Posts Tagged ‘music’

"I'll take you to the candy shop..."

Look I love skanks as much as the next guy as I’ve mentioned before every guy needs a practice girl, but there has been a definite increase in the skank population over the past few years and while I’d love to place the blame squarely on the Kardashians and Paris Hilton, some of the blame has to go towards the music industry.

The South African government is trying its damndest to prevent a local porn channel airing, but have they seen what is on MTV and Channel O these days?

I first realised music videos had maybe become a little too sexy when the video “Britney Spears – I’m a slave for you” first released. It’s not really known as being the most provocative or raunchy video, but the one thing I will always remember it for is the architectural masterpiece known to me as the “sex wall”.

In its basic form the “sex wall” is a writhing mass of half naked sweaty bodies panting, lurching and lunging to the beat. It didn’t seem to shock me at first; in fact I was completely oblivious to it. Only after my elderly grandmother walked in, looked at the TV, immediately walked out and was found 10 minutes later seated in the kitchen simply staring catatonically out the window, that I realised that I had been desensitised to the kind of raunchy sex that would warp the sensibilities of someone a few generations older than me.

Perhaps that is why parents these days don’t even seem to realise what effect this “music” is having on their kids. They still proudly call their kids into the living room to sing to guests (an embarrassment I recall all too often from my childhood), but instead of some musical number from Annie or the Sound of Music it’s whatever sexcapading young tart is rocking the charts at the time.

There is something deeply disturbing about having someone’s 6 year old daughter sing you “her favourite song” only to have her grind up on your leg singing “I’m wanting you to push up on my buttons. Saying what you gone do to me, but ain’t seen nothing.” (I’m not even talking about their poor grammar). The parents will often simply say that “she’s too young to know what she’s singing” (at which point I can’t help, but picture them on a future episode of “16 and pregnant”).

Unless these parents are so stupid that they also don’t realise these lyrics are overtly sexual. (The kind of people who think 50 cent was actually singing about a candy shop and really did want you to “lick the lolly pop” or that Christina Aguilera was really singing about a genie in a bottle that you had to “rub the right way”)

As creepy as it is to hear little girls singing along, sometimes it’s even worse hearing old woman singing along. There is no more powerful antiaphrodisiac than hearing an elderly woman sing along to “don’t ya wish your girlfriend was raw like me?” I can only hope that they also don’t realise what the lyrics are…

Some of my recent favourite sing along lyrics for kids and the elderly alike include…

1) 50 cent – Candy Shop “Got the magic stick, I’m the love doctor”

2) Christina Aguilera – Woo hoo “You know you really wanna wanna taste my woohoo, you know you want to get a peak”

3) Akon – Sexy Bitch “I’m trying to find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful Damn you’s a sexy bitch”

4) Kelis – Milkshake “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard”

5) Rihanna – Rude Boy “Come here rude boy, boy can you get it up? Come here rude boy, boy, is you big enough?”

Advertisements

Look how awesome I look when I press play on my iTunes

What would a nightclub experience be without the DJ? I mean besides “better”. Talk about the most overrated job in the nightclub; this has to go to the DJ. The DJ gets so much credit for basically clicking play on his iTunes playlist, mincing around like a drunken hobo and then occasionally telling people what to do.

“Everybody get down!”

“Put your hands in the Air!”

“Everybody Scream!”

Gees, what a control freak! He could at least say Simon says first. Then he’ll play whatever the “flavour of the month” song is about 4 times every hour and yet you’ll still hear a million women scream “Oh Em GEE! It’s my song!”

Let me get something straight here, a Club DJ is not a live act. I understand there are electronic musicians who make dance music and some call themselves DJ’s, but the guy who clicks play on his iTunes then occasionally listens into his oversized earphones and pretends to finely adjust certain buttons and dials is not a musician. He is as much a musician as the guy who presses play on the DVD player is a movie director or the guy who forwards email jokes is a comedian.

Heaven forbid these “DJ’s” actually try and do some real mixing… what usually happens is either a garbled mess of 2 songs where the beats don’t sync and you end up dancing like a one legged man wearing roller skates during an earthquake (an actual description I’ve heard of my dancing). Even better is when there is that “death” between two badly mixed songs and everyone on the dance floor kind of just stands around staring at each other like they were all crammed into the largest most awkward elevator of all time (except at least there there’d be elevator music).

Regardless of what’s playing I’ll be trotting side to side doing the boyfriend dance in a circle around girls’ handbags while some strange loner guy who is clearly way too “in touch” with the music dances in a world of his own on stage or on top of one of the speakers hoping that it will attract some equally strange mate.

Sometimes DJ’s will be a little less authoritarian and ask people for requests. Although not once has one of my requests been acknowledged, probably because the requests are to “stop playing immediately”, “stop butchering my ears” or the ever popular “eat #### and die”.

Thank you Mr DJ for everything you do. From the way you peroxide your hair to the way you wear your sunglasses inside. From the way you pretend to be doing something important from behind your laptop to the way you always find the most inspiring things to shout over the microphone.

I salute you for without you the nightclub would be a very different place: A place I could possibly stand going to.

I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t go “clubbing” often, in fact I’m quite proud of the fact. Don’t get me wrong: the thought of standing in an overcrowded fire hazard with a bunch of sweaty drunken strangers as we “shake what our respective mothers’ gave us” while paying exorbitant drinks prices, is incredibly appealing to me, I just have better ways to waste my life (and my money).

Once in a while I am caught up in the frenzy of festivities such as birthdays and other celebrations, which for some reason, need to culminate in going to the club. The propensity towards ending up in the club is directly related to the number of single people in one’s group of friends;  the number of women with unhealthy self denial as to their age and stamina as if clubbing the night away would delay the ides of March marking the assassination of their fading youth;  or if there is a newly single member seeking to regain his confidence (because nothing builds confidence quite like dancing like a retard and rubbing up against some floozy with more body glitter than self respect).

What a theatre of dreams!

Regardless, on occasion I will find myself at the club doing the “boyfriend dance” (swaying side to side to the beat, pretending to have a good time) as we form a circle around the ladies’ handbags as the DJ plays crappy dance hit after crappy dance hit, occasionally breaking the monotony with random outburst of wit such as “Shake it, ladies” or “What happens in *club name here* stays in *club name here*” – yeah, except syphilis, idiot. Ever so often he will play a fairly decent song for about 10 seconds, before butchering it by revealing it to be a Dance remix of said classic.

Then we head to the bar to order shooters with names that sound more like experimental surgical procedures or what a coroner might right down in his report under the heading “cause of death”. As we shovel money across the bar, the only thing that is preventing me from going completely broke is the fact that service at the bar is so slow one only gets about one drink every hour.

As I take a look around the club, it doesn’t take long to identify several key “personalities” present; people I would hazard to say without whom the club experience would be vastly different, perhaps even enjoyable…

Over the next few posts I’d like to present my impressions of these amazing characters. Here in the magical world of the night club; a land of mystery, intrigue and cover charges.

First up… the bouncer