Take some notes. Ask us. It would just be nice to have the opportunity to try on the ol' objectification boot and see how it feels. From what I gather, it's the most powerful shoe in the world. It can turn sister against sister while bringing brothers closer together. I just want to wear it on occasion. Umm, I promise not to start any wars with it. Maybe just one small revolution but that's all. I'll only invade a few countries and some bachelorette parties with it. Do we have a deal? I'm totally willing to let you keep your Victoria Secrets catalogs and fucking Suicide Girls. Whatever sheep. It takes more than a pretty face to turn me on. It's just, can't you throw a smart girl a bone?
One summer I obtained a "bone". It was a bootleg video of F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.I.V.E. Okay, say what you will about Pulp and the Jarvis enthusiasts of the world. I already know that an absurd amount of anglophiles get worked up in a teenage frenzy over Jarvis Cocker. I know that dumb girls worship him. I get it. You don't need to make fun of my Pulp records. Let me chew on my fucking bone. Can't I talk about Jarvis Cocker without being lumped in with the anglophiles and hipsters of the world? Can't I talk about his name being the perfect mix of virgin/whore? Really, could there be a more perfect name to objectify?
Think about it. Get high off the complexities.
No? Can I at least talk about his multi-tasking abilities? I've never seen anybody perform cunnilingus on a mic while dry humping thin air AND telling a story quite like he does. If that doesn't do it for you, maybe you should watch him roll around the floor while moaning about "lemonade light filtering thru the trees". Maybe my thrills are cheap, but he had me at lemonade.
If that doesn't interest you, can we at least talk about the underdog penetrating mainstream ideas about what's considered attractive? Can we talk about his clever tongue? His gift for writing anthems? His hips? His keen observations about class struggles and subcultures? Bored? Fine. I'm going to talk about his show in Seattle. I'm going to tell you all about how I finally got to wear the ol' objectification boot. The revolution was started on the dance floor (like all revolutions) and I loved it.
Okay, this wasn't the first time I've seen Jarvis. We go way back. The first time was when he played keyboard with Marianne Faithfull for, like, two songs. The second time was with Pulp. A friend and I were trying to crash one of those annoying music industry events. After a few failed attempts at pretending to be the Stereophonics' roadies, somebody gave us one ticket. Just one. One ticket is the story of my life. What fun is that golden ticket to Wonka World when you can't share it with your friends? My friend went home to write a paper. I took the golden ticket and expected to find hysteria and girls crying inside. Instead, I was surrounded by overfed music journalists barely paying attention. Jarvis didn't dry hump a thing.
The third time was at the Reading Festival. I snuck in the press pit. Don't ask me how. There are worse places to see Pulp than the press pit at the Reading festival. It was a sea of laminated neck accouterments and wristband hierarchies, a confusing mess of rock, paper, VIP sticker. Does my sticker beat their wristbands? Is my neck accoutrement a different color? Is the A-room better than the B room? That's the problem with backstage. The decoder rings are always incredibly large adult males telling you where to stand and what you can't drink. Needless to say, I wanted to avoid all that. I had to keep my composure. It was a weird spot to be in. The only thing separating the press from the fans was a gate and a few large men. As much as I wanted to scream the lyrics and howl every time Jarvis shook a limb, I couldn't risk it. The fans behind me were having the time of their life while I stood quietly with the photographers, pretending to take notes for "that job at the NME" I didn't have. The concerned friend that got me backstage kept texting "You're going to get kicked out. That's the press area." Nobody kicked me out. It's a good story but I wonder if it was worth it. I mean, It's hard to enjoy the candy when you have to pretend you don't like it.
Who doesn't like a little candy? Music journalists, I hear.
Later that evening, I watched him DJ in a tent. The powers that be wouldn't let Kim Deal in because she had the wrong wristband on or something. You see, even rock stars have to deal with large adult males telling them what to do.
The fourth time was right before I moved back to the States. He opened for Lee Hazlewood. It was the perfect concert. I thought that was it.
Anyway, my point to all this is that Jarvis in London is just another show for the British. Jarvis in America is a big fucking deal. Seattle agreed with me. Hungry girls everywhere chewed on that bone. They took hundreds of pictures. They bit their lips and nudged their friends anytime he wiggled his hips. Orgasmic screams were heard each time he sucked on his mic or did a leg kick. When he wasn't turning us on, he talked to us like people, sang about politics, woke our ovaries up with "One Man Show" and said goodbye with a spot on rendition of "Purple Haze". Seriously. It was flawless! When I left the show, girls were all smiles while boys seemed timid. Life was good. Why shouldn't girls be smiling? Why shouldn't life be good? Fuck being on sale and being sold to! We're not your muse! Let's tear down this city like they did during the WTO riots! Who's streets? Then I passed a bunch of ads of scantily clad women selling something or another and I was reminded of who's streets I was on.