Leona and Xtina - Where My Diva Voices At?

Let’s talk about divas.

Let me start by saying I completely disagree with Beyoncé in her single “Diva.” In the opening lines of the song, B argues that a diva is “a female version of a hustler.” Not to argue with the owner of the coolest fringe sunglasses I’ve ever seen, but no. A true diva ain’t no hustler, a true diva walks into a room and hell breaks loose – now I know that usually divas are thought of as spitfires, sass masters, and trainwrecks ( a la Miss Winehouse) – but I would argue that setting all that aside, a true diva walks into a room and hell breaks loose because her voice fills the room and takes over. I’m talking a big voice that takes no prisoners, that sits you down, slaps your ‘cross the face and makes you shut up. A voice with personality and warmth, but most of all with intensity and volume (in the physics’ meaning of the word). It helps if the lady with the big voice is a crazy bitch, as my friend has noted here, but not all hot messes are divas or rather, not all hot messes have a diva voice.

Speaking of B leads me to the pop music scene of today, one in which voices are far less important than sounds, rhythms and catchy phrasing, where Nicki Minaj can sing and Katy Perry can sound less and less like herself (and more and more like an android programmed to sing better than Katy Perry). I read a review in Rolling Stone last November of new albums by Mary J. Blige and Alicia Keys that noted how singles on R&B radio these days often sound like they were written by algorithm so that one song bounces right into the next without any vocal variety. I love Alicia Keys but her most recent album The Element of Freedom limits the haughty singer’s range to crisp mid-range ballads that rarely crackle, sticking with her sexy phone voice instead of her ability to crank things up. Mary J, the Queen of Hip-Hop Soul, dabbles in Auto-Tune on her album StrongerWith Each Tear, but ultimately ends with the kind of shiver-inducing soul-meets-R&B joints that make her a treasure. Her song “Color” from the soundtrack to Precious is a classic. Mary J has got that diva voice, and the ability to move between R&B, soul and hip-hop in a way that keeps her fresh and relevant, but even this diva has had to call on rappers and Auto Tune to keep on the charts.

I can think of plenty of diva voices – Patti, Aretha, Whitney, Mariah, Annie Lennox – but these days the radio doesn’t care for voices that big. Mariah’s most recent hits sound like she’s been studying at the Britney Spears school of singing – cooing, giggling and talk singing her way through enjoyable tracks that lack her signature oomph and ability to hold a note for days and take it for a ride around the block. Whitney’s comeback album and tour has revealed cracks in the famous voice – there’ve been too many articles about disappointed fans and her inability to hold the notes on “I Will Always Love You” for me to not feel bad for her. Her talent has always lain in big ballads and dance numbers that didn’t rely on the flat limited voices that these days dot the pop landscape (Ke$ha, sometimes Gaga, LaRoux – all I like, but all are singing in a range roughly as big as my thumb). I love love love “Million Dollar Bill” – a brilliant pop confection with Alicia Keys and Swizz Beatz mixing up something classy and current (and mixing up a baby). Whitney may not be quite where she once was on this song, but I feel like I can hear her smiling on this track and that helps.

VH1’s attempt to resuscitate Divas Live last September was a hot mess that revealed, among other things, the dearth of popular diva voices on the airwaves. Miley Cyrus’s inclusion made me wince in a way similar to watching Taylor Swift eviscerate Stevie Nicks at the Grammys in January. Miley’s voice is mostly husky posturing and any question of her skill as a diva should have been answered by her recent duet with Dolly Parton on “Jolene.” Say what you will about the owner of Dollywood, she’s got pipes and she blows Miley out of the water. The 2009 Divas Live was heavy on American Idols – Jordin Sparks, Kelly Clarkson and Jennifer Hudson. I love all three, but Jordin always seems like she’s playing at being a pop princess as part of a slumber party game, Kelly does mad well but she’s a rock star for the Adult Contemporary set. J Hud’s where the voice is at. I loved the half of her debut album where she wasn’t buried under cheesy music and the hell that is 90’s slow jams. After all the scuttlebutt around her Oscar and her Grammys, her singles after “Spotlight” didn’t seem to catch fire the way they should have – and am I the only one that finds it embarrassing that the video for “If This Isn’t Love” feels the need to make J Hud stationary so she can watch another couple dance while she remains alone?

The Brits on the roster were Adele and Leona Lewis. I love – or lurve – Adele and her intimate folkie pop songs but she’s too private, too personal, too twee for me to consider her a diva. Hers is a fragile voice, laced with yearning and nights spent alone by a fire. Even when she does a bigger rave-up, as here on my favorite track “Tired,” she’s still too close for a diva. She’s not filling the room with the voice, she’s right next to you, she’s right outside the window, she’s at the other end of the phone. God, I love her voice, though.

Which leaves me with Leona, who like J Hud is the product of a reality TV talent show – in the UK – and who scored with “Bleeding Love” – a Ryan Tedder ballad back before everyone had their stab at his strings and beats brand of enjoyable schmaltz (see B’s “Halo” and Kelly’s “Already Gone”). Leona’s actually the lady who inspired me to write this post. I wondered what happened after her debut album and the blitz for her second album Echo which then seemed to vanish in the ether. The album is a knockout though, better in many ways than the first, the 90’s Mariah album that Mimi forgot she made tricked out with some 21st century beats. Leona knows how to be a diva and a dancehall queen and it’s only a pity that she’s not everywhere. I love the whole album but “Outta My Head” is the standout track – Leona may be a bit cold at times but she’s having fun here, she’s yearning and singing her little heart out against a backdrop of synthesizers and when called for she’ll hold those notes until she’s the last sound standing beating back that army of electronic clicks and whistles. She bends the notes, coos, begs and I promise if you listen to this a few times you’ll have trouble getting it outta your head (I had to, right?).

Which brings me to Xtina – good ol’ Christina Aguilera, the youngest person to make Rolling Stone’s list of the 100 greatest voices, the Dirrrty Mouseketeer who didn’t give a second glance until she tried her hand at being a robot on Bionic (I have an academic hard-on for cyborgs in music, it’s complicated). The album she turned out is an overstuffed hot mess with good tracks that fail to cohere into a whole – instead Bionic is packed with attempts to make club music, fun feminist anthems with mocking choruses and chamber ballads. At times on this album Christina buries her vocal chops, squishes them, limits them, as if she took to hear the claims that she oversings and decided that the quickest way to the top of the charts was to sound like an actual robot. Still, there are gems. I’m partial to “Not Myself Tonight” although I know that makes me a minority but in the valley of this album are three amazing ballads penned by Sia Furler – the whacky Aussie whose recent album We Are Born is the perfect blend of Motown-style pipes and danceable grooves. Sia is also, however, a master of the intimate acoustic moment and Christina corrals her formidable voice into songs that prove she can sing. “I Am” is by far the best of these, a track driven by the organic sound of strings and Christina’s rich voice at a little girl hush explaining her foibles to a lover that can see past all of that. It’s lovely to hear Christina without the distractions, without the vocal gymnastics, the dirrrty lyrics or the 21st century synths and PowerTools. She nails it because of that diva voice.

Wanna talk about divas? Start with “I Am” and call me in the morning.

Nota Bene on Eminem and Sex

I wrote a post on ye olde Independence Day about Eminem's use of sexual metaphors on his most recent album Recovery. I definitely think it's an interesting move on Em's part to use anal sex as the central way of illustrating his dominance and fear of being "taken," but what I left out was dangerous - I left out the fact that rape is never about sex but it's rather a more disturbing form of exercising power with sex as merely the vessel for violence and trauma. Sometimes theory overcomes real life and I fear I may have fallen too far down the theoretical rabbit hole (or perhaps I was too deep in Em's psyche - and while I'm on the subject someone recently pointed out to me that "he's in your ass, he's all up in your psyche too" may simply be a statement about how hung the rapper is - that doesn't not sound like a fun ride at all).

Does it matter if Rihanna likes the way it hurts?

This post serves as a companion to my post from July 4th on Eminem's newest album.

These days it seems that Rihanna is everywhere – the style pages of your favorite magazine, the top of the charts with her sassy spring hit “Rude Boy” and follow-up videos for singles “Rockstar 101” and “Te Amo,” and most recently singing the hook for Eminem’s new single “Love the Way You Lie.” The track comes off Em’s new album Recovery which is going into its fourth week at the top of the Billboard charts and the collabo with Rihanna is perched at number two in the Billboard 100. But what is the message of “Love the Way You Lie”?

On the chorus RiRi sings:
Just gonna stand there and watch me burn
Well that's alright because I like the way it hurts Just gonna stand there and hear me cry
Well that's alright because I love the way you lie I love the way you lie

Em’s raps describe a volatile and toxic relationship where both parties are to blame for the ongoing drama but only Rihanna is singing the chorus about being set on fire and liking it. “Love the Way You Lie” is a hot track – perfectly blending Em’s dead serious nasal raps with RiRi’s cold slightly accented delivery. But it’s also a troubling track given Rihanna’s very public relationship with Chris Brown. When Rihanna broke her silence about the night that the couple missed the Grammys because Brown hit her, she told Diane Sawyer on 20/20 that she left her abusive ex upon realizing how much her fans, especially little girls, were looking to her as their role model and example. How then do we reconcile this with the message given in this song – the message that the woman enjoys the pain of abuse, loves it even? Eminem may be presenting the disturbing nature of women’s denial of their abusive relationships and the ways that love can often blind them to the bruises and emotional scars, but I cannot get past the choice of Rihanna to sing on a track with this message.

The Rihanna of “Love the Way You Lie” is a far cry from the Rihanna that we first saw on 20/20 last fall, a defiant independent woman that on her Rated R album fights back against Brown on song after song. I am not arguing that we need to censor songs but rather that Rihanna and Chris Brown are for many tweens and teens their first public brush with intimate partner violence. Many of us were too young for Ike and Tina’s very public divorce, or even the film version with Angela Bassett. But many of us watched Rihanna’s interview and Brown’s subsequent (and in my opinion lame and self-serving) attempts to apologize. We read the blogs. We watched the YouTube videos. We rolled our eyes or deeply believed in C-Breezy’s sobbing breakdown at the BET Awards a couple weeks ago. And now “Love the Way You Lie” is part of that ongoing conversation. What message does this send to those little girls that look up to Rihanna? The girls that want her hair, her clothes, her superstar life?

When the music video drops in a few weeks, I’ll be interested to see what Em’s concocted to match his disturbing lyrics.

A Love Letter to Eminem, with regards to Leo Bersani

Please be warned, in reproducing lyrics from an explicit album, I end up using explicit language.

Dear Eminem,

I’m writing to you in a very different vein than your doomed friend Stan, although he thought the two of you “should be together” and I guess I’m writing for the same reason, but different.

Let me explain. I’m not a crazed fan. Honestly. And I’m not writing because I plan to emulate your “politically incorrect vaudeville routine” (Rux 18) wherein you murder your mother, your twice ex-wife, and bring your daughters and ask them to push Kim into the water. Or the other disturbing yarns you’ve spun in the last fifteen years.

But I am attracted to you against my better nature. As a queer man who likes sex with men, as a feminist theorist devoted to anti-misogynist and anti-racist praxis, my desire to find you goes against everything I teach my students and espouse in my writings. Let me be clear, by attracted to you, I mean that I would have sex with you. Often. That I was turned on by your photo shoot in Vibe last year where you posed as a butcher in a white jacket soaked with blood. That even your rhymes and your flow and that nasal voice that drones gets me in ways that don’t make sense.

Then again, whoever said that sexual attraction was logical, rational or morally right? Those who have, I disagree. We fall into lust against our better natures, against all the other ways we describe our stable sense of a self that makes perfect A to B to C causal sense. I bought your most recent album Recovery which dropped a few weeks back and hit number one. It’s dominating the charts, your singles are all over the radio, and I’ve got the album on repeat on my iPod. But why?

You have a song on the album called “Seduction” and you claim to seduce with words, but let’s be real, the song lies. Em, you’ve never been a smooth operator, you’ve been a big talker and you’ve taken without asking. You don’t seduce - you dominate, you attack, you take, you fuck without apology.

In his essay, “Eminem: The New White Negro,” Carl Hancock Rux writes, “Eminem’s eminence rarely attempts to address serious social or political ills, nor is it obsessed with hypercapitalism. . . . He maintains his whiteness with quirky vocal Jerry Lewis-like phrasing and a bright Greek-god bleached-blond buzz cut; and the classic hip-hop realism he was initially influenced by when he first studied the style of Naughty by Nature and Nas has been replaced with his own brand of contemporary Surrealism that abstracts and exaggerates hip-hop lore more so than any of his authentic heroes or contemporaries dare try” (27). Eminem “does not offer us the real, he offers the surreal” (Rux 22). Recovery is a highly personal album about beating drug addiction and choosing a new path. Gone are the gross-out skits and any real sense of fun and we are left with an Em that’s “cold as a cold wind blows” but the surrealism hasn’t left. I like it, don’t get me wrong, Em, and you are still wont to “hog [tied] a ho” so I can see you’re still the man we know and love/loathe.

At one point on the album you order the listener to “Bring me two extension chords, I’m ‘a measure my dick, shit I need 6 inches more,” before summing up, “Fuck my dick’s big, bitch.” In between the long gazes into the abyss and wonderings about roads not taken, nestled behind the samples of Black Sabbath, REM, and Lesley Gore (points for creativity), you really like to sing about penises and anuses. On your first single “Not Afraid” you describe a man who’s “got the urge to pull his dick from the earth and fuck the whole universe.” “I’ll be goddamned if another rapper gets up in my ass,” you say in “Cinderella Man,” while over on “Almost Famous” you’re sticking “my dick in this game like a rapist.” Now I know, there’s a textbook reading here that sex is about power and you need to assert that power over and over again, that’s the rapper’s bravado and you’ve got it in spades. But it’s also about being the one fucking, never the one being fucked – only you can fuck the game, only you can fuck the universe, but no one can ever fuck you.

In his book Homos (a title that echoes your own use of this as an epithet across your career along with its ugly stepbrother faggot which always makes my skin crawl), Leo Bersani writes that “nothing is more threatening to the culturally enforced boundaries between men and women than a man participating in the jouissance of real or fantasmatic female sexuality” (121-122). Specifically, Bersani is talking about the shame and discomfort surrounding men being penetrated by other men in anal sex. The experience of being the penetrated or fucked party, and thus presumably the docile and submissive party that just lays there in a fantasy of heterosexual domesticity outmoded yet still circulating, is linked to “female sexuality” and the jouissance or ecstasy to be found there.

Further, Bersani writes in his essay “Is the Rectum a Grave?” about the passive position in anal sex as being one that teems with destructive potential. Sex, according to Bersani, is a self-shattering experience. He writes, “It is the self that swells with excitement at the idea of being on top, the self that makes of the inevitable play of thrusts and relinquishments in sex an argument for the natural authority of one sex over the other” (324). Bersani’s argues that the sex act is caught up in the tension between wanting to assert one’s self as master in the physical moment and ceding power and thus abolishing self through the act. There is subversion in even allowing women to be on top in normal missionary sex; consider the frisson for example that is found in Usher’s song and video “Trading Places.” Add to that the shattering of self possible in truly letting go in the moment of orgasm, in truly not being present.

I suspect that the fear of this runs rampant in Recovery and across your career, Mr. Mathers. In my favorite track from the new album, “Cinderella Man,” you ask the listener to guess who the returning champion is, describing that, “he came to the ball in his wife beater, lost his Nike shoe,” before explaining that, “He’s in your ass, he’s in your ass, he’s all up in your psyche too.” It’s as if you’ve read Bersani, the way that being inside the listener’s ass means you’re inside the listener’s psyche, the way that being in control of the sexual situation, topping, means that you are even more yourself and take control of the bottom’s psyche/self. You are larger than life (this isn’t a penis joke) with that surreal edge that means you aren’t merely a great lay for the ladies but you’re able to infect them through their asses. Of course, you need not be up in the asses of ladies in this song since it’s all metaphorical and thus it could be my ass or another man’s, just as long as it isn’t yours.

I’m not calling you gay now, Em. I know you’ve had a checkered past with the LGBT community, with charges of defamation from GLADD that you responded to with your memorable Grammy performance with Sir. Elton John. More recently as the “new tolerant” Eminem you told the New York Times Magazine that gay people should be able to marry because, “I think that everyone should have the chance to be equally miserable, if they want.” I am calling you a top or maybe just wondering how many times you can mention your cock and balls and other people’s asses without people wondering. I know it’s not a new attack, but I propose a different spin, or maybe I’m just practicing some wish fulfillment with the aid of theory. Maybe I want you all up in my psyche.

Maybe I’m most confused by this string of rhymes from Recovery’s opening track: “Motherfucker might as well let my lips pucker / Like Elton John, cause I'm just a mean cock sucker / let the world on fire, piss on it, put it out . . . Who the fuck is you pushin', you must have mistook me for some sissy / Soft punk looking for some nookie or bosom / Go ahead, fucking hater push me / I told you ain't no fucking way to shush me / Call me a faggot cause I hate a pussy / Man the fuck up sissy, G's up.” Rap’s hard to understand already when it comes to rapid-fire flow but add in ventriloquizing others and it’s a complicated game. Perhaps you are someone else when you call yourself a “mean cocksucker,” but it seems rather like the tactic here is one of a masculinity hat trick, admit you and Elton John share a predilection for oral sex with men, challenge others to call you gay/queer/faggot and then turn around and sic that same epithet at these haters. The impression is that you’re too much of a man to be concerned with this, that you’re innate masculinity overcomes your admission of rad oral sex skills. You call yourself a “sick pig” elsewhere on the album and even force a listener to sip urine through a straw but I wonder if your sick pig is my queer conundrum. I wonder if you realize some gay men call themselves pigs because they are willing to be submissive receptacles for the bodily fluids of other men.

But you’re too violent for me to buy you as a total bottom/sub. On “Space Bound,” you wax about a brilliant love affair and then in great detail describe murdering the woman with tears streaming down your cheeks. It’s a change from “’97 Bonnie & Clyde” (covered here eerily by Tori Amos [please ignore the bootleg vid]) when you brought along your daughter to dump the body in the lake, but you are still asserting your masculinity through surreal fantasies of murder. Far and away more troubling is “Love the Way You Lie,” in which you and Rihanna sing about a violent and toxic relationship. In the chorus, Rihanna, the Barbadian pop diva, sings “Just gonna stand there / And watch me burn / But that's alright / Because I like / The way it hurts.” The very public nature of Rihanna’s partner abuse case with ex-boyfriend Chris Brown adds a further valence of unease in this song since she’s singing about complicity with domestic violence and finding pleasure in the pain. You rap that you love her, but in the same breath vow that “If she ever tries to fucking leave again, I’m ‘a tie her to the bed and set the house on fire.”

Maybe I’m drawn to all of these inconsistencies, to your sureness, to your fascination with sexual power and your assumption that your public self will overcome any possible doubts the public has about your sexuality. I cannot condone your violence, your misogyny, your hatred of women, your coldness toward compassion, your positioning of yourself as the great white hope.

Maybe my sexual attraction comes from your own obsession with your sexual equipment, the way that your surreal erotic life is improbable and that you always maintain your position on top. But if you are so broken and bruised after your tumble with drug addiction maybe release comes from letting go of who Eminem has always been and no longer trying to get into the world’s psyche. Maybe you need the jouissance of the bottom.

Maybe.

For now I’m hitting repeat on “Cinderella Man.”

Still confused,
Me