Saturday, October 06, 2007
Is It Me You're Looking For?
Twice in the last two weeks, I've gotten embarrassing mid-80s easy-listening classics stuck in my head after accidental exposure over the speaker system at some retail outlet or deli. Right now, it's George Michael's 1984 solo outing "Careless Whispers", which has been bouncing around my cortex for over 24 hours. Last week, it was Lionel Richie's "Hello" (also 1984), which occupied a significant chunk of my conscious experience for at least 2 days.
Have you ever seen the video for "Hello"? The plotline (it's one of those 80s music videos with the song interwoven with dialogue) involves a theater professor who's in love with his student. His blind student. This creepy dynamic really underscores the lines, "I can see it in your eyes... Is it me you're looking for?" (Here's a hint, Romeo: she's not looking for anything. She's blind.) Of course, the wish-fulfillment ending has the student -- for real now -- sculpting a bust of Lionel Richie and showing it to him for his approval. This should, perhaps, be unsuprising coming from the decade that told us that "learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all". But the celebration of narcissism is still staggering.
Sheesh. This creepy shit is why I don't listen to music anymore.
(Also: what is with me and cheesy pop ballads from 1984? Freud could probably tell me some interesting stuff about what happened to me at age 7 to trigger my susceptibility to these particular tunes.)
Have you ever seen the video for "Hello"? The plotline (it's one of those 80s music videos with the song interwoven with dialogue) involves a theater professor who's in love with his student. His blind student. This creepy dynamic really underscores the lines, "I can see it in your eyes... Is it me you're looking for?" (Here's a hint, Romeo: she's not looking for anything. She's blind.) Of course, the wish-fulfillment ending has the student -- for real now -- sculpting a bust of Lionel Richie and showing it to him for his approval. This should, perhaps, be unsuprising coming from the decade that told us that "learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all". But the celebration of narcissism is still staggering.
Sheesh. This creepy shit is why I don't listen to music anymore.
(Also: what is with me and cheesy pop ballads from 1984? Freud could probably tell me some interesting stuff about what happened to me at age 7 to trigger my susceptibility to these particular tunes.)
