(Love is) The Tender Trap

How many times have you heard your mother say, “In my day...”. Yes, yes. In your day the world was a better place, pollen didn’t make you sneeze ‘cause the snuff was blocking your nose, one never got cold ‘cause we were drenched in fur and one never got sore ‘cause The Help did everything for you. Today, the world is a dreadful place. We suffer from black lung from fossil fuel (a modern invention of bad taste), your eyes and nose never stop running thanks to allergens such as bread, milk and other staples that keep the Third World alive, day to day. Is it true? Have we really gone backward?

You see a pair of laughing eyes, and suddenly you’re sighing sighs. Ah, the golden age of Crooners, the All American song book with black and white men illustrating every page, who weren’t exactly hot... but no lady could decline. We’d sip a Jack or a Johnnie out of a Stuart in a smoky leather lounge. Its a grayscale fairy-tale of Hollywood proportions.

Love today, its in full colour. I know what I want, when I want it. It has got so bad, that a friend of mine courting a psychedelic student was informed over their first acquaintance coffees together, the number of children, the size of the diamond and the year of the Wedding (which is not in the Chinese calendar, if you know what I mean). My mother was horrified. But this is the multi-hued romance of the 21st century. If you don’t want what I want, let’s not have a drink in a smoky bar and waste each others time. Women have lost the art of the tender trap.

We’re honest, brash and brazen. We don’t accept drinks for fear of spiking, we won’t accept rides cause we drive better than you do (my insurance quote says so) and I will not be wasting my time with you, unless you submit to my demands immediately after meeting me. We’re not dating, we’re taking hostages!

Did my grandmother have it right? I don’t think so, because even if she was right, I have the right to vote. I also have the right to earn more money than Dean, which is something Debbie Reynolds never achieved. And although Debbie got a kiss, a wink and a smooth smile, she never got her name above old blue-eyes and the boys. So no, we’ve come a long way. I for one am not going back, because although we could’ve smoked guilt-free with the Marlboro man, we would have died a painful mucus-y death alone, never knowing the joy of a Rat Pack Tribute concert with your true love by your side. We may not have romance, but we have Double Income No Kids.

The very best generation

In the late 1900’s some of the greatest, gifted and most tormented souls of the world gave us music to rearrange our hearts and stomachs. We were all touched and scrambled. Year on year they defined their art, and when they were done, rehabbed or gone (RIP Lizard King), we drink nostalgia through “The Greatest Hits” series, generally released on birthdays, anniversaries and Jewish holidays. For instance, I have three Queen albums: The Great, Greater and Greatest Hits (The Platinum Collection). This implies two things: firstly, they were always great, but they got better with age and secondly, does it really matter? I mean, it’s Queen for heaven’s sake.

But along with the tragic death of the truly original is the dawn of the “The Very Greatest Hits”. We’ve added a “very” to emphatically point out to the buyer that this is it, this is the benchmark, after a long career spanning decades, the Hits have been refined to the crème de la crème of what is Musical History. Right? Wrong. We’re not talking about Clapton, remastered BB King or the Knopfler brothers, oh no. It’s “The Very Greatest Hits” of… Britney Spears.

What have we come to? Britney Spears is not even releasing the very average in music and yet she can make a profit on the very greatest of mediocre and trivial hits. At 28 years old, she’s been responsible enough to drive in the world for barely 10 years and she has a LONG way to go on the list of things to do before you turn thirty. To put it in perspective, this 28 year old is asking +/- 65% of the world which is older than her, to trust that she has made a serious contribution. I was brought up to respect my elders, and expecting the Pink Floyd generation to buy your drivel is a slap in the face of those who came before you.

Having thought about it, I’m not surprised. We let (and far worse, actually buy) 12 year olds chronicling their “lives” in autobiographies, Exhibit Miley Cyrus. It should be mandatory that any teen autobiography’s title is prefixed “The first chapter of”. We do give our top awards that recognise a life-time of achievement to a 19 year old, acknowledging her musical contribution as greater than Keith Urban or Kenny Chesney, who have spent nearly a combined 35 years honing their craft.

We’re awarding our acknowledgement, and our cash, not to the people who give us the very greatest contribution, but rather those that smack us in the face with lights, smoke and mirrors. The Very Greatest are turning in their pissed-on graves.