Two Dynamite Broads

15 February, 2007, Thursday

First up, Amy Winehouse. She’s a new spot of light in my telescope, so I know virtually nothing about her. But so far I’m loving it all – the earthiness, the pin-up-girl tattoos, the cat-eye make-up, the unbelievably mature, confident voice (she’s all of 23).

Her drinking is looming large in her legend already, and apologies to you 12-stepping types, but that is kinda cool, too. I like my artists tortured and bent slightly toward self-destruction.

The title track of her latest CD, ‘Back To Black’, is, arguably, the standout and will probably age the best. But for sheer infectious pleasure, I can’t get enough of ‘Tears Dry On Their Own’.

It’s sweet perfection. Her deep, smokey tones drape themselves weightily over that joyous, springy Motown beat like a dunk leaning on the shoulders of a sober and amused friend. And if the chorus wiggles its way into your head, it might be impossible to get it out. For two solid days, I’ve been haunted by: “…he walks awaaay, the sun goes down…”

Her CD was finally released in the States and I hope she spreads through America like a stubborn, oddly-attractive weed.

And may the resurgence of big hair follow firmly in her wake! Women have been suffering under the tyranny of boring, flat hair for far too long. This country needs beehives, and it needs them desperately.

And in other exciting news, Camille Paglia, another totally kickass, albeit beehive-less dame, has resumed her monthly column at Salon.com. If women started reading fewer self-help books and more Paglia, they just might stop being so fucking irritating:

    Let’s get rid of Infirmary Feminism, with its bedlam of bellyachers, anorexics, bulimics, depressives, rape victims, and incest survivors. Feminism has become a catch-all vegetable drawer where bunches of clingy sob sisters can store their moldy neuroses.”

What I like about Camille is she’s interested in what interests her and is unashamed and unapologetic. Seemingly nothing escapes her attention and if she’s so moved to comment, she does.

In her typical rabid, machine-gun style, she covers a lot of ground in her first posting back at Salon. She devotes four paragraphs to Anna Nicole Smith and the “mythic themes” associated with her passing, but my favourite bit was her description of hearing the news:

    “I heard the first bulletins about her death on the car radio as I was driving home from campus last week. At the Popeye’s drive-through (where I was ordering Cajun wings), I blurted in agitation to the window lady, “Anna Nicole Smith just dropped dead — tell everyone!” — which she promptly did.”

Give me a boozey, tattooed soul singer and an intellectual who cops to going through Popeye’s drive-through, and I am a happy, happy girl.


One comment

  1. hello future corpse, just dropped by to check out the latest entry in your blog. I enjoyed reading about those dynamite broads. peace.

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