Emily Starr

It is downtown Greensboro on a starry October night. The air is thick and porous, gently suffocating. Jeff is panting, frantically power walking to keep up with me as I hustle down the street, boiling with rage, shaking with humiliation, my teeth clenched, enjoying the satisfying slap of my flipflops against the heels of my feet. I feel myself crying, hot tears dripping from my chin, sliding across my nose, the words echoing in my ears, a deep, hateful chorus: “We have more meat in here than a butcher shop.” And somehow, instantly, my entire humanity has been reduced to muscle and skeleton. Everything else withers and drops like rotten, heavy fruit, falling and exploding into mushy, bruised pulp. Meat. Meat for the world to consume, to digest, to inevitably discard. Meat that rots, crawls with disease, leaks runny crimson; meat that is smothered with fungus and onions and sauce. Is that what womanhood inevitably comes down to? Just meat with mammary glands and genitals and mouths open wide?

It was my misfortune to go to a nightclub on the same night as a bikini contest. When the MC turned down the music and announced, “We have more meat here than a butcher shop”, I shuddered and I forced my way to the bar. Vodka. Rocks. I sipped and my skin broke out into thousands of goose bumps, my stomach flaming. Jeff was lost in the crowd of men that had suddenly materialized watching as the women walked across the makeshift stage one by one, heavily made up, practically nude, adorning high heels with straps twisting up their calves, and glimmering with an unnatural iridescent shine. I leaned against the back wall. During the interview, the MC asked sexually charged questions rendering the near-naked women to giggle and blush and answer in high-pitched, girly voices something that they hoped would make every man quickly thrust his fists inside his front pockets. They presented themselves so meticulously as beautiful, sexual, horny, shy, virgins. As if such combinations could possibly exist.

Nightclubs are one of the major endorsers and propagators of pop music culture. In the American social climate today, music and sex act as corresponding, moneymaking allies. Popular music has always been a reflection of the sentiments, morals, norms, and priorities of mainstream American culture. How did bra-burning feminists in the sixties and seventies yield the overtly sexual flamboyancy of present times? How did the feminist movement that was once mainstream, become a mainstream social and musical taboo? The answer must lie in the deep in the cultural underbelly of America, a masked, vile truth hidden behind stilettos, synthetic breasts, and sorted bikini contests. 

Flashback: 1950s—Susan

I can hear Mom listening to Dinah Shore on the radio that Dad put in her room. Mom likes Dinah Shore. She says that she is “the girl next door with no blond hair out of place, no note, no joke offensive to anyone” (Shore, Dinah: US Musical Performer). I am lying on my tummy on my bed, kicking the air and admiring my poster of Elvis Presley. Dad hates Elvis. He says that Elvis was almost arrested “on obscenity charges” (Nuzum: 1950s). Dad says Elvis is dangerous to America’s social fabric. I just think he’s handsome. And so do all my friends.

  Dad said we had to go to church this morning even though Mom is sick. He says that “religion [is] seen as an indicator of anti-communism” (American Culture History: 1950-1959). He made my brother Fred throw out his magazine with the Weavers on the cover. Dad says they’re commies. I don’t know what a communist is exactly, but I’m scared. Dad gets mad at Fred for listening to rock-n-roll at the roller-skating rink with all his friends. Fred says that’s what all young people do and Dad yells at him that rock-n-roll promotes immorality. He says, “Do you want to spread immorality, Freddy? After you fought in the war to save this country from it?” Fred is quiet after that. He got shot in the leg in Germany and he has an awful limp. He can’t roller-skate anyway.

I jump off my bed and I sit at my vanity. My hair is pulled back tight against my scalp. It feels sore. Mom did it this morning before church even though she is sick. She uses water and all her muscles. I changed out of my Sunday dress already and I have new saddle shoes and a new poodle skirt. I smooth it out. But my blouse is old and scratchy, buttoned to my neck. Mom says I look like a lady. Mom says that buttons should always be buttoned.

That is why they are there.

Flashback: 1960s—Debbie

Dad is all pissed because of my hot pants. I’m thinking, come on Dad. It’s the 60s. He says my go-go boots are disgusting, that I look like a prostitute. I just walk away, swishing my long hair. He sometimes yells, “I didn’t go to war for you to have the freedom to look like this. Show some gratitude!” Mom is quiet, though. Her hands sunk in soapy dishwater. Lame.

Billy and Joe are skateboarding in the alley. The local jukebox at the diner is playing The Beatles. “Acid Rock!” Billy rasps. Joe takes a cigarette break. I borrow one and strike a match from my purse. “Ever tried LSD,” Joe asks. I say no. He rolls his eyes back into his head. The recent Supremes’ hit starts filling the alley with melodious sound. They’re one of the first female groups, but I don’t acknowledge this at the time. Joe is saying something about going to Woodstock. Asks me if I want to go.

My sister Hannah goes to Catholic school. They recently forbade the students “from dancing to ‘The Twist’…[The administrators] considered R&B music and it’s associated dances, to be lewd and un-Christian” (Nuzum: 1960s). I’m telling this to Joe and he is laughing hysterically. He comments that the damn radio stations banned The Rolling Stones hit “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction”. He says something about American censorship. Something about hypocrisy and sex. I just nod and take a long drag on my cigarette. Joe says I look good. He says I should try out peasant skirts. Says they rock. I look at his scraggly, eighteen-year old beard, his glaringly bright green polyester shirt, his tight pants. I tell him he looks good, too. He nods. As if he knows already.

“All you need is love!” Billy sings as he approaches loudly, the skateboard wheels roaring on the asphalt. He brakes using a tennis shoe. “R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me,” I sing back. Both guys nod. Exactly.

Flashback: 1970s—Wendy

In my dorm room Randy passes me the joint. I suck, hold, release. Randy burps smoke and laughs. I pop a birth control pill. He asks me why I’m taking it since Dennis is in Vietnam. I shrug. “Because I can.”

Randy is grooving to Jimi Hendrix. I itch my breast, bare beneath my T-shirt, letting the music flood my ears, come out my eyes in moist ringlets. Randy plays with a piece of loose thread on his bellbottoms. “Hear about Senator James Buckley? Says the Feds are going to take action if the music industry doesn’t eliminate drug-using rock musicians.”

“Fucking pigs,” I respond dryly. Randy says he’s going to a disco later. He got new platforms. I tell him disco is stupid and flip open a magazine with Fleetwood Mac on the cover. I realize that Stevie Nicks is like the only female rocker. Maybe I should be a female rocker. An advertisement for tobacco “[features] semi-naked women chasing a bald bloke down the street” (Pop Culture in the 1970s). I want a cigarette. “Randy, pass me the joint,” I say. He does. It is small now and I grip it with the tips of my fingernails, sucking delicately and snubbing it out. I think about Dennis in Vietnam. Dennis is all about punk, The Clash, The Damned, The Pistols. He says that punk is one of the greatest “musical genres [that alienates] parents” (Music in the 1970s). I think about my parents—disenchanted Republicans. Damned Nixon.

I turn to Randy who is staring at the ceiling, his head on my bed. “Hey Randy,” I say. “Wanna fuck?”

Flashback: 1980s—Cheryl

Jeanie is admiring my Calvin Klein Jeans. I twist. “Wow,” she says, wrapping a hot pink scrunchi around her front tufts of hair. She asks, “Did you watch MTV last night? I soo love Madonna!” I am still looking at my ass in the mirror. I wonder if my ass looks as good as Madonna. Or Kylie Minogue. I want my ass to look as good as Kylie Minogue’s. “I’m going to feather my hair,” Jeanie continues, tugging on her legwarmers. “Donny’s dad killed himself. Did you hear? I think it’s about the stock market or something”.

I finally turn and tell her that I decided to major in business. I am going to become a CEO. Jeanie looks at me with awe and says that she just wants to get married and have a family. I ask her why she’s wasting her money on a college education. She says she never thought about it. I’m impatient and distracted. Ralph just got diagnosed with the gay plague. He’s going to die. I don’t tell Jeanie because she has an uncanny ability to completely miss the point and spoil sentimental moments with bubbly gibberish.

I turn on the radio and start painting my toenails red. Jeanie is singing along to Michael Jackson, asking me if I’d seen him on MTV. I tell her I’m concerning myself with more important issues like “starving children in Ethiopia, acid rain, and chemical emissions” (The Eighties). She says, “Oh.”

Flashback: 1990s—Tiffany

My dad is flipping through a Rolling Stone magazine. He turns to me. “Marilyn Manson gives me the willies!!” I laugh. “Mariah Carey, on the other hand. Mariah Carey…”

“Is a conceited, spoiled Diva,” I finish. He laughs and says he can live with it.

Dad says, “Says here that ‘Singer Marilyn Manson was arrested by police in Jacksonville, Florida, for violating the “Adult Entertainment Code.” Police thought Manson was inserting a dildo into his anus while urinating on the audience’ (Nuzum: 1990s). Wish I had been there.” I laugh and leave the room.

Crystal is in her room listening to N’Sync and adorning herself in sequined Halloween costumes to emulate Britney Spears or Jessica Simpson or the-Jeanie-in-a-bottle-girl. Musically there really is no substantial difference. At fourteen, her dream is to marry Justin Timberlake. She says she’s on a diet and plans to get breast implants. Kevin is listening to Nirvana the next door down the hall. He’s using a razor blade to slice open the knee of his jeans. Mom gets pissed. But Mom is busy and has little time to dote on ripped clothing or dirty hair. Plus, we’re only at her house every other week.

I turn on Shania Twian. “The best thing about abeing a woman, is the prerogative to have a little fun!” I’m at the mirror admiring my Gap jeans, flared at the calf. My little spaghetti-strap top shows just a peak of midriff. I gyrate and wonder if Dad will get pissed off if I buy the new Snoop Doggy Dogg album. Deidre calls me and asks if I have the new Ani Di Franco CD. I say, “Who’s that?”

2005—Emily

I slow my pace as I round the corner, the bus stop in sight. As I sit on the bench my legs feel wobbly, muscles twitching violently. My anger has dulled and I collect my legs into my arms and rest my head on my knees. Humiliation and shame feel like hot flames on my face. Everything I am, everything I love about myself has been trivialized and although I know I’m much more than a package, I feel as though it ultimately doesn’t matter. Over and over again in my life I have been smacked back into American cultural priorities with images that stress the grave importance of being sexually attractive, younger-looking, and fashionable. How much longer can I sustain taking my emotional and psychological self seriously?

Popular music is an expression of the collective ideal. Only once I started researching this paper did I realize that my topic is so vast and complicated, that two hundred pages could hardly do it justice. However, certain theories can be presented. To avoid confusion, I am speaking about the generalized mainstream society. There are certainly exceptions. Women really start appearing in popular music around the 1980s. This is also the time when cable TV is introduced into American homes and, with it, MTV. Thousands of teens experience music in an entirely different way. Making music is no longer just the process, presenting it in an appealing way becomes just as important. One can conclude that upon the introduction of televised popular music, beautiful female musicians start flourishing as young teen men enjoy provocative music videos and young women search for a new sexual identity. This trend continues throughout the ‘90s and present times where mainstream music tends to be associated with beautiful, sexual, gyrating women who claim themselves to be liberated females enjoying their sexuality. Let’s be honest, though. This sexuality is hardly their own but a mass-marketed image of sexuality that viewers will buy. For example, I’m sure Britney Spears never brought a boa constrictor into her bedroom, but she certainly adorns one during a concert for a titillating display of female sexuality that really doesn’t exist except on stage.

As social and civil movements changed the face of the country during the sixties and seventies, social convention couldn’t keep up. The normative structure collapsed as past sentiments and present realities collided head-on, severely splitting the generations. During the 80s and the 90s, the movements settled and society had an opportunity to create new social boundaries. Suddenly the sexual revolution where women literally burned the restraints of patriarchy was perverted into an entirely new context: let women have their sexual freedom, but let’s make it marketable. Hence, pop princesses considering themselves sexually free because they have the opportunity to wear next-to-nothing and express their sexual selves…in a way that is appealing to men and will sell millions of records worldwide, of course. Feminism is now associated with lesbianism, prudishness, man-hating and hairy armpits whereas the sexually liberated woman is associated with beautiful, sexy women who dance like they’re engaging in clothed intercourse, and perform sexually like porn stars. None of this happened by accident. In other words, women transcended one patriarchal society just to wind up in another. Only this time, there is the illusion of freedom.

To be fair, feminists from the sixties and seventies opened numerous doors for women socially. There are extraordinary opportunities for motivated, talented women in every imaginable field conclusively proving that women and butcher shops truly have nothing in common. But there is also a long way to go as the MC at the bikini contest so eloquently reminded me.

The bus is heaving its way down the street, stopping with a succession of exhausted sighs. The door swings open and Jeff, who has only recently arrived, climbs on board. He turns to me but I shake my head and wave him goodbye. I’ve decided to walk.

Nuzum, Eric. Censorship Incidents: 1950s. Parental Advisory: Music Censorship in America. 3 November 2005. http://ericnuzum.com/banned/incidents/50s.html.

Nuzum, Eric. Censorship Incidents: 1960s. Parental Advisory: Music Censorship in America. 3 November 2005. http://ericnuzum.com/banned/incidents/60s.html

Nuzum, Eric. Censorship Incidents: 1990s. Parental Advisory: Music Censorship in America. 3 November 2005. http://ericnuzum.com/banned/incidents/90s.html

American Culture History: 1950-1959. Kingwood College Library. 3 November 2005. http://kc library.nhmccd.edu/decade50.html#top

Music in the 1970s. 3 November 2005. http://www.nostaligacentral.com/70/70music.htm.

Pop Culture in the 1970s. 3 November 2005. http://www.nostalgiacentral.com/70/70pop.htm.

Shore, Dinah: US Musical Performer. 2 November 2003. The Museum of Broadcast Communications. 3 November 2005. http://www.museum.tv/archives/etv/S/htmlS/shore dinah.htm.

The Eighties. 4 November 2005. http://www.nostalgiacentral.com/eighties.htm.

Bibliography

Amy, Jessica. Groovy Sixties: The Decade of Peace and Love. 3 November 2005. http://www. kyrene.k12.az.us/schools/brisas/sunda/decade/1960.htm#music.

Elisa. Modern Times: 1950-Present Day. Women in the American Industrial Workforce. 4 November, 2005. http://www.angelfire.com/ca/HistoryGals/Elisa.html.

Nuzum, Eric. Censorship Incidents: 1970s. Parental Advisory: Music Censorship in America. 3

November 2005. http://ericnuzum.com/banned/incidents/70s.html.

Theophano, Teresa. Women’s Music: The 1980s and 1990s. 4 November 2005. http://www.glbtq .com/arts/music­_women,2.html.

American Culture History: 1960-1969. Kingwood College Library. 3 November 2005. http://kclibrary.nhmccd.edu/decade60.html#top.

American Culture History: 1970-1979. Kingwood College Library. 4 November 2005. http://kclibrary.nhmccd.edu/decade70.html#top.

Amercan Culture History: 1980-1989. Kingwood College Library. 4 November 2005. http://kclibrary.nhmccd.edu/decade80.html#top.

American Culture History: 1990-1999. Kingwood College Library. 4 November 2005. http://kclibrary.nhmccd.edu/decade90.html#top.

Music in the 1980s. 4 November 2005. http://www.nostalgiacentral.com/80/80 music.htm.

Pop History: 1990s to the Present. 3 October 2005. Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. 4 November 2005. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki.American_popular_music#1990s_to_the_ present.

Women of 80s Music. 3 November 2005. http://80music.about.com/library/weekly/aa031 000.htm.

The Queen of Soul: Aretha Franklin. 3 November 2005. http://www.aretha-franklin.com/.