Tag Archives: rock-star

Rockin' – Not Humpin' – In the Free World

There was a lover’s quarrel on tonight’s episode of Rockstar: Supernova, and presumably on last night’s episode, as well, which I missed due to catching the fun of Clerks II at the cinema.
Jill is a pretty hot runt, she’s like 4’10 or something, but boy, you get her Italian angst firing and she might as well be six feet tall, man.
She won the rights to sing the Stones’ Brown Sugar with Supernova member Gilby Clarke (formerly of Guns’n’Roses, Heart, MC5, etc.) shredding some guitar. In her infinite wisdom, she thought it wise to, well, hump Gilby from behind while performing.
Gilby, and this fucking rocks, walked away from her antics. He strode towards the catwalk and got the hell outta there.
Then, the post-song comments were exchanged. Gilby said, “The only thing that really bothered me was the humping… Women in music today have sex, like that’s the only thing they can use. You have more than sex. I think it’s cheap, and it’s weak.”
Overnight, Jill commented that, “I think Gilby’s used to having Axl Rose up there, and it’s a totally different dynamic with a woman on the stage.”
She claimed that she did the humping as a means of getting her emotions out in her vocals.
Gilby retorted, “I played with Heart, two women, and Ann Wilson never had to stoop so low as to hump me to get her emotions out.
The next take from Jill was, I think, incredibly lame, but stay tuned for my opinion after the rehash. She said, “It’s rock and roll. Why is there a double standard where a woman can’t be up there and show her sexuality, but you guys can? You rip your shirts off and stuff like that.”
Gilby scoffed. “All the moves were predictable! I’ve seen it at the Holiday Inn, I’ve seen it everywhere!”
Gilby Clarke gets MY vote for feminist of the year, all right? Bang-fucking-ON, Gilby.
Any mainstream chick out there in rock and roll or pop or whatever is using their booty and boobs as much as their voicebox, all right? Don’t give me this “double standard” bullshit. There’s no double standard.
What he’s saying, honeybunches, is that he’s sick and tired of chicks who think they need to fuck their way to success. He wants talent to speak, not a twat. I’m pretty sure he also doesn’t want to be in a band with a guy like Tommy Lee and a chick who thinks grinding one out’s the only way to extricate her emotions.
If you have talent, brains, a body, and the whole fucking package – and she does – then let that speak. Let it wail. Let it send a blood-curdling scream into orbit. Don’t dumb it down or cheapen it by throwing some suburb blonde bubblegum “here, let me hump you now” bullshit into the mix. It’s trying too hard.
Since when was it only a display of sexuality when you reenacted sex? And why did I miss the bloody memo, huh? No one ever tells me dick.
Oh, right, because IT’S NOT the only display of sexuality! Fuck. That’s like suggesting the only way to be heard is to shout.

sub·tle (sŭt‘l) pronunciation
adj., sub·tler, sub·tlest.

    1. So slight as to be difficult to detect or describe; elusive: a subtle smile.
    2. Difficult to understand; abstruse: an argument whose subtle point was lost on her opponent.
  2. Able to make fine distinctions: a subtle mind.
    1. Characterized by skill or ingenuity; clever.
    2. Crafty or sly; devious.
    3. Operating in a hidden, usually injurious way; insidious: a subtle poison.

Dilana, who I’m a secret lesbian for (okay, well, no, but she’s got a fan here, man), can be as on-edge as anyone’s ever been, but she was at her sexiest when she was her subtlest, during her performance of Nivana’s Lithium a few weeks back where she just stood there, fucking STOOD there, staring straight ahead, and raging out the lyrics, her eyes emanating everything they had to, and her body doing nothing. It was so goddamned hot, man, so intense. Yet, subtle, baby.
Ain’t you ever fucked someone with your eyes? Ain’t you ever been fucked by someone’s penetrative gaze? Don’t you remember how goddamned HOT that felt? Yeah, well.
And that’s what Clarke’s saying. Let yourself do your talking – your talent, brains, eyes, pouty lips, the way you wiggle your ass. Don’t think you gotta fuck or hump or grind your way to whatever achievement you’re after, because if you start down that path, there’s not really any other route for you. Respect is a very tenuous thing. Do not be fucking with the respect you have; you may never see it return to you.
It’s really bloody cool to hear a guy get on a soapbox about that sort of thing, and I’m thrilled to see it in an arena like dirty, sexy rock and roll.
Have I mentioned how much I dig this show? Huh? It’s like crack, man. One hit just ain’t enough.

I Blame It All On George Michael

Creativity’s an organic process; I know what I want to write for y’all, but I can’t help it if something flicks the switch and something else comes out. This morning, I was sweeping the kitchen, dancing around, listening to cheesy ’80s music, when this posting occurred to me. Remembering some of this fodder made me laugh out loud, and I’ve still got a grin on my face. So, hopefully you find the diversion fun. I’ll deliver on the Vixen thing.
When I was in Grade 4/5, Wham! took the world by storm. As always, I was a latebloomer, and I fell for them in Grade 7. George Michael made me swoon. Those lips, those eyes, and oh, my god, that ass.
I would dance around my pink bedroom with Freedom playing on full blast. I dreamed of nothing more than somehow encountering my idol and having an affair. Surely he liked 13-year-old girls, I thought. I mean, eight more months and I, too, would be 13. We would kiss. Madly. Sex wasn’t something I’d be considering much for at least another four or five years, but kissing…
A year or two after that, I saw him walking down the street in Vancouver with this Asian woman on his arms. A few months down the road, she’d come to fame as his lover from the video I Want Your Sex, the famed torso upon which the pop star would write, in lipstick, “Explore monogamy.” I clued in pretty fast, guys like exotic chicks, not 13 year olds, and they liked sex, not kissing, and they liked flat little torsos, it seemed.
But that didn’t faze me. I still loved my George. When I discovered masturbation, George was there with me, that sexy bare chest in those little shorts he used to wear. I didn’t even have to imagine George doing anything to me. The fantasy was an album signing. He looked up. Our eyes locked. I creamed my pants. One glance from George, it seemed, was enough to do me in. Oh, George! (gush) Naturally, masturbation then consisted of dry-humping an interesting pile of teddy bears and pillows contoured in, frankly, very strange places, while holding a little teen magazine with the latest male hottie with a perfect smile on the cover. (Oh, GEORGE!)
Honestly, when I was young, I missed the bus to Hipville. It took me a while to grow out of dorkness. My mom was a bit of a hippy, and my clothes were often homemade and things like that, or just badly chosen. It wasn’t until I left private school (Catholic… think kilts and knee-highs, boys… ooh, tartan) and did public school that I finally found a clue.
George kept me company in those dark years. Corey Hart kinda helped, too, and Michael J. Fox. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been a Johnny Depp girl since 1991.
The best thing I ever did for my sex life in my teens, though, was to buy a pair of Doc Martens. My first weekend in them, Josh. Oh, Joshie, Joshie, Joshie. German and Japanese. What a fucking studmuffin. (I always remember my friend having to explain what a studmuffin was to her confused father. “Why, Daddy, it’s a stud you can really sink your teeth into.”) Josh was built for lovin’ – he was 6’4, broad shoulders, and lips that made for smothering, baby.
Yep. One kiss from Josh and I figured, huh, these boots are something. See, he spots me at a party with all our mutual friends, me and my 13-hole docs, and beelines over, commenting that cherry was always the sexiest colour for him. “Oxblood,” I corrected him. Our lips locked shortly after that for the ultimate in gropefests on the back steps. It was the first time a boy ever grabbed my boobs and squeezed and groped, the first time I knew what it felt like for a boy to fumble as to tried to get under the bra and over the breast, and the first time I ever had the distinct feeling of being moist in public.
Naturally, Josh told the world that it had been us who was making the camper a-rockin’, and a classic teen “But I’m not a slut, that was SUZY!” drama unfolded. But I learned something important then. Image was everything, and George wasn’t doing me no favours. I started experimenting with music and quickly found U2 and Front 242, and learned that bad was good, and haven’t looked back since. These days, I’m a punk rock poser-girl some of the time, but usually just a nitty-gritty indie rock kinda gal. No, no Docs these days, but my Skechers are kinda cute.
Funny thing, though. A while back, I had this guy I was sorta wooin’ after dinner. We were interacting, on the cusp of sex, but the nerves were in the way, so instead we were standing too far apart, with that invisible awkwardness barrier repelling us. My iPOD developed a mind of its own and suddenly Wham! spun on.

“Wake me up, before you go-go
Don’t leave me hangin’ on like a yo-yo”

Next thing you know, the boy and I were bouncing around the kitchen, laughing and singing, washing dishes, cleaning up, and naturally, a spot of water on the floor yielded a well-placed slip, and we collided into each other, against the counter, collectively gasped, locked lips, fumbled about, and the rest unfolded exactly as it should, upon my bed.
I guess our liabilities aren’t always what they seem, and the past is never as far away as we’d like to think. But is that so bad? That night, it wasn’t.
PS: Incidentally, of all my teen idols, GM’s the only one I still find sexy. Not my type per se anymore, but still has “it”.