I know it's next to impossible to avoid certain elements of pop culture idiocy, and I usually do a good job of filtering it. But then something like this slips under the radar:
Profanity in pop songs is old news. Hell, the chorus to Christina Aguilera's recent single, "Keeps Gettin' Better," kicks off with the phrase, "Some days I'm a super bi---." That one is easy enough for radio stations to edit out in order to avoid any fines from the FCC or threats to yank their licenses.
But what will they do with a new single from a major artist that doesn't actually contain a four-letter word, but rather spells it out in a not-so-subtle way? That dilemma is beginning to dawn on top-40 radio programmers across the country as the third single from [Britney Spears' new] album, "If U Seek Amy," starts to make its way to the airwaves.
The cheeky title (try saying it fast) joins the tradition of album titles like Van Halen's 1991 For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge. The chorus doesn't even try to make grammatical sense of the phrase: "But all of the boys and all of the girls are begging to if you seek Amy."
The spelled-out profanity puts the song into a legal gray area for radio stations.
I still maintain this great nation cannot move forward into the light of hope and change and change's hopeful light until classic rock stations start bleeping "Who the fuck are you."
Van Halen? I think not, for Britney is actually riding the coattails of Canadian rock pioneers April Wine:
You heard me. Pi-O-Neers.
And everybody's just playing catch-up with James Joyce:
If you see Kay
Tell him he may
See you in tea
Tell him from me
That's all the Ulysses you need to function in modern society, anyway.
Isn’t the bigger question, “How the fuck does that dumb bitch have a career?”
Smug hatred aside, I’ve always been fascinated by our double-standard in American prudery where, for example, you can’t say “fuck” but you can refer to the act and show fairly graphic simulations of it. You can’t show a nipple, but you can hump a sudsed-up car in a cheeseburger ad. Janet Jackson’s sad little titty, without an exposed nipple, almost single-handedly brings live TV to a halt, but then we go right back to close-ups of gyrating cheerleaders.
Why are we soooo afraid of our sexuality and so shallow about deciding what the line is and what crosses it? I’m gonna surf some porn, rub one out, and ponder this.
Over the last day, I keep having this flash. I would love for some interviewer to say, “Hey Britney, what’s with referencing James Joyce on your new album?” It’d be as laughable as Katy Couric asking Palinzilla about the Bush Doctrine. Of course, it’s not like Britney wrote that song.
I actually went and found a clip of this song to listen to. 1. No surprise, but what a piece of treacle shit. 2. Doesn’t anyone at least pretend to actually sing anymore? I mean, what the hell. Is the next step in pop music to just eliminate the humans altogether? I mean, it was cheesy enough when Peter Frampton did his guitar talk box thing, but that was at least a novelty in the 70s, and at least he could play guitar, and at least he wrote most of the songs. What a talentless waste of oxygen. She used to be sexy in a nymphette sort of way (and better with the sound off), but now I don’t even have that.
Next up: Brit-Brit riffs on Wittgenstein with her hit pop anthem, “Philosophical Investigations (Of My Panties)”. I, for one, salute our new infantile overlords.