Category Archives: Madonna

19
September
2011
Tags: Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #49 ~ 4 Minutes ~ Spring 2008

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Come on boy,
I been waiting for somebody to pick up my stroll,
Well, don’t waste time, give me a sign,
Tell me how you want to roll.
I want somebody to speed it up for me then take it down slow,
There’s enough room for both,
Well, I can handle that, you just gotta show me where it’s at,
Are you ready to go?

It’s hard to believe that it’s been over three years since Madonna released a proper studio album. It’s one of her longer stretches, and I believe it’s been due to her touring schedule (the ‘Sticky & Sweet’ show was a two-parter) and her directorial duties on her upcoming movie. Usually after an absence like this she comes back big – witness ‘Like A Prayer’ following her Broadway run in ‘Speed-the-Plow’, and ‘Ray of Light’ in the aftermath of ‘Evita’. Both were stunning examples of her musical relevance and prowess, and with Lady Gaga stealing much of the musical thunder on the last few years, Madonna does have a little something to prove. ‘Hard Candy’ was fine for what it was – though in retrospect it was mostly her riding on her laurels and employing the hit-makers of the moment to give her some up-to-date credibility. It didn’t fail spectacularly, but it wasn’t a highpoint in her musical career.

I do, however, happen to like the next song on the iPod ~ ‘4 Minutes’ ~ the lead-off single to the whole ‘Hard Candy’ experience. Musically I’ve never been a huge fan of Timbaland or Justin Timberlake, but Madonna has a way of making all her collaborators fit her style – even if she has to expend her range to make it work. For ‘4 Minutes’ she does just that – sharing billing for a lead-off single – a sign both of humility as much as clever zeitgeist calculation. With its pounding bass and blasting horns, it was a new sound for Madonna, but it seemed that she was just playing a bit of catch-up with the musical scene.

Madonna doesn’t usually fare well in duets – in fact, most of her rumored duets never get off the demo ground – and this is probably a blessing. (Anyone who’s heard her work with Britney Spears can attest.) The only way it succeeds is when she subverts her partner to the point where itís really a Madonna song with a featured performer, as was the case with ‘Take A Bow’ and Babyface, and, in some respects, ‘4 Minutes’, though she clearly is giving Timberlake greater billing than anyone else ever got.

Though it’s a bit of a lyrical muddle, the music is engaging enough, and it’s good to hear a beat that matches the cumulative power of Madonna. That thundering intro was used to great effect when she performed the song on her Sticky and Sweet Tour – the lights were lowered and it felt like Armageddon approaching.

As for the video, there’s a bit too much Shakira-hair and flesh-colored corsetry for my taste, and not enough plot-line or interaction with Mr. Timberlake to make it truly interesting. It’s almost as if they thought the pairing was enough, and by some accounts it is – particularly when you take into account the fact that Madonna normally doesn’t pair off with stars of equal, or even close, magnitude. (Most of her romantic co-stars in videos are relative unknowns.)

The song itself may prove as forgettable too. In the ensuing years, it has not held up as well as some of her others, attributable in part to its of-the-moment sound and production. It’s a fate that belies much of her work – but she usually manages to make one or two songs on each album that are so classic that they carry her through. I’m not sure if ‘4 Minutes’ was enough.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions,
But if I die tonight, at least I can say
I did what I wanted to do.
Tell me how about you?
Song #49: ‘4 Minutes’ ~ Spring 2008
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12
September
2011
Tags: Brandeis, Madonna
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #48 ~ You’ll See ~ Late Fall 1995

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

A castle turret, high above the campus of Brandeis University. The lights of Boston glow far off in the distance. A cold wind blows, deep into the fall. The window stands open, and a young man walks precariously along the ledge. The burning remnants of a letter leave his hand, swirled into the wind, lighting up the night and disappearing into ash. An act of defiance, of empowerment, of having no other choice. Then the tears fall, the countenance crumbles, and a crushed boy still stands on a ledge in the night wind. He thinks of dropping to his death – he will not deny it. But there is strength to be found in the most trifling pop song – and a legend-still-in-the-making for its singer – and perhaps even its listener.

You think that I can’t live without your love,
You’ll see.
You think I can’t go on another day.
You think I have nothing without you by my side…
You’ll see – somehow, some way…

This is one of those special Madonna songs ~ the ones that coincide perfectly with a life experience ~ and it is, for me, in my top-ten ~ if only for sheer emotional resonance. It joins the pantheon of watershed Madonna moments.

In the fall of 1995, ‘You’ll See’ was Madonna’s hit from her ‘Something to Remember’ collection of ballads. I was living in a single dorm room at the top of Usen Castle at Brandeis. While I loved it for its rustic charm, and the fact that it was a single (no more room-mate), the shower situation was, quite possibly, the worst I have ever experienced in my life. It was down a flight of cement stairs (super fun in the winter), and so dimly lit that you almost couldn’t use it at night. It was also the smallest shower I’ve ever seen, so tiny that it was a task to simply turn around in it.

Luckily, Boston beckoned, and I wouldn’t have to put up with campus castle-living for much longer. I was about to find a place right between Copley and the South End, which at that time was on the verge of blooming into the unaffordable family-friendly bourgeois battlefield it is today. At that time, it had not yet turned, but Braddock Park looked to be a safe bet, and I convinced my parents to purchase the place.

There was a romantic aspect to the city, in its seductive cobblestone paths and magical tree-lined history, and it was almost enough for me to simply look out at the lofty height of the John Hancock Tower as its windows twinkled in the night sky. In those early days the condo was all but empty. I slept on a thin, smaller-than-single-sized mattress from an old cot, not even supported by a frame. A fringed accent lamp sat on the floor, barely illuminating the bedroom at night. In the kitchen, I stood by the counter when eating a bagel, or drinking from the lone carton of orange juice in the fridge. There wasn’t even a couch or chair in which to sit, but I loved it. Copley was at my doorstep and the whole South End was my backyard. Yet in spite of all that was out there, I remained alone. I had no one with whom to explore the new restaurants, or go grocery shopping, or simply walk the quaint side-streets lined with brownstones. At the end of every night, there was silence, inadequately filled with the static-tinged radio of an old alarm clock.

You see, far more than a place in Boston, I wanted a boyfriend ~ someone to share my life with ~ to be there for all the moments in life, most especially the simple ones. The thought of going to bed while someone else showered or read filled me with longing. It wasn’t the passion or the excitement of love that I was after ~ it was the companionship, the camaraderie, the feeling and security of simply having another trusted person who loved you as you loved them. For all my drama, for all my emotional mayhem, all I wanted was a partner. I wanted the shared quiet, the down-time. I wanted the simple act of existing beside another, with no need for words or fancy outfits, no desire to act out or put on a show. Yet despite the simplicity and earnestness of my hope, I didn’t know how to manifest it ~ and so it turned into desperation, and a penchant for obsession and misplaced (and largely unwanted) affection.

Enter unwitting object of desire. He would be, if things went my way, the third man I ever kissed in my life. But at the start he was just our real estate agent. Yes, I fell for my real estate agent. I couldn’t help it. I fell for his seductive real estate sales pitch and his occasionally-physical sensitive-frat-guy hand-on-the-shoulder moves. I didn’t do the physical stuff ~ I enjoyed a healthy five-feet of personal space around me at all times ~ but when he did it I didn’t mind.

Before we ever looked at Braddock Park, he took me around to visit a few different properties, the first within minutes of meeting him. It was across the street from his office, and the day was bright after a run of rain. The yellow leaves of a maple tree were lit brilliantly against a suddenly deep blue sky. The stained glass window of a former church loomed above us. He let us into the building and we climbed to the second floor. On the clay-colored brick wall of the kitchen a small bouquet of dried and desiccated flowers hung sadly on a nail. All these years later, that image has stayed with me.

He showed me the other places later, both at night. There was something secretive-seeming about going into these empty places, switching on lights and walking across barren rooms that echoed with our footfalls. He offered his ideas on how to improve the space, what might be done with the floors ~ everything a live-in-boyfriend would suggest ~ or a savvy real estate agent.

The first man I ever kissed had dumped me before I even realized we were going out. The second man I kissed I dumped before he even had the chance. The third man ~ this man ~ seduced with a smile, endeared with a twinkle in his eye, and revealed just enough vulnerability and compassion to snag me with all sorts of messy emotions. It didn’t matter that he was only trying to sell me a property, or that he had given me no indication of romantic interest other than the occasional wink (which is always tricky to read) I pinned my sights and dreams on him, and conjured a blissful future all within my mind.

In his defense, he made it very clear where we stood and ~ this is important ~ I never asked him out. I didn’t ask if he was interested, I didn’t ask if he wanted to grab a drink or coffee, I didn’t ask anything. I hinted, I strongly hinted, but that was all. There was nothing between us other than the sale of a condo.

You think that I can never laugh again,
You’ll see.
You think that you’ve destroyed my faith in love.
You think after all you’ve done,
I’ll never find my way back home,
You’ll see – somehow, some day…

The fault was within, the fault was all mine. That didn’t make me want him less. It didn’t erase the need to be loved. That he happened to be the one there at the time was simply unhappy, and unlucky, circumstance ~ as it would prove to be time and time again. It still didn’t take away the hurt,  and sometimes losing what you never had is somehow more painful than losing something you’d actually had the chance to experience.

When you are told no, when you are told you are not wanted ~ not in that way ~ it stings. When you are told nothing, but can sense enough that you are not wanted, it hurts differently. You may have retained some shred of pride in not forcing the question to a head, you may have let another person off the hook from having to gently but insistently refuse, but you have let yourself down. You have wimped out.

I didn’t have the voice to ask him out. I didn’t have the courage. And I certainly didn’t have the confidence. Instead I saved face, withdrawing before revealing my hand, backing away before any real risk of being burned, but he had to have known. Granted, when you do ask the ‘Do you like me back?’ question there is always the chance that it will blow up in your face (See the insanity of ‘You Must Love Me’).

Yet if you don’t ask you will always wonder, and the darker side of you, the one you pretend to friends isn’t there, will blame the innocent. There was rage here, there was anger, and there was the humbling sadness of having to survive on your own. There was grit here too, and a steely, brutal resolve to pick myself up again, stoically wipe the tears away, and move on in the world. So though my question may have technically gone unasked, his silence and utter disinterest in me was an answer in itself, and one that I largely accepted (compared to what I would do in the future).

My anguish over a non-existent love affair was both silly and debilitating. Coming out as a gay man, as difficult as it sometimes was, did not hold a candle to the obstacle course of love. And to be worthy of love was some out-of-reach enlightened realm that seemed closed to me, inaccessible despite my best efforts. Upon realizing this, part of me crumbled. I had been defeated, and my heart grew bitter. If this was love, if this was what came of love, then I wanted nothing to do with it. Woe to those who followed.

From my hurt grew an icy chill, one that I’m sometimes afraid remains to this day. It’s an edgy bluntness that takes the offensive before there’s a need to be defended. I have to do it. It’s something I need to prove. I took the sadness and the hurt and the anger and turned it into the way I dealt with the world. I took the flippant disregard of a stranger and the questioning wonder of a friend to heart, and I raged against both.

Fall turned colder. Winter would be long. And all I had was a song.

All by myself, I don’t need anyone at all.
I know I’ll survive, I know I’ll stay alive.
All on my own, I don’t need anyone this time,
It will be mine, no one can take it from me.
You’ll see…

Back on campus, I opened my empty mailbox in the basement mailroom of Usdan Student Center. I listened as the new Madonna song came over the radio. A flicker of hope and fierce determination to never again be hurt lit my heart, but quickly went out as the song faded and I made my way back into the crisp fall air. There were times I wanted to literally fall down ~ in the hidden corner of the courtyard, at the train station waiting for the other commuters to board, and as I closed the door behind me at the condo.

Visions of sharing the place in Boston haunted the cold nights, rising and falling before my mind’s eye, teasing and tormenting with their just-out-of-reach possibility. I longed for companionship, I wanted for warmth, I wished I had someone to fall asleep with ~ such simple pleas, such basic prayers, and such soul-crushing loneliness. It crept up on me, and as I headed back to the condo one night I almost let it hit me. After rounding onto Braddock Park from the Southwest Corridor, feet shuffling through dry, brown leaves and the scent of burning wood in the air, I looked up at the dark windows of the living room. There was no one there. I hesitated and paused. I could not go in.

It must be said that I don’t usually get lonely. I am often alone ~ at lunch, on trips, in the car, even in my own home ~ but rarely if ever do I get lonely. This was one of the only times I felt it, the chill of loneliness, and it shook me. I turned around, retracing my steps the way I had come, returning to the lights and the bustle of Copley Place. I could not walk into the empty rooms at that moment. I knew that if I did, the loneliness would have its way with me, and I might never come back to the person I was, to the place I loved, to the way I wanted to be. So I wandered around the warm store windows of Copley Place, like I did when I was a kid, when we used to stay at the Marriott and Mom would only let my brother and me explore the adjacent Mall on our own. I didn’t need to talk to anyone, I just needed to be around people, to have them close, even if they were strangers. Once the loneliness subsided, I returned to the condo, and never felt that way again.

You think that you are strong, but you are weak,
You’ll see.
It takes more strength to cry, admit defeat.
I have truth on my side, you only have deceit,
You’ll see… somehow, some day…

There was still the winter to get through, and it would be a snowy one. Up to the very end of March – and even early April – a few late-season storms pounded Boston. Somewhere in that crystalline time, beneath the blanket of dirty snow, I healed, and I got over it. Even if it was all in my head, as most of these things tended to be, it changed me.

To this day, ‘You’ll See’ fills me with both dread and drive – a prickly little ball of courage, conviction, contradiction and inner-strength. Whenever I feel myself slipping, or losing sight of who I really am, under the wishes and whims of others – family, friends, anyone – I reach deep, think of this song, and persevere. That’s what this song has always meant to me – it’s a warning to everyone who ever doubted, to everyone who ever questioned whether or not I could do something, and to everyone who thinks that a fancy wardrobe and a cocktail are all I have to offer the world.

On the Madonna-centric side of things, ‘You’ll See’ debuted, if I remember correctly, at Number 5 on the Billboard charts. They likened it to a modern-day take on ‘I Will Survive’ and thematically that’s pretty accurate. She’s only performed it live a scant few times while on her Drowned World Tour. For the first time she added the song (in place of the lackluster ‘Gone’) for certain stops only. Usually a Madonna show is on robotic autopilot, with little to no room for variation or interpretation. That in itself was striking. That she performed it in Boston moved me even more.

It was my first time seeing Madonna live, and she was singing one of my favorite all-time songs on her Boston stop. She stood on that stage alone, a single spotlight glinting off her dirty blonde hair as she sang. Her husband, perhaps hidden somewhere in the shadows, or not even present at all, lurked only in the mind. Listening to her sing ‘You’ll See’, in the city where so much heartache and happiness had happened for me, I was brought back to the Fall of 1995.

I stood on the ledge of a castle in New England. The letter I had burned had just left my hand, fluttering into the dark air in a bright burst of quickly-fading flames. Bits of silky ash floated back up in the night wind. The stone felt cold against my hands as I reached for something to hold onto. Her voice, and her words, sounded in my head, pulling me back from the edge of despair, pulling me back into the warm light of my room, into the hushed safety and terror of solitude.

All by myself, I don’t need anyone at all.
I know I’ll survive, I know I’ll stay alive.
I’ll stand on my own, I won’t need anyone this time,
It will be mine, no one can take it from me.
You’ll see.

Madonna sang the song for all the broken-hearted among us. Yet for all its empowering qualities, at the end of it I felt nothing but defeated – tired and exhausted from loving those who would not, and perhaps could not, love me back. That takes its toll, that leaves its own casualties – and the parts of you that die from it don’t ever come back. At least not so far.
Epilogue:
Years later I would be sitting at the counter in Francesca’s Cafe, reading a book, and the man I thought I loved then – the man who found our Boston home – would tap me on the shoulder to say hello. He would have had no idea what I went through, how much he meant to me, and his smile would betray that. My smile betrayed nothing.

You’ll see.

Song #48: ‘You’ll See’ ~ Late Fall 1995

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07
July
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #47 ~ ‘Spanish Lesson’ – 2008

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

It was a tradition that started with ‘La Isla Bonita’ and the ‘True Blue’ album. From that moment on, in every studio record until 1992, Madonna had featured one Spanish/Latin-influenced track. The tradition continued with ‘Pray for Spanish Eyes’ on ‘Like A Prayer’, and reached its nadir with ‘I’m Going Bananas’ on ‘I’m Breathless’. Even ‘Deeper and Deeper’ from ‘Erotica’ had a tinge of Flamenco guitar in it, but since that infamous album, Madonna has kept the kitschy Spanish numbers off her studio albums.

From 1998 through 2007, she left the Spanish lullabies to Ricky Martin and Shakira, as she recharged with electronica and dance music. That changed with her last studio album, ‘Hard Candy’. Suddenly it was 1986 all over again, as ‘Spanish Lesson’ found her back in the Spanglish department, loosely translating common phrases (not exactly accurately – “Mucho gusto means I’m welcome to you” – umm, it does?) and turning up the silly factor: “If you do your homework, maybe I will give you more/ When you do your homework, get up on the dance-floor.” Yeah, it’s pretty painful. I won’t prolong the agony, and I won’t re-print any more of the inane lyrics.

About the only personal memory I have of this song is hitting the ‘Next’ button in the car or on the stereo. I assume it made it into the iPod in the first exciting flush of a new album (2008). I really need to update this thing. And Madonna really needs to get back into the studio… oh wait – she just did! The world has been waiting…

Song #47: ‘Spanish Lesson’ – 2008

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02
July
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #46 ~ ‘This Used to be My Playground’ – Summer 1992

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

It turns out I already wrote the entry for this song last year, before the timeline took shape, but it still holds true, so I’m going to step back into the sun, dip back into the pool, and re-hash what I already wrote, word for word.

It was July 1992. I had just returned from a trip to Finland for a wedding, leaving the extended European trip early to attend a summer course at Brown University. I thought it would be a good thing to pad my high school resume for college (well, my parents thought it would be – I personally didn’t really care either way). It was a biology course, with some hands-on study at the Roger Williams Park Zoo.

Upon arriving at Brown, I experienced my first and only real bout of homesickness (well, after the age of ten at least) – I didn’t even feel it when I went away to college. This time I was searching for a private place to cry and remembering how I used to look up into the fluorescent lights of my first grade class hoping that they would dry my tears faster. The crying part was over by the second day, and when I found myself with the time and private place to do it again I didn’t even need to. Still, I missed my family, and to assuage the pit in my stomach I spent my free time searching the library at the University for genealogy books. Not that I ever expected to find any Ilagans there, it just felt good to look and make plans in my mind of when I would see them again.

My chosen project at the zoo was a study on the lemurs. I had noticed that one of them sat quietly, while the others ran circles around him, occasionally chasing him out of the way. It was my ‘hypothesis’ that this lemur was more or less being hounded into submission, and was therefore not exhibiting all of his natural behavior. Looking back, it was probably the least scientific hypothesis ever almost-proven, but somehow I pulled it off and garnered an ‘A’ on it (which was the whole grade of the course).

By choosing the lemurs, which were off the beaten path of the zoo and not as exciting or awe-inspiring as the elephants or Tamarin monkeys, I could be alone, watching their antics and taking notes on behavior. I didn’t want to be around the other students, whom I suspected of intelligence greater than mine, but who displayed too many signs of immaturity. The ones I did find interesting – like the girl who wore a billion strands of tiny beads that she had strung herself – had ostracized themselves with their quirky fashion choices or frowned-upon habits of sleeping with each other.

I also had other concerns, in the form of one psycho red-headed roommate. He had written out a ten-plus page treatise on how he planned to join forces with Satan, take over the world, then double-cross Satan and have the power to himself. Not kidding. When he left for the day, I promptly took a huge risk, stole the papers, ran to the library and made a Xerox copy, then hid it in my luggage in the event that my body was found slaughtered under the bed at the end of the two weeks. Luckily he left me alone, as I must have seemed a non-threat in his quest for universal domination.

The noxious purple loosestrife was just beginning to show its bright color in the zoo’s natural wetlands, and staff warned us of how dangerous it was, in its propensity to take over the wetlands and choke out natives. Summer beat down upon the zoo paths, and I was grateful for the air-conditioned bus ride back to campus at the end of the day.

I didn’t explore Brown University as much as I perhaps should have. Part of me dreaded the idea of college so much that I shrank away from anything remotely connected to it, such as checking out what campus life was like, even if it was the doldrums of summer. I did walk around the small stretch of shops and cafes, and I explored some of the art shops that were there (being in proximity to the Rhode Island School of Design). On one such excursion I picked up an old Herb Ritts compilation – a beautiful pair of cloth-bound editions of some of his classic shots. In the black-and-white beauty found within its pages, I found a semi-solace from my loneliness, and a glimpse into a world so far and fully removed from my own.

On the radio I listened to Madonna’s ‘This Used To Be My Playground,’ a dirge-like lament on time gone by. It has not weathered the years well, and for quite a while I couldn’t even bring myself to listen to it because it was just so unspectacular. But it was part of my past, and part of that summer. A wistful look back on the season that used to be so carefree and celebratory. It was my last summer of innocence. The next Fall and Winter would bring my first girlfriend and last year of high school.

As for the song, it would prove to be Madonna’s last hit before the infamous ‘Sex/Erotica‘ years, though according to producer Shep Pettibone, it was one of the last songs written for those sessions. That’s a lot of ‘lasts’ for a season that never does.

Wishing you were here with me…
Song #46: ‘This Used To Be My Playground’ – Summer 1992

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30
June
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #45~ ‘Miles Away’ – Summer 2009

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

I just woke up from a fuzzy dream,
You never will believe the things that I have seen,
I looked in the mirror and I saw your face,
You looked right through me, you were miles away
All my dreams, they fade away,
I’ll never be the same.
If you could see me the way you see yourself,
I can’t pretend to be someone else.

The iPod must be on a ‘Hard Candy’ sugar rush, as it has moved from ‘Beat Goes On’ to ‘Miles Away’ for this Madonna Timeline moment. I think it is the sentiment that I can relate to most in this song, much more-so than the mediocre music. (Apologies for the lengthy absence of a Madonna Timeline post – it fell by the wayside as I was championing marriage equality.)

You always love me more, miles away,
I hear it in your voice, miles away,
You’re not afraid to tell me, miles away,
I guess we’re at our best when we’re miles away…
When no one’s around and I have you here,
I begin to see the picture, it becomes so clear,
You always have the biggest heart
When we’re six thousand miles apart.
Too much of no sound,
Uncomfortable silence can be so loud
Those three words are never enough
When it’s long-distance love…

‘Miles Away’ deals with the push and pull of a long-distance relationship, or a relationship that benefits from distance. It is meaty territory, but Madonna just nibbles around the heart of the matter without offering any truly personal morsels of revelation. She saved that for her live performance of the song on the ‘Sticky and Sweet Tour’.

The main memory I have of this song is watching her perform it in Boston, a day or two before official news of her divorce from Guy Ritchie made headlines. As she began strumming the opening notes on her guitar, she dedicated it to the “emotionally-retarded” ~ a rare, personal (if politically incorrect) glimpse of bitterness on a stage in front of thousands. That’s what they mean by “steely vulnerability”.

I’m all right,
Don’t be sorry, but it’s true,
When I’m gone you’ll realize
That I’m the best thing to happen to you.
So far away, so far away,
So far away, so far away…
Song #45: ‘Miles Away’ – Summer 2009
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11
June
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #44 ~ ‘Beat Goes On’ – Spring/Summer 2008

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

When I first heard the demo for this, it was rough, raw, and so unpolished I honestly didn’t see how it could be salvaged. So awful was it that I actually doubted it was a proper Madonna demo at all. I was wrong. With the power and precision of a well-seasoned pro, Madonna turned it into a pop gem, all bright shiny surfaces and perfectly chiseled angles. I should have expected no less, and its performance on her ‘Sticky and Sweet Tour’ was a fun intro to a flawless show.

Don’t sit there like some silly girl
If you wait too long it’ll be too late.
I’m not telling you something new,
There ain’t no time to lose,
It’s time for you to celebrate.

As is her habit, she crafted a fun, catchy pop song. Mindless in some ways, but mindful in others – a warning, perhaps to herself most of all, on the fleeting nature of time. Like much of the ‘Hard Candy’ album, time is the main concern – the way it goes by too fast and too relentlessly.

You don’t have the luxury of time,
You have got to say what’s on your mind.
Your head lost in the stars
You’ll never go far
It’s time for you to read the signs.
The time is right now,
You’ve got to decide
Stand in the back or be the star…

I won’t say much on the Kanye West rap interlude that somewhat mars the song. It’s interesting that the collaboration happened just prior to his going ballistic on live television and stealing Taylor Swift’s moment (she’s more than made up for it in successive successes, while he, though musically still a powerhouse, has owned up to his douche-bag image and held onto it defiantly). In these swift-to-forgive-if-not-forget times, Madonna got absolutely no negative publicity for her tenuous ties to Mr. West – though if this played out in the 80’s or 90’s far more damage may have been wrought upon both. Yet another reflection on the changing times – and the mirror ball of pop spins on.

I can’t keep waiting for you,
Anticipating for you
No time to lose…
Get down, beep beep, gotta get up out of your seat!
Get down, beep beep, gotta get up out of your seat!
Song #44: ‘Beat Goes On’ – Spring/Summer 2008
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30
May
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #43: ‘Hung Up’ – Fall 2005

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Time goes by so slowly,
Time goes by so slowly,
Time goes by so slowly…

Madonna has never made her impatience a secret, yet considering that by 2005 she was two decades into her career, I’m not sure how she figures time goes by so slowly. That Fall she released the lead-off single ‘Hung Up’ for the non-stop dance-a-thon Confessions On A Dancefloor. After the floppy failure of the under-rated albeit dour American Life in 2003, she went back to the well that has always produced gold – the dance floor – and it resulted in her biggest international smash of the decade, propelling her to another #1 album.

Time goes by so slowly for those who wait,
No time to hesitate.
Those who run seem to have all the fun.
I’m caught up, I don’t know what to do.

Making the most of its pricey Abba sample, ‘Hung Up’ is a disco diva’s dream, and fittingly became a dance anthem and immediate staple in Madonna’s repertoire. Lyrically it’s a bit weak – and I’ll go so far as to say disappointingly lazy. (The opening is a word-for-word rip-off of her own ‘Love Song’ from the ‘Like A Prayer’ album, though the similarities end there.)

Every little thing that you say or do,
I’m hung up – I’m hung up on you.
Waiting for your call, baby, night and day,
I’m fed up, I’m tired of waiting on you.
Ring ring ring goes the telephone,
The lights are on but there’s no one home,
Tick tick tock, it’s a quarter to two, I’m done, I’m hanging up on you.

It’s fun the first few times you hear it, then you begin to wonder whether her youngest child had a hand in writing some of the lines. No matter, it’s the music and the driving beat that really move this song. Nobody does a pop-dance song better than Madonna, and with her ‘Saturday Night Fever’ homage in the video for the song, nobody does pop culture references like her either.

With a few clever flips of her sausage curl hair, she channels Farrah Fawcett and John Travolta in one fell swoop, bringing the disco back to the clubs, and the glitzy glamour of Studio 54 back to the world. Her look was fun, bouncy, jubilant – and the sound was a celebration of the simple joys of dance music. If it was nothing too profound, it still felt good, and after the darkness of American Life, it was exactly what her fans needed.

I can’t keep on waiting for you.
I know that you’re still hesitating.
Don’t cry for me, cause I’ll find my way.
You’ll wake up one day, but it’ll be too late.

Shakespeare it’s not, I’ll grant you that. In fact, lyrically and musically that may be one of her weakest bridges – and though she’s got some big-time bridges, that’s no excuse. Also, at this point it’s overplayed its welcome on my ears – for a year or two this was her go-to-performance for promo and award shows – but for the time it was epic. I mean, it’s Madonna and Abba. And who didn’t roll their fists along with that choreography?

Every little thing that you say or do,
I’m hung up – I’m hung up on you.
Waiting for your call, baby, night and day,
I’m fed up, I’m tired of waiting on you.

It came out as the party season was just getting into swing. It was just before the holidays, and a new Madonna album meant a rollicking good time, aurally at least, and Confessions did not let anyone down. To this day, it’s the perfect record to put on when you’re about to go out for a night on the town, in those moments when you’re choosing your outfit, getting dressed up and determining your glamour quotient. The anticipatory excitement that is so good all you want to do is dance…

Time goes by so slowly…
Song #43: ‘Hung Up’ – Fall 2005

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20
May
2011
Tags: Madonna
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The Ultimate Dare is to Tell the Truth

It was a bit like taking a bullet (or so I would imagine) when I realized that this month marks the 20th anniversary of Madonna’s ‘Truth or Dare’. The year was 1991 – probably one of the darker years in my life – and I was just coming around to Madonna again after being frightened away by her Catholic offenses. As with a lot of things, I was coming around in a major way, and ‘Truth or Dare’ is what started and sealed the deal on my super-fandom.

I still remember that night vividly. It was just before summer really started – my brother and his friend Eric came with me (I promised them there would be boobies), and we went to the old Cinema 4 at the Amsterdam Mall, where the parking lot sparkled with glittered cement (no, really). There were about three other people in the theater, but I didn’t care – in fact, all the better.

No matter what is said about the Madonna the actress, the documentary was pretty damn good – and it left me feeling inspired and ready to take on the world (the mark of a good movie in my twisted book). It also offered a humorous, if completely calculated, look at the woman behind the myth, and I willingly and happily bought every conceit.

 

Unafraid to be daring or offensive, refusing to be cowed by men in uniform (whether that was policemen or the Pope himself), yet somewhat vulnerable and lonely, Madonna portrayed herself as a fully realized human being – a complex and hidden one too, no matter how all-access she claimed it to be.

At the time, I didn’t know who I was – and the person I feared I might just be (a gay man) was not even in the realm of possibility. Yet here was Madonna, watching as two men kissed, and daring to put it on big screens across the country, and a world I didn’t know existed (there was no internet as we know it in 1991) opened up before my eyes – a world beyond Amsterdam, NY – and beyond a wife and kids and a white picket fence. It was but a glimpse, but it was enough – and I’ve held onto the truth, and Madonna, ever since.

 

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18
May
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #42 ~ ‘Voices’ – Spring 2008

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Who is the master? Who is the slave?

Ambivalence, apprehension, unfinished business – they’re all a part of ‘Voices’, the final track of Madonna’s 2008 ‘Hard Candy’ album. (Yes it’s been three years since her last original studio effort… [clears throat, dramatic pause, “I’m waiting. Why can Donna and Niki not hear themselves? Sound by JimCo…”]

The song itself is a complex note on which to end her final studio album for Warner Brothers, finishing with a flourish of dramatic bass-drum pounding, and closing with the lone ring of a church bell or, in this case, the death knell of a relationship.

Treat me like a curse, Then tell me I’m your savior,
I’m living with a stranger I used to know so well.
Waiting for your answer is a kind of torture,
Could I grow accustomed to this kind of hell?
Are you walking the dog, cause that dog isn’t new?
Are you out of control, is that dog walking you?
Haven’t you had enough, now your time is up?
Baby show me your hand…

The lyrics are laden with tension, as Madonna contemplates a relationship gone sour (her own marriage to Guy Ritchie ended soon thereafter) and the push and pull of what constitutes doubt amid love and trust. It’s interesting to note the maturation and thoughtfulness present here, and when you compare this to something from the earnest, if broad, innocence of the tracks on Like A Virgin or True Blue, it reveals a remarkable measurement of growth. Madonna doesn’t completely exonerate herself from the blame either, but it’s clear she is the wiser observer in this scenario, even if she’s not capable of saving the situation.

Voices start to ring in my head, tell me what do they say?
Distant echoes from another time start to creep in your brain.
So you’re playing round this like it’s convenient,
You do it so often that you start to believe it.
You have demons so nobody can blame you
But who is the master and who is the slave?

As her musical and life journeys have played out over the years, her artistic output, as seen in songs such as this, has at times turned darker, and deeper than the bright pop hits that get noticed and released. A challenging gem like ‘Voices’ tends to get lost in the shuffle.

First you say you love me then you wanna leave me
Then you say you’re sorry, you play the game so well
I bought your illusion, you’re the greatest salesman
How could I refuse you when you sold it to yourself?

In some ways (and I do realize it’s unfair to compare the two), this is the second-marriage version of ‘Til Death Do Us Part’, though Madonna would likely never come clean about its genesis or who it may really be about. That’s part of her own game, as much for self-preservation and privacy as it is out of respect.

Are you walking the dog, cause that dog isn’t new?
Are you out of control, is that dog walking you?
Haven’t you had enough, now your time is up?
Baby show me your hand
Voices start to ring in my head, tell me what do they say?
Distant echoes from another time start to creep in your brain.
So you’re playing round this like it’s convenient,
You do it so often that you start to believe it…

No one knows what really goes on in anyone else’s marriage. So much of it is secret, so much of it is hidden. Madonna only hints at deeper breaks and fissures, which makes the impact of this that much stronger. Someone once said that a marriage makes secrets a necessity – sometimes the secrets help, and sometimes they hurt. Reading into the relationship of a stranger, albeit a very public performer who revels in revealing art, feels wrong and invasive. Yet it’s also a comfort to know that even someone as perfect as Madonna doesn’t have it all figured out yet.

You have demons so nobody can blame you
But who is the master and who is the slave?
Song #42: ‘Voices’ – Spring 2008
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02
May
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #41 – ‘Let It Will Be’ ~ Holidays 2005

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

At the end of 2005, Madonna’s ‘Confessions on a Dancefloor’ was on perpetual play in my car and home, just as I was preparing for our annual Holiday Party. I’ve been throwing parties for years, and at this point they pretty much throw themselves, but there is still an element of production to them, and a certain punch and panache that makes a party memorable. (As this is being written, I have just come up with a concept and name for our Summer party in July, so parties are on my mind.) Since the iPod has selected ‘Let It Will Be’ as the next Madonna timeline song, let’s revisit the party scene in the works when that song was blaring in my shower – the build-up and anticipation, the preparation and planning, and the all-too-brief swell of a gathering of good friends at holiday time.

Now I can tell you about success, about fame,
About the rise and fall of all the stars in the sky
Don’t it make you smile?
Let it will be,
Just let it be,
Won’t you let it be?

Back in 2005 it was The Venetian Vanity Ball ~ and it began with the outfit. A frilly number, with tiers of vermillion tulle, layers of burgundy lace, and a few subtle lines of ostrich and marabou feathers thrown in for delight. Beneath this a pair of burnt-out velvet pants, sheer enough to show just the slightest bit of black Armani underwear, and bottomed off with cuffs of beaded lacing. A scarlet off-set hat accentuated with sequins and some additional plumage (including an actual bird) topped it all off, though I didn’t keep it on for long. And for those moments when I wanted to accompany a smoker or two outside (as any good host would), a red fox fur stole (from a Neiman Marcus clearance event) kept me (and a few others) warm and toasty. Grounding the whole ensemble was a pair of black leather cowboy boots, only the tips of which peeked through the beaded fringe of those velvet pants.

Now I can tell you about the place I belong,
You know it won’t last long,
And all those lights they will come down.

I enjoy dressing up for parties – and there is sometimes a costume change or two (or ten on special years). It’s a labor of love – even if sometimes more labor than love, and some years are more stressful than others. All the food and drinks need to be purchased and prepped, the decorations and musical soundtrack selected, and the lighting and fragrance decided upon and executed, and in the days prior to a party they can all come to a head, and a headache. Whenever the stress creeps up, and Andy and I are snapping at each other, I have to calm down and remember that it’s all supposed to be fun, and if it’s not then we shouldn’t even be doing it anymore. That’s when I think of this song, and in its way it calms me. Let it be.

Let it will be
Oh let it be
Just let it be
Won’t you let it be.

Paradoxically, it also lights a fire under me, providing inspiration to don the feathered angel wings, clamp on the enormous peacock tail, or squeeze into the twenty-pound bejeweled corsets that have made up some of the more outrageous holiday outfits of the past. An enormous amount of energy – physical and mental – is required to wear some of the things I’ve worn. It takes a different mindset, and I have to be in the right headspace to pull it off. So much of fashion is attitude and confidence. If you can wear it as if to the manner born, then it will be a success. If you have the slightest hesitation or trepidation, you’re toast. I don’t wear anything over which I carry the tiniest bit of doubt. If I have to ask an opinion on an outfit, or I’m unsure about something, then I know it’s not going to work.

Now I can see things for what they really are,
I guess I’m not that far
I’m at the point of no return
Just watch me burn…

It takes a lot out of a person, throwing a party. Yet somehow, at the end of the evening, it is always worth it. Eliciting a friend’s smile is worth everything.

Let it will be
Just let it be
Oh let it be…

Even so, I do wonder…

“He sometimes looked back with awe at the carnivals of affection he had given, as a general might gaze upon a massacre he had ordered to satisfy an impersonal blood lust.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night

Now I can tell you
The place that I belong
It won’t last long
The lights they will turn down…

Just watch me burn…
Song #41: ‘Let It Will Be’ – Holidays 2005
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20
April
2011
Tags: Brandeis, General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #40 – ‘You Must Love Me’ ~ Fall 1996

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Where do we go from here?
This isn’t where we intended to be.
We had it all – you believed in me.
I believed in you.

I don’t remember the first time I saw him. Is that strange? For someone who supposedly meant so much to me, I don’t recall the first time we were in the same room together. It must have been in the Literary Criticism class that we were both taking – my final requirement for an English degree from Brandeis University. I had tumbled off the commuter rail a bit later than anticipated, and had to rush up all the hills and steps before making it to the humanities building. In a sleeveless gray shirt and tattered jeans, I didn’t care how I looked when the weather still clung to August. I was decidedly not dressed to impress, not that first day. (It was a bit of an anomaly, as every day thereafter I would wear a different outfit, as impressive as I could muster, for the remainder of the semester.)

Sitting here racking my brain for our first moment of interaction, I still cannot come up with anything. In a way it makes sense, I never shit where I eat – so when on campus I was never looking for love, or even open to any bit of flirtation. It was probably what got me through college. I saved my obsessions for city folk, for unattainable real estate agents, would-be actor-waiters or gone-in-a-flash T-riders. At school, I was all business, and that Literary Criticism course was the last one I would have to take seriously.

The summer lingered on a bit. I always forgot how hot the start of the Fall semester could be. Above, the sun hovered, slowly traversing the sky over the duration of those September days. There were blue skies then – the gray of November was a distant impossibility.

The first bit of interaction with him that I can recall was a simple exchanging of glances in a second floor hallway. I was sitting on a couch waiting for my next class to begin, and he was headed in the other direction. My eyes followed and caught him turning around as he went down the stairs. From that moment onward I noticed him. He was usually smiling or laughing, entertaining a giggling gaggle of girls, and across the room in our literature class he occasionally smiled at me, raising his eyebrows in question or acknowledgment or invitation.

Certainties disappear,
What do we do for our dream to survive?
How do we keep all our passions alive,
As we used to do?

Dappled sunlight beneath a fiery grove of maple trees. A Nathaniel Hawthorne day in New England. The smell of warm leaves, the whisper of copper-colored pine needles. He sat on a rock, thumbing through a notebook. I stopped and said hello. I mentioned his Structure sweater, explaining that I worked there and could spot them a mile away. He told me he liked them, but all his sweaters ended up unraveling at the end of the sleeve – “something I must be doing with my hand” – and I let the entendre go by without a wink or a saucy word. My nervousness rendered me quiet and submissive around him – an incongruity to what made me fun to be around, and perhaps the fatal flaw in my ultimately winning over those who most impressed me. I left him there, beneath the trees, amused at my own ‘discombobulation’ as Suzie would call it, and wondering at what was going through his head.

A few days later, we got our first set of papers back. After a stern lecture on how this first batch had disappointed him, and how they weren’t at the level we should be at, the professor gave a lovely build-up to what I assumed was a disastrous grade. He went on to say, in one of those dastardly frightening professor moments, that he would leave them on the table and then leave the room, as he didn’t want to see the looks on our faces when we saw the grades. (Still a bit lighter than the sign next to one professor’s office hours that read, ‘Professional Slaughtering’.)

There was a mad rush for the papers, but I didn’t bother. No sense is hastening the arrival of bad news. I slowly got up and saw my name, but couldn’t quite get to it. He then reached over the other students to grab my paper along with his, and handed it to me. I think I fell in love with him at that moment. That he knew my name, that he struggled against the others to find mine, or that I got a B+ – I don’t know what made me feel happier. Who can say why we fall when we do?

We continued to see each other around campus – he would always seem to be where and whenever I least expected him, and I was continually caught off guard -“ the way my whole experience with him threw me off guard. And I couldn’t entirely be fabricating that there was something on his end too, could I? Certainly, I had lived out further-fetched fantasies of love and affection before him (wait until ‘You’ll See’ hits the timeline), was this just another etching solely in my mind?

At work, I confided to my manager who said I should just ask him out. I balked at the idea. I couldn’t, and that would never be my style. Even if I could, what would I say? “Do you want to go out sometime?” I would feel ridiculous. I was too shy for that. I liked to play it off as aloof and nonchalant, but it was simply me being shy, and an acutely killing form of shyness that I was nowhere near ready to combat at that moment.

Deep in my heart I’m concealing
Things that I’m longing to say
Scared to confess what I’m feeling
Frightened you’ll slip away,
You must love me,
You must love me.

A few days later, I thought I might be ready. In the cafeteria of Usdan Center, I saw him arrive at his lunch table. He was alone. My heart was pounding. I picked up the nearby pay phone (yes, there were such things back then) and dialed my store manager and friend John for one last bit of encouragement. He told me to just do it. Thanks, Nike. But it was enough. I marched quickly over to his table, and in what can only be the quickest blurting out of a pathetic pick-up line, said, “I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out sometime.” He smiled and said sure, he’d like to, and he gave me his phone number. It would be one of the only times in my entire life that I asked a guy out.

That was it. I smiled, said hello to the friend who had just joined him, and then said goodbye. If only we could have left it there – when there was nothing but possibility ahead. If only I could have kept it all in my head, living on the remote chance of all the what-ifs my racing brain could giddily conjure. If only… I hadn’t been so lonely. But I couldn’t see that then. All I knew was that he said yes.

I almost danced out of the student center, taking steps two at a time, bouncing off the walls in gleeful celebration. The boy I liked said yes! He said yes! And I was off – literally, figuratively, mentally, you name it – off on a thrilling one-man race that had but one inevitably sad destination. I did not know that yet, and for all the happiness and hope I felt, there was the one nagging worry – what if he didn’t like me the way I liked him? I put my faith in Madonna, and her latest ‘Vanity Fair’ cover story, where she quoted from ‘The Alchemist’:

If you want something bad enough, the whole world conspires to help you get it.

How I wished and prayed that was the case. How my heart yearned for it to be true. There was another quote that haunted me from that Madonna article though, and they were her words directly. It stayed in the back of my mind no matter how hard I tried to dislodge it:

Power is being told you are not loved, and not being destroyed by it.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

We shared a few late-night phone talks. I was in my bedroom in Boston – lying in bed looking up at the ceiling, then sitting on the cool hardwood floor, staring out the window, then back beneath the covers – warmed by his words, enthralled by his high school stories, and touched by the recitation of some of his writing. Maybe that was the moment I fell in love with him. This once-overweight kid, out of place, hurt by his family – my heart ached for him and his childhood, and for the fact that I could easily have been one of his torturers. (That’s just the kind of mean kid I was.) I wanted to hold him and make it all better. A surprise to myself, this fierce shard of protective instinct, this desire to shield him from the worries of the world, when so often I assumed it was me who needed to be protected.

We talked of silly and frivolous matters too, Broadway musicals and Madonna, and I ended up giving him a copy of Madonna’s latest single, ‘You Must Love Me’, hoping he would read into it all that I intended. There was shared laughter over the phone, and once there was a crash and he admitted he had fallen off the chair. It didn’t necessarily mean anything – all college kids are prone to romantic delusions during late-night phone conversations. The deciding moments would be determined during the day.

He sat next to me when we had class again. It was jarring, and strange, since most of us didn’t shift our seats much – not from one side of the room to the other – yet it was intoxicating to be so singled-out. As uncomfortable as I felt, as much as I was sure that all eyes were on us (and as sure as I am today that they were not), it was another little gesture that stirred the dormant heart.

Being close to him left me dizzy with nerves, erasing my wit and replacing it with a silence that could only be read as disinterest, or, worse, haughty superiority. Yet I couldn’t be myself around him, not with so much at stake. I couldn’t believe that I was someone to be loved, even if it was all I wanted him to see.

Why are you at my side?
How can I be any use to you now?
Give me a chance and I’ll let you see how
Nothing has changed.

I think we shared a book in our next class together, and it was easier being near him. Maybe we wrote a few quick words to one another, as if we were two silly kids in high school, sharing a secret moment of fun amid the criticism of Kant. On one of our phone talks I asked him if he wanted to attend ‘Master Class’ with me – I had just gotten two tickets. Suzie and Anu were coming into town for the weekend, and if he couldn’t make it, I reasoned, I could go with one of them. He accepted, and we agreed to meet up at Copley, have dinner with the girls, then go to the show. It would be, unsaid and unacknowledged, our first official date.

I wore a red velvet vest, and I greeted him as he rode up on the escalator. We walked quickly over the glossy stone floor of Copley Place – me pushing us faster so we wouldn’t be late. I was too nervous to talk much, and the rest of the evening those nerves wreaked uncomfortable havoc with any of us having a particularly good time. After the show, I walked him to his car. We paused in front of 500 Boylston, and he said it was one of his favorite buildings in Boston.

I looked back at the Courtyard in front of the building. It suddenly felt cold. And then it was over. We either hugged or shook hands as we said goodbye, but we did not kiss, and somehow, as I walked home alone, I knew. We would never kiss.

I left a series of phone messages the next few days, and he didn’t call back. Yet I didn’t give up. Oh boy, did I not give up.

You must love me…

There I was, trying desperately to turn this treacly little love song from a command to a realization, and failing at every turn. Who knows why we fall in love? Maybe it’s the turn of someone’s step, or the little smile that seeing you elicits, or maybe the simple act of grabbing the paper you couldn’t reach – of seeking out your name, or just knowing it. A midnight phone conversation that you don’t want to end, and when it finally is over the inability to sleep for all that hope and happiness. What do you do with that? And what if it meant more to you than it ever would to him?

Like most of the major mistakes I made in life, my honesty was to blame for setting me up for the most embarrassing form of getting rejected I could have ever crafted. I couldn’t be left in the dark, not knowing whether he felt the same, or if he wanted to go out again, and I just had to know. I did what I would do time and time again, with equally disastrous results: I wrote him a letter. (God only knows what that says about my writing ability.) Laying it all on the line, my feelings about what I thought we could have together, how much I liked him already, and all the things you are never, ever supposed to tell another person until the day after your wedding, I wrote down everything. I did everything ‘The Rules’ said not to do. I even gave him an easy out (well, easy for him). I said that if he didn’t feel the same way about me, to simply not sit next to me in class the next day. [Pause for reasonable absorption of The Worst Idea in the World, culled from the annals of teenage nonsense.] So certain was I that he liked me too, it never occurred to me what I might feel or do if he declined. That wasn’t a possibility in my mind, that wasn’t an option.

I gave him the letter the next time we met, along with a mix tape (it was still the 90’s, and I was apparently still trying to live the teenage dream), and then it was up to him. When our next class rolled around I was a nervous mess, and rightfully so. No matter how it ended up, it would be awkward – whether sweetly or disastrously so, it would be awkward. A tinge of regret already loomed over the overcast morning.

I still remember the shirt I wore that day – a loose black Nehru-collared number with grommets that laced up the top half. Part peasant, part pirate, part tragic historical figure – I loved that shirt. And I would never wear it again.

Sitting down in class, I took a deep breath and waited. Students started coming in, taking their seats, and I took out a book to appear busy and uninterested in whatever the outcome might be. On a blank page, I started writing – well, drawing – fake lines of non-existent words, intended to look like writing – anything to distract. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him walk into the room with one or two other classmates. He crossed to the other side of the room to his old seat. The one beside me remained empty.

I looked up, pretending to notice him for the first time. He gave a faint smile and a conciliatory shrug. Smiling my own ‘that’s that’ type of smile, I looked down and pretended to be engrossed in my notebook. I began writing so I wouldn’t have to see him again, and this time words came out. Simple words of simple instruction that I implored, willed, forced my physical being to focus on and accomplish.

“He did not sit next to me. He did not sit next to me and I will have to get up and walk out of this room when the class is over.”

It was a tiny act of survival, and the written words made it both real and palpable, designing a way of dealing with the situation I created, starting with the simple act of standing up and walking. When the interminable hour was up, I hurried out of class, not looking back. I made it down the steps of the building before he caught up to me.

He was kind. Most of the men I’ve liked have, in their way, been kind. He explained that he felt like I was running, going too fast, and he just wasn’t ready. It was as good an excuse as any, surely better than, ‘I just don’t like you that way’, even if the latter may have been more honest, and heartbreaking. Blame the intensity, blame my neuroses – just don’t let it be something intrinsic to my being, don’t let it be… me. Even if it was.

Before we separated, he said he liked my shirt, and that it was his favorite so far. I thanked him for that. If I had nothing else to offer the world, I would always have style. It was a sad recompense.

I did not cry. I would never cry in front of him. I would save it until I made it to the very edge of campus, ducking into a small building and finding an empty bathroom, then letting it all out in heaves and gasps. No one noticed my red and swollen eyes on the commuter rail. I slumped into the window, watching but not seeing the barren landscape rushing by. This was the fall. We were well into November, and in a few days I would board the ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’ plane bound for San Diego and a family wedding, at which I would come out to my brother as a gay man and tell the sad tale of this recent heartbreak to little if any consolation.

Deep in my heart I’m concealing
Things that I’m longing to say
Scared to confess what I’m feeling
Frightened you’ll slip away,
You must love me,
You must love me.

Back from California, there were just a few more class days left of my last semester at Brandeis. Having spurred my coming out to my brother, my grief then prompted me to tell the story to my friend Danielle. We walked along toward the bottom of campus on a cold December day – and I simply said I loved someone and he didn’t love me back. I still remember our hug at the end of that walk, and how soft her hair felt. I wondered if those hugs could be enough to sustain someone throughout life, or if they were only there to catch us when we fell out of love.

Near the end of the month, with the semester finished, and my final papers completed and submitted, I was standing near the ATM when he came around the corner. Though the afternoon was young, the light had gone, and in the dim shadows of an early dusk we said a quick hello, and then it was done. My time at Brandeis was over. My memories of him, once emblazoned upon my heart and head, would only fade, lacking nourishment, first from him and then, months, maybe a year later, from me.

But at the end of 1996 I only had Madonna to snap me out of it. She triumphantly returned with her star-turn in ‘Evita’, attending the premiere in this gorgeous Galliano ensemble (he was okay then), and for me it was a welcome distraction to the tumultuous turbulence of an insatiable heart.

In the darkness of that December, I made the determination to never be ignored. No matter what it took, no matter how outlandish I ended up, I would make myself into the brightest ball on the fucking Christmas tree. If he couldn’t see that, if he couldn’t realize how wonderful it could be, how wonderful I could be, then I would make the rest of the world see it and know, and when they were all pointing at me, when they were all whispering, and his was the last head that turned to look, I wouldn’t even care.

There was rage, there was want, there was hurt and pain and tears like I’d never shed before. All for a boy – a silly boy who didn’t sit next to me in class.

If anything, I learned a lot from that last semester. I learned that those games were played for a reason. I learned the unattractiveness of wanting something so badly. And I learned to hold back, to hesitate, to hold my heart in check. I learned to not feel, to harden myself off to people. It was a reluctant lesson, one that I fought against until I could not fight anymore. And it was, I am foolishly happy to report, something I would forget when the next cute boy showed me the least bit of interest. My heart would not be tamed so easily, even if my head knew better.

Years later, I would wonder at the craziness of my behavior at the time, at the strange fixation I had on someone I hardly knew. I would wonder whatever came of all the intense, seemingly-insurmountable feelings I harbored for this man. On the few surreal moments where we randomly encountered one another in later years (the first being a Madonna concert) the magic and enchantment that once held sway over me in regards to him had dissipated, not even the merest wisp of longing or desire remained. In its place was a strange sort of war-torn affection, a feeling that we had been through something important together, and a realization that it was mostly one-sided. I would always wonder what, if any, effect I had on him, if he remembered me fondly, if he remembered me at all. And after all the time that had passed, and the way our lives had gone, all I seemed able to muster was a befuddled amusement at the whole thing, a sheepish bit of foolish pride in how ridiculous I once acted, and the reluctant admission that I would do it all again if given the chance.

Post Script: Both the-boy-that-got-away and I ended up getting married- to different, and wonderful, men. I remained in sporadic touch with him, at strange and fortuitously key moments in our lives, but that’s another story for a ‘Celebration’. (And rest assured it has a much happier ending.)

You must love me.

Song #40: ‘You Must Love Me’ ~ Fall 1996

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15
April
2011
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #39 ~ Erotica~ October 1992

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Erotica,
Romance…
My name is Dita,
I’ll be your mistress tonight.

This was almost the beginning of the end, and to anyone other than Madonna, the one-two punch of the ‘Sex’ book and the ‘Erotica’ album would probably have proved an insurmountable career finisher. Madonna herself has said she divides her career pre and post ‘Sex’ book, so when the iPod chose ‘Erotica’ as the next selection, I took a deep breath and went back to October 1992.

If I take you from behind,
Push myself into your mind,
When you least expect it,
Will you try to reject it?
If I’m in charge,
And I treat you like a child,
Will you let yourself go wild?
Let my mouth go where it wants to?

My fandom was probably at its first orgasmic crescendo, and Madonna was wielding her whip as Dita Parlo. It was all about sex, even if I wasn’t having any – at the start of my senior year of school, all that was yet to come, literally. The scratchy grooves of an old-school record signal the raw, gritty edge of the ‘Erotica’ single, then that devious and delicious bass-line kicks in, and before you know it the ‘Aural Sex’ catch-phrase of the promotional ads has delivered its promise in the five minutes of the song.

Give it up, Do as I say,
Give it up and let me have my way
I’ll give you love, I’ll hit you like a truck,
I’ll give you love, I’ll teach you how to… uhhhh…

To be honest, I think ‘Erotica’ is one of the weaker songs on the album, I don’t like speak-singing as a rule, and this follows on the same whispered tendencies of ‘Justify My Love’ – I didn’t like it then either. But at least there’s a better beat, and more of a melody, even if it is a dark one.

I’d like to put you in a trance – all over…

The ‘Erotica’ single, as well as the album, will always be remembered as the soundtrack to Madonna’s ‘Sex’ book, and rightfully so. Taken together, they formed a multi-media project ~ a prototype for selling wares with an artistic slant ~ this time an album and a book ~ and the singular, sensational theme only served to wet tongues, nether regions and wallets.

Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body,
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body…
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body,
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body…
All over me…

There was something comical to sex too – both the first furtive fumblings with my own, as well as the humorous tone of much of the book (and the way I procured my copy). My friend Ann’s mother, Gin-Gin, bought the Sex book for me at the bookstore in Rotterdam Square Mall. I think it was 20% off the $49.95 selling price, and I told her to keep the change from a fifty for her troubles. The idea of the three of us executing this ‘Sex’ book mission in the middle of Rotterdam Mall always tickles me – and if you’ve ever met Ann you’re probably smiling at the notion too. She is one of the funniest people I know, and was my best friend at that tumultuous time. I picked up the album at the same time, in the music store next door – CD and cassette tape versions – and we listened to it on the ride home.

Once you put your hand in the flame, it can never be the same.
There’s a certain satisfaction in a little bit of pain.
I can see you understand me, tell me you’re the same,
If you’re afraid we’ll rise above, I only hurt the ones I love.

Once home, I brought the book into the basement, opened it up, and slowly began to turn the pages. With photographs by Steven Meisel, and Madonna in all sorts of nakedness, it was a feast for an adolescent’s eyes, even if mine were more drawn to the men than the Mistress of Ceremonies. It touched a deeper chord in me as well – one that resonated with my artistic yearnings, and inspired a creative drive to do my own thing no matter what anyone else thought. It may be the single most important lesson Madonna has taught me over the years. If nothing else, ‘Sex’ served as artistic inspiration. From its industrial (if slightly faulty) aluminum binding to its mirror-like Mylar sleeve, it was an exercise in how to execute a project, and the promotional hoopla that surrounded it taught me the importance of making a scene and marketing oneself.

Collectively, the whole experience made the music and the book just that: an Experience. It was more than just a record and a few pictures, it was a form of art, a positing of scandalous behavior by a woman taking her clothes off and forcing us to examine our own feelings on sex and nudity. In the most damning reviews (and there were many) was the essence of artistic controversy. Coupled with the sell-out success of the book’s first printing, it was a smash, albeit a detrimental exercise in go-for-broke shock de-value.

To launch the book and the album, Madonna had a Sex Party, to which she arrived dolled up as a Swiss Miss Milking Maiden, breasts pushed up to high heaven, blonde hair pulled into a double bun, and a stuffed lamb in her arms. God knows I love a party costume.

Give it up, Do as I say,
Give it up and let me have my way
I’ll give you love, I’ll hit you like a truck,
I’ll give you love, I’ll teach you how to… uhhhh…
I’d like to put you in a trance… all over…
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body,
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body…
All over me…

Oh, there was a video too. It was only shown after midnight on MTV, a quaint sign of the changing times, and was a grainy compilation of Super-8 footage taken on the ‘Sex’ photo shoots. It is, like the book and the album, a little piece of pop art, Warholian in aim and intent, as stylized and sleek as it is raw and nervy. A masked Madonna in a severe white collar and sheer, bosom-enhancing blouse, bends a whip and flashes Dita’s gold tooth. A bit spooky, a bit sexy, and, thanks to a cheeky smile or two, a bit silly.

The humor of the video, and the project as a whole, was largely lost on the public, who finally seemed to turn on her, and if ‘Sex’ and ‘Erotica’ were technically commercially successful efforts, the damage it inflicted on her career – and where she went from here – was almost irreparable. But that fall-out would come slightly later. For now she was still the Queen of the World, riding high on her fame and power, and taking the ultimate artistic risk by taking her clothes off for all the world to see. And see we did, watching with rapt eyes and dropped-jaws, still transfixed by this cheeky vixen, and waiting to see what she would do next.

I don’t think you know what pain is,
I don’t think you’ve gone that way,
I could bring you so much pleasure,
I’ll come to you when you say.
I know you want me
I’m not gonna hurt you,
Just close your eyes…
Erotic, erotic, erotic, erotic
Just close your eyes…

As for me, the whole ‘Erotica’ time period was fraught with suicidal adolescent angst. The darker tones of the album bled seamlessly into the dangerous undercurrents raging beneath my straight-A existence. Madonna’s rebellion was a pre-cursor to mine, a grand fuck-you to the establishment, and an almost transparent plea from a hurt little girl, that only a hurt little boy could ever understand.

Only the one that hurts you can make you feel better.
Only the one that inflicts the pain can take it away…
Erotic… A.

Song #39: ‘Erotica’ ~ October 1992

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11
April
2011
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #38 ~ ‘La Isla Bonita ~ 1987 – and about every year since

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Oh Madonna, I know you must love this song from 1986’s ‘True Blue’ opus, but I have to tell you, I’ve had a love-hate relationship with it over the years, and it’s partly because you favor it so.

Last night I dreamt of San Pedro,
Just like I’d never gone,
I knew the song,
Young girl with eyes like the desert,
It all seems like yesterday not far away…

When it first came out, yes, I adored it – a beautiful bit of escapist pop perfection – and a throw-away from Michael Jackson’s reject pile – yet you absolutely made it your own, and dedicated it as a ‘tribute to the beauty of the Latin people’. Sure, what the fuck ever – it had a decent tune, and was a twinge of Latin-pop long before Ricky Martin was a twink in anyone’s eye. But really, isn’t that where it should have ended? I thought you felt the same, particularly when you omitted it from your Blonde Ambition tour set list. All the other hits were there, except for this, and you were right to excise it to ‘Angel’ territory.

Tropical the island breeze,
All of nature wild and free,
This is where I long to be,
La isla bonita.
And when the samba played,
The sun would set so high
Ring through my ears and sting my eyes
Your Spanish lullaby…

In ’86 it was breezy and wonderful – if a bit hazy for my own memory – I vaguely remember the video – the perfect precursor for her next proper studio album ‘Like A Prayer’ flirting with religious imagery, albeit safer and far more palatable for the mainstream than that incendiary bit of brilliance to come. Yet did I think the song would stick? Absolutely not.

When it was included on her 1993 Girlie Show Tour, I considered it a blip, but it was a triumph, and this is the key to Madonna’s genius as far as her fan base goes. As much as I may be bored by ‘La Isla Bonita’, as much as it may be a lackluster song for some, whenever she performs it live she transforms it into something else – in 1993 it was a full-out Busby Berkeley by way of Carmen Miranda extravaganza, and a highlight of that show. But I honestly felt it would be the last we would see of the song. Not so… she would return to the beautiful island on her very next (if eight years later) outing, 2001’s Drowned World Tour.

I fell in love with San Pedro,
Warm wind carried on the sea called to me
Te dijo, te amo,
I prayed that the days would last,
They went so fast…

Out of all the old songs to perform for that tour (and there were a scant, casual-fan-criticized few), to select ‘La Isla Bonita’ was an incomprehensible move. A die-hard fan like myself loved the Drowned World Tour (and as my first live Madonna experience, it will always be my favorite), as it incorporated the bulk of the ‘Ray of Light’ album, and much of the album-of-the-moment, ‘Music’. Yet most of us yearned for some classics, and to be appeased with ‘La Isla’ was, on paper, a let-down. But once again, Madonna astounded and surpassed expectations.

Turning it into a rollicking acoustic moment, with her own hands strumming guitar for the song, she made ‘La Isla Bonita’ a genuine jewel of musical artistry, reducing the song to its basic melody and a sing-along moment of transcendence. What a perfect way to end her performances of this song, right? Wrong.

Tropical the island breeze,
All of nature wild and free,
This is where I long to be,
La isla bonita.
And when the samba played,
The sun would set so high
Ring through my ears and sting my eyes
Your Spanish lullaby…

Just a few years later, there it was again, on the Confessions Tour, tacked on in some Abba-inspired dance version with cheesy island graphics backing the whole mad scene. A lackluster song in a lackluster performance, surely this was the final nail in the ‘Bonita’ coffin. And once again, no.

When I heard she was performing this on the 2007 Live Earth special -“ one of only a few songs she was doing that day – I just did not understand. Enough woman! We had been beaten down by this song for four of her first six tours – I think only ‘Holiday’ had been performed more at that point. So it was with wary eyes and not-so-baited breath that I watched as she brought Gogol Bordello onto the stage with her and donned a fedora to the opening beat of ‘Bonita’. This, again, was something new, and as she segued seamlessly into the gypsy tune ‘Lela Pale Tute’ a broad smile formed on my face – in the way that only Madonna can conjure. The mash-up was brilliant, and her joy at joining the Bordello was apparent in her exuberance and happiness. 

Somehow she once again brought the world to its feet, in one of her finest, fiercest performances of the song, over twenty years after its debut. For all those who dismissed her music, it’s remarkable that most of her songs still resonate to this day, even one I’ve repeatedly felt was less-than-her-best.

If I was bowled over by that one, and I was, it was just the run-through for the full-on gypsy treatment given ‘La Isla’ in the 2008/2009 Sticky Sweet Tour. There it found its pinnacle, and for once the song was the one I looked forward to the most. Vibrant, escapist, an amalgamation of past, present, and future, marrying Romany gypsy culture with Latin America, and resulting in one of the richest theatrical productions she has ever crafted.

It was transporting and mesmerizing, returning to the elemental message of the song. It took us away to another land, and another time, subtly tinged with longing and touching lightly on the romantic. In the way of any decent pop song, it could be read and re-read countless ways, and despite my occasional grumbling, Madonna has almost always managed to pull off a killer live performance of it. And so, at last, I find myself giving in to the idea of the beautiful island, and the pleasant idea of a tropical paradise, all found in the delightful few minutes of a Madonna song.

Song #38: ‘La Isla Bonita’ ~ 1987 and about every year since
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04
April
2011
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #37 ~ ‘Hanky Panky’ – Summer 1990

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Come over here…
Some girls they like candy,
Others they like to grind,
I’ll settle for the back of your hand
Somewhere on my behind
Treat me like I’m a bad girl
Even when I’m being good to you,
I don’t want you to thank me,
You can just… spank me! Ooh…

And oww! Here we are, back in the summer of 1990 – arguably the peak of Madonna’s power and fame, and many fans’ favorite era – for the next song in the Madonna Timeline. ‘Hanky Panky’, off ‘I’m Breathless: Music from and Inspired by the Film Dick Tracy’, couples racy lyrics with the quasi-period music from the movie. As such, some of the edge gets lost from the words, which are actually a bit saucier than the delivery – a rarity for many of Madonna’s songs.

Some guys like to sweet talk
Others they like to tease
Tie my hands behind my back
And, ooh, I’m in ecstasy.
Don’t stuff me with kisses,
I can get that from my sisters
Before I get too cranky,
You better like hanky panky…
Nothing like a good spanky,
Don’t take out your handkerchief,
I don’t want a cry, I just want a hanky panky guy.

Without a video, or much airplay, the song doesn’t bring a specific moment in time to life for me. The hazy, hot, and humid spells of summer, when the hollyhocks were high, come vaguely to mind, as do a few night-time drives when this was on the stereo, but that’s about it. My days of getting spanked were far in the future, so lyrically it was all a silly bunch of untried peccadilloes. Even today, it feels less dirty than flirty – a harmless bit of fun, and a nostalgic nod to a lost era of by-gone innocence.

Please don’t call the doctor,
Cause there’s nothing wrong with me
I just like things a little rough
And you better not disagree.
I don’t like a big softie, no!
I like someone mean and bossy,
Let me speak to you frankly,
You better like hanky panky…
Nothing like a good spanky,
Don’t take out your handkerchief,
I don’t want a cry, I just want a hanky panky
Like hanky panky,
Nothing like a good spanky,
Don’t take out your handkerchief,
I don’t want a cry, I just want a hanky panky guy…
Oooh, yeah!

(For the record, Madonna performed this song on two tours (Blonde Ambition and Reinvention) – which was one too many in my opinion. If anything, it would have fit in much better on The Girlie Show, but I have yet to be consulted on a set-list, so we’re left with what we’ve had.)

Dick, that’s an interesting name…
My bottom hurts just thinking about it…
Song #37: ‘Hanky Panky’ ~ Summer 1990
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31
March
2011
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #36 ‘ ‘Don’t Tell Me’ ~“ Winter 2001

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Don’t tell me to stop,
Tell the rain not to drop,
Tell the wind not to blow
Cause you said so…
Tell the sun not to shine,
Not to get up this time, no, no,
Let it all by the way,
But don’t leave me where I lay down.

This takes me back to the end of 2000 and the start of 2001. Madonna, and the hoe-down country image of the Music era, had almost turned me onto country cowboy duds – I distinctly recall trying desperately to find a fitted plaid cowboy shirt, distressed jeans, and, gasp, cowboy boots (even if the lady herself once proclaimed she would never go out with guys who wear them).

Tell me love isn’t true
It’s just something that we do
Tell me everything I’m not but
Please don’t tell me to stop.
Tell the leaves not to turn
But don’t ever tell me I’ll learn, no, no,
Take the black off a crow,
But don’t tell me I have to go…

The video for ‘Don’t Tell Me’, directed by Jean Baptiste Mondino (who also did the far more brilliant ‘Open Your Heart’ and ‘Justify My Love’), is a passable bit of start-stop studio magic, notable for Madonna’s whole-hearted embrace of the country look and a bit of line-dancing that she was about to take on the road for her Drowned World Tour later that year. As for the song, it melds the techno-blips and dry vocal style of the Mirwais years with a vaguely country-ish tune written by Madonna’s own brother-in-law Joe Henry.

It’s both puzzling and fitting that this song was written by someone other than Madonna herself; it seems tailor-made for her in the message department, but the abstract lyrics are almost a bit too obtuse for her usual pop poetry. Still, she makes it her own (and almost unrecognizable from its original incarnation as ‘Stop’ performed by Mr. Henry himself).

Tell the bed not to lay
Like an open mouth of a grave,
Not to stare up at me
Like a calf down on its knees.
Tell me love isn’t true
It’s just something that we do
Tell me everything I’m not but
Please don’t tell me to stop.
Tell the leaves not to turn
But don’t ever tell me I’ll learn, no, no,
Take the black off a crow,
But don’t tell me I have to go…

It’s a sweetly-stubborn refusal to never stop loving someone, a gentle but determined statement of affection even in the face of rejection – both romantically and in a broader sense. Featuring her tell-tale trademark defiance, a hallmark of any pop performer who manages to last beyond what was then almost two decades, it was, and remains, a shining moment from the ‘Music’ era.

In addition, ‘Don’t Tell Me’, and Madonna’s performance of it on the David Letterman show, marked her first moment of public guitar playing. Her skills on the instrument grew quickly after that first shaky song, but kudos to her for being brave enough to do it.

Don’t you ever
please don’t, please don’t,
please don’t tell me to stop
Don’t you ever tell me (don’t you), ever
Don’t ever tell me to stop.
Song #36: ‘Don’t Tell Me’ ~ Winter 2001
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