Janet: 8 of her best fashion moments

My brother played an important role in my early childhood. Like any younger sibling, I closely monitored his every move, wondering about his obsession with trainers of a certain brand or taking note of his opinions about the Marvel universe. I also discovered music through what he listened to, which during the early years revolved mostly around Michael Jackson – and a questionable Samantha Fox period. However, the rebel in me couldn’t embrace Michael just like that. Learning Michael had a sister, I became a feminist before I knew what it meant, rooting for the girl. That was the start of my obsession with Janet, Miss Jackson if you’re nasty.

I fell for her amazing moves, her gorgeous voice, and those amazing cat-like-eyes. It was a pretty serious girl crush. While Madonna was my Bible, Janet was my glossy magazine. From her choice of clothes, to how she wore her hair, every style she rocked, fascinated me. Here are my favourite Janet moments, über stylish examples of pop music at its mightiest.

1. The Pleasure Principle

Ever dreamt of moving to the Big Apple and living in an abandoned warehouse? I did, thanks to Flashdance and this video. It’s impossible not to watch in awe as the adidas-clad feet strike some truly awesome moves, this was Janet coming out of her shell, finding her own persona. It’s also proof of her raw talent before she became a household name. 

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2. Rhythm Nation

Nowadays, you would be hard-pressed to find a 23-year-old pop star, fully clothed, head to toe and with shadows hiding half her body on every frame, seriously limiting her exposure. Similarly, you would struggle to find a choreography as effective, sharp and powerfully executed. It’s a flawless pop hit and cemented the launch of Janet Jackson worldwide. It also blew my mind.

3. Love Will Never Do (Without You)

Herb Ritts was one of those talents we lost way too early, and part of his legacy are videos like Wicked Game, Cherish and Janet’s Love Will Never Do (Without You). Sporting a cropped top, high-waisted jeans, Janet epitomises fashion in the 90s. When I first heard LWND I was convinced it was a duet, but it’s all Janet, showing off a stunning vocal range that makes this single so special. There isn’t a song out there quite like this one.

4. Rolling Stone magazine cover by Patrick Demarchelier

This iconic image brings us to the entire “Janet.” era, the one that made me record That’s The Way Love Goes  on a VHS tape every time it came on TV, over and over again. I ended up learning every frame, every move, every line uttered by Janet and her troupe. I bought a choker just like hers and copied her make-up. Sidenote: how cute is J-Lo in the video?

5. Got Til it’s Gone

A beautiful video shot by Mark Romanek, it’s stylistically gorgeous, complimenting the trip hop beats of the song flawlessly. Janet’s look is a complete departure from her previous work, and it came after a painful period of self-discovery and acceptance in Janet’s life. The Velvet Rope is a masterpiece of an album and even today, it sounds fantastic. 

6. Everytime by Matthew Rolston

It’s just Janet, with a piece of fabric to cover her modesty and a lot of water. It’s stunning.

7. Scream by Mark Romanek

And this is where I get controversial, because, in my opinion, Janet steals the show. The PVC trousers, the spiky jumper, that -insane- coat, it all seems made for her. I will not elaborate on how she wears her hair. Let’s just say I loved it so much I asked a hairdresser to recreate it…with very dodgy results.

8. All Nite (Don’t Stop) by Francis Lawrence

No one has earn her abs more than Janet and she knows how to flaunt them. All Nite gives you goosebumps at the start, with Janet introducing the brilliance of the song: “this is sick”. The tiniest of cropped tops, a sexy game of lights and shadows, and we are gifted with yet another masterful choreography.

Sadly, everything she has done since that “boobgate” incident has been blatantly ignored and blacklisted by the-powers-that-be. A female nipple is still seen as something offensive, Instagram and Facebook urging everyone to cover up or be banned. Whether it was deliberate, whether it was a wardrobe malfunction, why does anyone care?

Janet is the only artist – apart from Madge – who has an exclusive playlist on my Spotify, my ringtone is Janet’s intro to Escapade and yes, I did lose the plot slightly when I heard she was making a comeback. Unsuprisingly, I am not the only one currently fangirling over Janet. 

Her new single, No Sleeep, is another of those quiet and sexy affairs she is so great at delivering. Fait accompli Miss Jackson, it’s so nice to have you back.

Monday’s music therapy – Brandon Flowers

Is Monday getting to you? Did you wake up with murdering thoughts, only quietened with coffee? Did the light coming through your window make you feel like a vampire? If like me, you feel more like crying than facing the world, maybe listen to Brandon Flowers. His brilliant new album, The Desired Effect, does have it (the desired effect, get it? wasn’t it clear? Just me then? ok).

Brandon Flowers has produced a courageous anthemic pop/rock album, with plenty of uplifting moments. Perfect for a miserable Monday are opener Dreams Come True and club-worthy I Can Change, skilfully sampled with Bronski Beat, it will have you cranking up the volume.

Diggin’ Up The Heart will make you think of Billy Idol, and a platinum-blond rock god is a fantastic image for a grey day, isn’t it?

Never Get You Right – starts very mid tempo, building up slowly with a wonderful 80s feel, just like my personal favourite, Lonely Town. The album’s final cut, The Way It’s Always Been is the hug you need today. And if a cuddle by Brandon Flowers is what you get listening to The Desired Effect, I’ll be hitting ‘repeat’ all day – seriously, is it just me realising only now how beautiful this man is?

Listen to Brandon Flowers if you like: The Killers, a bit of Bruce Springsteen, a pinch of Starship and, obviously, Bronski Beat.

Picture: brandonflowersmusic.com

Confessions of a grown-up groupie

I’ve always been a bit of a rock chick. Whether dreaming of bleaching my hair and becoming Debbie Harry, joining Prince’s band à la Sheena Easton, or discovering the badass side to silk blouses and mermaid hair with Alanis Morissette.

The true feminist in me would love to tell you that my love affair with rock music came from idolising inspirational women. But alas, before becoming a rock chick, I was a groupie. Not that I actually trailed tour buses because where I lived, southern Spain, very few buses were worth jumping on. Teeny me would see a man with a guitar on MTV and forget about my toast and nearly burn the house down. My younger self would hang a gigantic flag with a certain rock idol’s face, taking over half of the bedroom, while my little sister was forced to stick her Spice Girls posters behind the door. 

So, here it is: I publicly confess a liking for tight jeans, leather jackets and Ray-Bans. It started at an early age and as I grew up, went through a list of crushes I will now proceed to share with all of you… because I feel like embarrassing myself.

Age 7 – Joey Tempest, lead singer of Europe: In my defence, this one sneaked up on me. Up until that age my life was Madonna, hiding under the bed whenever the Thriller video came on and learning Janet Jackson’s best moves. Watching Europe perform Carrie on TV, my parents blew my cover noticing me staring at the screen, hypnotised by the skin-tight leather and permed locks. While I longed to be Carrie, Joey Tempest never replaced my New Kids On The Block posters, so this crush was short-lived.

Age 12 – Jon Bon Jovi, lead singer of Bon Jovi. Because, what’s better than a long haired rocker? One that cuts his hair and becomes the sex symbol every single teen in the nineties wanted to snog. The first vinyl I bought – as it came with bigger pictures of the dude – Keep The Faith, had me dreaming of becoming Mrs Bongiovi. I bought a Bon Jovi t-shirt and decided I would get a Superman tattoo as soon as I hit 18. A couple of years later I stopped paying attention to the band and thankfully, never got that tattoo.

Age 15 – Jarvis Cocker, Pulp icon, a god on stage and the guy that made me realise clever lyrics and the right attitude were far sexier than ripped jeans and curls. I wanted to be in his band – oh Candida Doyle how I envied you – I dreamt of moving to London and bumping into him in a pub, a romance blossoming around chintz wallpaper and sticky coasters. Years have passed since my britpop fever, but I still love Jarvis Cocker’s moves, his wit and yes, one of my dogs is named after him.

Age 17 – Steven Tyler, of Aerosmith. The definition of a bad boy, the guy that had been around for decades before I spotted him, and the sexiest man to utter the word pink. My crush was short-lived though, as I soon discovered Alanis, Sheryl Crow, TLC and Aaliyah. I thought I had kissed the bad boys goodbye, until …

…at the age of 25, I was dragged to a Stereophonics gig, seeing Kelly Jones live for the very first time. And this is where I stop, because honestly, we are at a point that is hard to beat. Leather jacket? Check. Shades and a rock star attitude? Check. R-rated lyrics? Have you heard I Could Lose Ya? And finally, THAT voice. The kind that hits you and all you can utter is “wow”. The raspy type that can’t-sound-this-good-live but then it does. It’s obvious, I’m still hooked.

The funny thing about having a thing for men who play guitar, is that you look back on the –very questionable– real life guys you dated, and how can one not blame rock n’ roll? We all have a dodgy past, our “what was I thinking” crushes. Mine reflect a side of myself steadily developing over the years: the rebellious side, the one that got tattoos and piercings, the one that wasn’t afraid of falling for the less popular guy, dumping those wanting me to be someone else. And now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to play that new Stereophonics song  one more time.

C’est La Vie is the first single from Keep The Village Alive, Stereophonics’ new album, out 11.09.15

Pictures: Europe/Epic, K Fuchs/Rex Features, Steven Tyler via Facebook

The trouble with not acting your age

A few years ago, I used to be an amateur actress. I even took part in a huge production. The day we opened, we did it in front of 500 people. I knew my lines, wore the heavy 18th century dress, petticoat and all, and walked out on stage. Leading the rest of the cast, I attempted to close a parasol I carried. Not only did I fail at closing it, I sent the damn thing flying. It slipped right out of my hands, launching into the air and falling right at the edge of the stage. I heard the gasps and the giggles, and my heart sank. Panicking and breaking a sweat, all I could do was pick up my parasol and say my lines. The show went on.

People may have laughed at me, they may have thought I screwed up my performance, who knows. I didn’t have the world’s media watching me, or millions of people tuning in to an online stream. Twitter didn’t exist back then, and I wasn’t a 56-year-old professional performer. I wasn’t Madonna, falling at the Brits. 

Last night Madonna fell from a raised part of her stage, to the floor a metre down, while almost choking on an Armani cape that refused to unhook. It was not a light tumble. The entire world gasped, a lot of us cringed, and due to today’s technology, we all got to see Madonna’s look of horror. Appearing to be sore, she missed a couple of her lines but went on with her performance, singing live and dancing in frightfully high heels.

The first thing I thought after her fall was the sheer amount of negative remarks it was going to generate. Not negative as in “your performance was not the best” or “what a disappointment”. The ones that troubled me were those that, for the last years, talk about a 56-year-old in need of a retirement plan. The headlines that call Madge an oldie that should cover up or behave appropriately. The comments on social media that express disgust or wonder about her children’s wellbeing whenever she choses to “not act her age”. 

A number suddenly becomes such an important matter, warranting discussion and heavy criticism if it dares go over 50. Apparently once you reach that amount, you’re done.

I wonder about those who cringe at Madonna flashing her bum, or talking about sex… are they grown up? Are they ignorant teenagers who think it’s cool to live fast and die young? Are they women over 50 who abandoned their own dreams and can’t stand to see others doing it differently? Is it men who are throwing the nasty remarks? Being over 50 and being Madonna…how is that a bad thing? Why does it bother some so much?

When I was fifteen, a few years before my parasol fiasco, I lost one of my closest friends. She died of cancer. She never got to experience what turning 18 meant, she never grew up to reach 40 married or unmarried, who cares. She never made it pass 15.

Last year, gorgeous Averi, a wonderful girl I met through my sister, died at age 17. Cancer too. 

Reaching 50 is no easy task. The people that turn that age and continue to celebrate birthdays, have earned their right to be on this planet through survival, hard work and resisting the rubbish life throws at them. 

One of the ladies I admire the most, my aunt and best friend S., she’s around Madonna’s age and like the blonde pop star, still wears lipstick, still is a hell of a sexy kitten channeling Susan Sarandon. Should she dress differently?

C, another lady in my inner circle, separated from her husband when she was around Madonna’s age. She lives alone by the Mediterranean sea. She goes to parties, she does Yoga and now has re-discovered her singing voice, performing stunning solos to numerous audiences. Should she be dressing in black, covering her ankles? Is she not entitled to fall in love again? 

I’m certainly not acting my age. I’m not 25 anymore – I keep telling everyone I’m 28, you can guess whether that is true or not. I certainly don’t behave the accepted “standard” way. I’m not married, I don’t have children, I still rent, and I have no plans of doing what is expected of me. I never have. I’ve been judged, crucified, told I’m unbalanced for not “settling down”. I never will. My gender, the way I wear my hair, my job, and certainly my age, do not define me or my life. 

Age is a blessing, a massive gift. Women over 50 are not going to shrivel up and die. Give up the hate, Daily Mail and other tabloids, trolls and ageist idiots.

Madonna got up, she sang her lines, she nailed her performance. Even non-fans are praising the levels of professionalism of the biggest icon in music. Unlike many of her peers, she’s still here.

Life is to be celebrated, end of. If all you throw at the universe is your negativity and nasty thoughts don’t be ofended when I ignore the hell out of you, and dream to grow “old” like Madonna.

Pictures: BRITS, Fashion Limbo

GIRLS: The show I want to hate

I don’t know what it is about HBO’s Girls that as much as I don’t want to follow the show, I end up watching it, season after season. Is it just me feeling like this?

Girls started off as a really funny comedy, about some unashamedly spoilt characters with awkward sex lives and undefined yet high ambitions. All of their attempts at growing up seem to be repeatedly sabotaged by the characters themselves. The show seemed to tick every box: fake friendships, ugly breakups, low paid jobs, dodgy internships, and unsurprisingly, some great wardrobes. I never minded Hannah’s (Dunham’s character) repeated nude scenes, even finding them refreshing amongst the daily “perfect” bodies Hollywood throws at us.

Then at the same time, after the first season, I began to grow unsure about the show, even dropping it for a while after that twisted sex scene in season 2, involving Adam and his then girlfriend Natalia.

You can argue that the characters in Girls are pretty shallow, that the lifestyles they represent are impossible in reality. However, you could say the same about Sex & The City and Carrie I-write-one-column-and-live-like-a-celebrity Bradshaw, or many other portraits of life in the Big Apple. You can argue that Lena Dunham is not only overrated, but very well connected through her own family and the families of the other cast members. On season 2 the show seemed to not want to be a comedy anymore by turning pretty dark, whether by raising the debate on sexual abuse or by portraying extremely broken characters. However, as its fourth season began this week, there I was, watching the show, laughing again.

I’m still fascinated by Jessa’s long hair and her natural ability for not giving a sh*t. I still want to see Marnie make half the effort for something, then fail miserably, then let herself be picked up again. I want to see Adam and Hannah together and Shoshana still entertains me with her fast paced monologues.

At the same time, I really hate that it is impossible to live like Jessa and survive in NYC unless you have rich parents. It irks me that Adam can be abusive and how he seems to be excused, being the romantic hero for our heroine. I hate how Hannah’s character takes over the entire show most of the time and that Marnie seems to be the token pretty face with very little else to offer. Shoshana…if there was ever a character that resembled a charicature, that’s Zosia Mamet’s character.

Alas, here I am, writing about the show and waiting impatiently for the next one to be aired. Because Lena Dunham is doing something right, it seems. I just haven’t figured out what it is yet.

Picture: HBO

Thirty years of purple

Thirty years ago our lives became more purple. Thirty years since a short guy from Minneapolis fooled those who thought he was shy and insecure. The world became sexier, all because of Purple Rain. Prince was the audacious mind behind the project, an album and a film.

I was too young to understand the complexity of Prince’s catalogue, but I vividly remember – it is one of my earliest memories – asking my father why he seemed overwhelmed in front of the audience he was about to perform to. My father explained that he was hugely talented, but also quite shy. That’s the myth, that the man to become one of the most influential figures in music, lacked confidence. He soon got rid of that image by shocking audiences with his raunchy performances, explicit lyrics – Darling Nikki for starters – and overtly sexual album covers.

I grew up loving this man. I stole my brother’s Batman soundtrack to listen to Vicky Waiting on repeat. Playing Get Off really loudly, I heard my shocked mother scream from the kitchen “What did he just say?!” At the time I innocently ignored my mother’s question, but this is how the controversial lyrics went:

“I clocked the jizz from a friend of your’s named Vanessa Bet, Bet
She said you told her a fantasy that got her all wet, wet
Something about a little box with a mirror and a tongue inside
What she told me then got me so hot I knew that we could slide”

Purple Rain was how Prince came into my life. His eyeliner, the high heels, the gorgeous jackets, everything about his style had me in awe.

If there was one song that changed my life, it was When Doves Cry. The opening with the mesmerising guitar rift, the pulsating beat, the lyrics, have had me obsessed since childhood. It remains one of my favourite tunes ever, to the point that if a song reminds me of it, it instantly becomes part of my playlist. Jessie Ware’s latest release, Tough Love, has me thinking me of Prince’s original, and I love it.

And another song with heavy purple vibes, Colour Of Moonlight, the song that introduced me to Grimes. If you know of any other piece of work that you think is influenced by When Doves Cry, do let me know.
Thirty years on, Prince is still everywhere.

Picture: Prince, Warner Bros.

ARTIFACT: Be creative, but don’t expect to be free

Unless you pay zero interest to the news, you would have surely heard of this year’s Oscars. The winners, the losers, the pizza delivery guy, the selfie, and Jared Leto. That Jared Leto is talented comes to no surprise to millions of  Thirty Seconds to Mars fans, or those of us who at some point during our teens watched My So Called Life. If you haven’t home-dyed your hair red, à la Angela Chase, over the bathroom sink, you haven’t lived. Ah, the smell of cheap dye, throwing your flower print backpack over one shoulder, having no words and only teary eyes hearing about Kurt Cobain.

While it unfairly ran for a single season, My So Called Life managed to acutely reflect the ups & downs of teenage life. A great TV drama, about longing to be “someone” in the school’s corridors, about how your friends are the most important human beings in your life, how you don’t get your parents, how they don’t get you, and about how you were invisible until your very own Jordan Catalano laid eyes on you.

Move a few years forward and Jared Leto has appeared in, by choice, a limited number of films, becoming increasingly good with every performance. As a musician, he joined his drummer brother, Shannon Leto, and bassist Tomo Miličević, to form Thirty Seconds To Mars, a band that has sold millions of music records over the course of 16 years.

Thirty Seconds To Mars had worldwide success with creepy and emo-iconic The Kill (Bury Me) in 2006. Several hit singles followed, and thanks to their international fan base, the Echelon, they sell out concerts wherever they go.

Jared Leto is not just talented: he makes writers like myself abuse the prefix “multi” when labelling him with that adjective. One of his most recent pieces of work is ARTIFACT, a documentary that started off as a behind-the-scenes look at the recording of their third album. It became something quite different when EMI, their record label, decided to sue them for 30 million dollars.

It is not just a documentary on what lies behind a music album, but a revealing film on how the music industry works. While we all know how the stakes have changed, with piracy and digital downloads redefining the music industry, the eye-opening fact comes when realising how the talent of an individual or a band, their work, thoughts and ideas, very easily become something that doesn’t belong to them anymore. I don’t want to give much away but, to me, it was a highly enjoyable piece of work, moving and, at times, angering. Ultimately, watching Leto and the band go through the legal ordeal  – with all of the opposed interests, beliefs and feelings that arise – allows the audience to witness the twisted reality of being a successful music act.

Now, back to post-Oscars talk, and sticking to the wonder that is Jared Leto – notice how not once did I mention anything to do with his ridiculously glorious hair – I can’t help but get annoyed every time an interviewer asks him to choose between his band and his film career, or whether now that he has succeeded in the film industry, will he focus on that, as if being the lead singer of Thirty Seconds To Mars is some sort of middle-ground job. Jared Leto seems to be hyper-creative, well versed in the arts, inspired and capable of shining in multiple disciplines. Why is that so weird? Are we allowed to be good at only one thing?

ARTIFACT is available on iTunes.

Photo & video: Facebook.com/ArtifactTheFilm

The introverted teenager & the CD

I’ve always been very fond of my own company. Throughout my childhood I learnt that spending hours in my bedroom surrounded by music, not only kept me out of trouble but it was also an effective way of drowning my parents’ fights. I played Madonna, Michael Jackson, The Beatles, Prince, Abba, Bon Jovi, even Paul Simon. Then, as I reached my teens, I went through an intense yet short-lived New Kids On The Block phase, until I discovered Nirvana and Courtney Love. Yes, hardly a defined taste.

As an introverted girl, these private music sessions suited me. I lived in the south of Spain and went to catholic school up until the age of fourteen, with books and folders covered in Blond Ambition Tour pictures. I had unruly brown hair,  thick eyebrows, a huge dog, a vast music collection and problems at home. Prettier girls easily pulled the boy I liked or, alternatively, made me the somehow boring topic of their cruel gossiping.

At high school, I was never the “cool teenager”. I practically blended into the stained beige walls we had as background. I dreamt of cool clothes that I didn’t have, trendy curly hair that would never be mine, a certain brand of fitted jeans I couldn’t afford, and of flying out of Cordoba into a more vibrant life. I studied moderately hard and received good grades.

Me in my Keep The Faith Bon Jovi tee, supermarket trainers  for teen chic. My little sis plays the cute card

On weekends I stuck to my all-female group of friends, went to the minuscule bowling alley in the town centre and spent my pocket money on video games and drinks. I wore turtle-neck jumpers I “borrowed” from my mum – I also wore her boots, which weren’t even my size, and did the same with her Wonderbra. I caked my face in a powdered monotone peach shade, finishing it off with layer after layer of brown Revlon lipstick. I simply copied what my girlfriends did, never considering who I really was and what my looks said about me. Self-expression was confined to the words in my diary, safely written within by my four bedroom walls.

As a teen in the mid 90s, Britpop fever hit me hard, making me realise how great my native country was, with very few around me as enthusiastic as me. A few of my friends listened to Blur and Suede, which was fun, but then they moved on to Take That. I tried to get my dad to play Oasis in the car, but after the first guitar rifts in Roll With It, he would complain about the loud music and change the tape. Most of my boyfriends were more interested in The Offspring, Metallica, and Spanish rock singers trying really hard to be like Jim Morrison. My attempts to play DJ at parties lasted for less than a couple of songs before my choice of music was labelled “not fun” and swapped to some local band that regurgitated international sounds into something more simplistic, yet unsurprisingly popular.

It was during 1995 that I heard a song on a TV show that focused on international music charts, including the UK. I liked it so much, the second time I saw the video I recorded it on a videotape. I learned the lyrics, practised the moves, and that’s how I fell in love with a guy from Sheffield: the wonder that is Jarvis Cocker. My older brother was spending his summer holidays in England, so I asked him to bring me a copy of the song: Pulp’s Common People.

Whenever I listened to the CD single, every  hair in my body would somehow feel electrified – thankfully bushy eyebrows seemed unaffected. Each guitar, keyboard, drum, and the ridiculous amount of instruments on that song made me want to break into a dance every time the song started.

Through Common People, Disco 2000, later This Is Hardcore and its fascinating album cover, I began to understand who I wanted to be, and learnt how to express that outside of my diary. I read Smash Hits for the sole reason to hear about what was going on outside the charming little town I lived in. I bought a cheap silver faux-silk shirt in C&A and begged one of my aunts to cut all the stitches and sew it up again, to make it hug my skin. I cut one of my mother’s denim skirts to make it shorter and more rugged. I saved up to ask a pompous and rather terrible hairdresser to cut my hair like Justine Frischmann.

Outfit picture posing already happened in the 90s. Me age 15, with the silver shirt

It turns out, I ended up renting a flat above a shop, I cut my own hair, I got a job. I realised my dream of moving back to England, got a couple of extra gigs to pay for my studies, went to lectures smelling of fried food, to later go out “and dance and drink and…” you know how the song goes.

I now listen to Pulp’s Common People, and it is still, quite possibly, my favourite song ever. It was an anthem of what I was about to live, the people I was to meet just a few years later, the cheap clothes, the badly paid jobs, the debt I got myself into, the dodgy things we smoke, the awfully tasting alcoholic concoctions, the regrets the morning after… the life that was waiting for me.

I don’t have that silk shirt anymore, but I’m still an introvert. I still enjoy listening to everything from rap to folk music, by myself or with anyone that doesn’t mind me going into full music-nerd mode.  There is still no one quite like Jarvis. I still have that CD.

Pictures: Fashion Limbo, Island

When Gaga ditched R. Kelly

The first time I heard Do What U Want by Lady Gaga, I fell in love with the throbbing beats at the start and how her near-perfect vocals work towards the chorus. I enjoyed the lyrics, understood what Gaga was trying to communicate. Then as the song developed into its second half, I found one problem: R.Kelly. There aren’t enough good beats, sublime vocals, and powerful lyrics that will make me like anything by this individual. I am not going to bore you with my reasons, but if you are curious, you can read about it here and here.

Back to the song, I was disappointed. I’m not a huge Gaga fan, but I do enjoy her music and I do feel that we need more pop artists like her, pushing buttons, making people think, very much like Madonna used to do. I still found myself loving the song, but felt uncomfortable playing it on Spotify. I saw Gaga performing  solo on The Graham Norton Show, confirming my initial thoughts: R. Kelly adds nothing to Do What U Want. If anyone reading this believes I say this because I cannot look pass certain aspects of this man’s life, you are right, I can’t. For me, music is more than just some good notes masterfully placed, or a great guitar solo, or a stunning voice. Music means more to me, so, yes, I am biased, and that’s what music is for, to be biased and choose what inspires you, what moves you and what not.

I’m not in the music industry so maybe something escapes me? I don’t understand how an intelligent woman like Gaga would want to collaborate with R. Kelly. There is something I must be missing.

A few weeks back,  Gaga performed this song live on The Voice US, with Christina Aguilera. I was not the only one praising the performance. Both women have powerful voices that are amazing to see/hear live, and the song came alive.

To mark the New Year, Gaga released a studio version of Do What U Want featuring Aguilera. It’s brilliant. It’s sheer pop perfection, and it should have been the original version we all got of the song. What do you think?

Picture: Vogue

New Haim music, and why it matters

I know, two posts in one week? Have I gone nuts? Bombarding friends, family, Twitter followers and anyone on bloglovin‘ with this incessant fire of thoughts and other random banter. In all honesty, I’m pretty excited. The new Haim single has hit the internet, reducing every other current pop offering to a lame David Guetta flavoured single with Rihanna-esque auto-tuned vocals. Yes, Haim do sound a lot like what our parents used to listen to, yes, they have only released an EP, and yes, some are predicting how they may be a case of a hype not living up to its expectation. However, listening to new offering The Wire – details of the upcoming album release are still limited – this music fan cannot help but fall in love with it.

Starting off with a confident guitar rift, the vocals, precise and quick, stick closely to a fun beat that builds up, exploding at the chorus. There are more vocals, drums, and a stunning guitar solo towards the end.  It’s uplifting, catchy, unashamedly summery and ultimately, very good.

Yes, it’s nothing ground-breaking, but it’s different to what mainstream music is offering these days. It’s music done by people that can actually walk on a stage, play a guitar, a keyboard or some drums and be brilliant live, while exploiting the roughness of their voices and said music instruments in the studio. There is no over production, it’s simple, it’s sexy, it’s good.

And don’t get me started on their fabulous manes …

The Wire is out on September 23rd.

Picture: Haim