R E C E N T L Y
The glory of female curvature
The uses and abuses of Chelsea Clinton
Why feminists are co-dependent with philandering Bill
The sexual symbolism of Ted Kaczynski's crimes
Deconstructing the Kennedys
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A L S O
About Camille Paglia
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C O L U M N I S T S
Sexpert Opinion
Bestseller Hell
Remember Halabja
Right On!
Word by Word
Under the Covers
Hollywoodland
Second Thoughts
Sound Salvation
Unzipped
The Awful Truth
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A S K_C A M I L L E +|+ C A M I L L E+P A G L I A
PAGE 2 OF 2
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Dear Camille:
We anxiously await your thoughts on Madonna's new album, "Ray of Light," and
her new incarnation as spiritually enlightened self-seeker. While we're on
the subject, why can't these decadent sexual outlaw pop stars (like
Madonna, Prince, etc.) continue their Dionysiac party till the end? What
turns their attention from groin to spirit, and why can't they see that the
two can actually be linked -- as in Hinduism? The Rolling Stones and Grace
Jones, among others, have managed to keep the raunch alive. Why can't these
guys?
Dmetri Kakmi
Dear Dmetri:
I find most of "Ray of Light" ravishingly beautiful -- except for the
pretentious, drag-ass first and last songs, with their musical clichés and
wincingly sentimental self-pity. The CD definitively reconfirms Madonna's
status as a major late-20th century artist. But it is certainly not as
radical in style as was claimed by so many pop reviewers (increasingly a bunch
of feminazis and pallid, PC dweebs). It's particularly delicious to find
Madonna, with her new personae of spirituality and devoted motherhood,
flummoxing the maleducated theorists of fast-track academe, who defined her as
"transgressive" in their ham-handed, careerist rummaging of popular culture.
Why I like "Ray of Light" and have listened to it for two weeks straight, at
home and in my car, is why I've always liked Madonna: because she is in the
main line of 1970s disco, which I interpret as a form of buried pagan
religiosity. (I made this point, for example, in my 1991 London Independent
celebration of Madonna, reprinted as the introduction to "Madonna Megastar,"
the Schirmer/Mosel Verlag photo collection that was released in German,
English, French and Italian editions in 1994.)
Only Madonna has been able to pick up the creative torch from another inspired
Italian, producer Giorgio Moroder, who worked in German studios in the 1970s
when they were in Kraftwerk ferment. I love the synthesized Eurodisco style,
from Pierre Bachelet's lush, eerie score for Just Jaeckin's "The Story of O"
(1975) to Moroder's darkly amazing soundtrack for "Midnight Express" (1978)
and his exuberant albums with Donna Summer, particularly the double-disc "Bad
Girls" (1979), which I listened to nonstop while writing "Sexual Personae."
As a composer, Madonna has always merged percussive African-American and Latin
rhythms with mainstream European melody and grand church orchestrations. She
and Moroder have a rich emotional depth that has made their work last and
last. If only the two had collaborated! The failure of the music industry to
honor Madonna for her enormous contributions not just to American but to world
culture is becoming more scandalous with each passing year.
The electronic experimentation on "Ray of Light" seems to me pretty
rudimentary -- or should I say blessedly simple. Björk, thank heavens, Madonna
is not. (Don't get me started on Björk, whom I detest. Listening to her is
like being trapped with Yoko Ono in a John Tesh tin pail.) Madonna's clear,
supple, "Evita"-trained voice is now a positive pleasure to hear.
However, Madonna's lyrics still leave something to be desired. She has
clearly not taken Dr. Paglia's course (HU 417 Lyric) on the long poetic
tradition informing modern ballad-writing. Redundancy dogs her: "You were
my lesson I had to learn," for example (from "The Power of Good-bye"), is
needlessly padded, since "lesson" already implies learning. Or "I ran from my
house that cannot contain me" (from "Mer Girl"): "house" actually assumes
containment. And bathos is her bête noire: Ideally, a line like "I ran to
the cemetery" ("Mer Girl" again) should not make the listener break out in
gales of laughter -- as it did me. Alas, it's all too reminiscent of comedian
Julie Brown's hilarious parody of Madonna as the ditzily self-absorbed
"Medusa."
But words have never been Madonna's strong suit, nor are they likely to be
when she spurns friends like the brilliantly witty Sandra Bernhard for
midnight sybarites like nightclub owner Ingrid Casares, who appears to be,
after a period of alienation, one of her few enduring confidantes. From all
reports, the art of conversation is not in Madonna's repertoire, which is
partly why her published interviews seem so flat.
As for keeping the raunch alive, as you so vividly put it, I think Madonna
would look pretty pathetic if she were still plugging away at the "Dionysiac
party." She'll be 40 this year, Hera help us, so her turning inward was long
overdue. Her dismal 1992 book "Sex" showed what a downer Dionysiac rites can
be when the old flames start to gutter out -- leaving stale tableaux of stilted
people just going through the motions. Put the peel back on that grape, Mae!
Your reference to Prince must make us all ponder what a sad downward
trajectory he has had. Like Michael Jackson, Prince seems to have retracted
into creative solipsism, after the glories of his 1984 "Purple Rain" period,
when he was doing cutting-edge work in both music and dance. We can only
wonder what popular culture would have gained if the original, tense, talented
team of Prince, Andre Cymone and Morris Day had survived as a supergroup.
Grace Jones is, of course, fabulous. (I had a fascinating encounter with her
handsome, graceful, charismatic brother in a dingy upstate New York bar 30
years ago: He was wearing blazingly blue contact lenses and was miffed when I
failed to refer to him as "she.") Thank you for mentioning my heroes, the
Rolling Stones, who, despite the lamentable absence of virtuoso bassist Bill
Wyman, are still making superb music. Songs like "Flip the Switch" and "Saint
of Me," from their most recent release, "Bridges to Babylon," show just how
far younger bands have to go before they make rock history.
When friends fail you or tape you, you can Ask Camille.
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