1984 y el conundrum pop

the clown circus that is music lately. la gaga, swift, hasta shakira, every one wants to be bjork, tori amos, or pj harvey. that's a 21st century given. everyone else is generic and derivative of those three galvanizers from the 90s north atlantic that rode the wake of b52s, karen carpenter and janis joplin. beyond that, it's all black music. talk about.

pop may be evil, but it's been through the colander of the female psyche, for the past 50 years, we are the joni mitchells to the james taylors, the dione warwicks to the burt bacharachs, the yoko to the oh nos. women with our earlobes and our ovaries, wave after radio wave, catching it all, moving it through. if i'm wrong, tell me she didn't spend all her periods listening to pop music.

the modern things have always existed. by they that read this. bjork was our north pole, when by a fine night tonight a prodigy came out on rave. house music destroyed the spice girls. always as long as we've been able to link alphabets and numbers google per second, in our heads, on this ball spinning round a giant star, with the heightened senses of real menstruation, somewhere jew knows where, the devil has tried to claim us through catchy melody and unfiltered lyrics. his conundrum is, while he may have had our attention, briefly, pop became an utter failure to captivate our souls. a gaga of swift dua lippas make the most dreadful playlists and fat kikis. man declared speech free to hate them, not because they cheat and copy other female artist's unique sound, but because they're boring.

with the exception of bob dylan, all pop was protected, was great, competitive and human till 2001, 911. we'd been through the syllabus of 1984, orwell, in the year 1984 while listening to pop music in the background. if you were into countdowns and marvel comics, all science fiction, dystopic handbooks describing the soulessness of communism read in the same quiet earnesty of steinbeck or twain. our eyes had heard the words put to paper at times before and during great wars and the perils of nuclear weaponry. shakespeare did not write alien and cronenburg was on drugs, which kind and how mattered to the quality of the story and most wanted to be mass published like bradbury, mass consumed like madonna.

in 1984, we knew they wrote with pens. pop artists likewise.

and by the time the grand three of white girl rock began composing, all those bics aspired to capture cocteau twins. pitch the baby, elizabeth frasier. all of pop's everything had an eighties synth moment, a step away from quincy's jone, the megapolis of emtivee, the wreckless proclivity induced by fenders and gibsons alike. periods experienced in silent winter nights, a radio somewhere in the dorm that blasted the pink opaque, our newly matured bodies transcended blood. like dead can dance, the primitive history of the bonfire caught up with the cornflake girl first name angeline, initiating pj and tori and bjork to create the sift of underlying enya, that stretched chord and heavy bass, pop's antidote for the devil's subtext. 

without the psyche of women, the sirens, the banshees there would be no odyssey for ulysses. music hits women differently than it does men. we don't like to admit it, but music sends the feminine into rapture differently than men. the masculine will tolerate pop as means to execute and monetize it, build and equip songs with hooks and lines to compete for our humanity. they make everything sound like coldplay and smell like sanitizer.

that's why i don't even listen to female or male pop artists. not since 2010. since amy winehouse died. i don't care who killed her, she's alive between my earlobes, i don't bleed anymore. and the big three we all wished to be, could very well read this today. 

if it's not writ with pen on paper, pop never happened.