I am not the most astute observer of pop culture you’ll ever meet. I am out of the loop in discussions of Big Stars, and when it comes to what I like to pop into my CD player, I’m a study in contrasts (ska, punk, AND bluegrass?), which is not an indication, I’m afraid, of any sophistication in musical appreciation on my part.
But you already knew that.
Anyway, I love bluegrass and old-time country music. A three-CD set of “classic” (read: “Not on the radio”) country music makes for a happy afternoon as I sink into the unapologetically twangy sounds of Kitty Wells, Bill Monroe, and early Johnny Cash. I love Emmylou Harris, Alison Krauss, Ranch Romance and Ricky Scaggs, and I loathe what passes for country music these days — insipid melodies performed by crushingly dull macho “patriots,” swaggering and hard-partying sex symbols, and the tepid, beige tones of “country rockers” who are neither country nor rock. My idea of eternal conscious torment would include having to listen to Rascal Flatts, Kenny Chesney, Toby Keith, or whoever G. Gordon Liddy and Laura Ingraham proclaim to be cool these days.
And so I was delighted to see Kevin Skinner win this season’s America’s Got Talent, with the million bucks and the headline show in Vegas and the attention of everyone in the nation more pop culture-savvy than I am. Skinner is an unemployed, unsophisticated farmhand from Kentucky with a rumbling drawl that calls to mind every nasty impersonation of the archetypical dumb redneck — he doesn’t sound, when speaking, like what most of us lamentably think “smart” sounds like, and he endured not-too-subtle scorn from the judges when he took the stage the first time in a backward baseball cap, jeans, and a worn Baja jacket. Then he sang.
It was stunning. He has a voice like that of George Jones and a presence like the anti-Elvis, strong and sweet and utterly sincere. He beat out opera singer Barbara Padilla, whose voice might well be the ultimate, absolute argument for a personal, intelligent Creator, God-As-Artist who inhabits not just the praises of his people, but the soaring, achingly beautiful tones that carry their words. I’m not much for opera, but beauty and wonder poured from Padilla’s voice every week, just as warmth and graciousness flowed from her when Skinner’s win was announced. Yeah, I got all
teary . . .
The presence of Skinner and Padilla, as well as Internet sensation Susan Boyle, wasn’t enough, however, to rescue much of the evening from near-Purgatorial awfulness. There were performances from Cirque d’Soleil, who managed to combine cabaret with clowns AND mimes — a Trifecta Of Extraordinary Cringe-worthiness — and country group Rascal Flatts, who are almost, but not quite, as cool as the guy at Home Depot who holds you hostage in “Lawn and Garden” as he yammers on about his new hose winder. But it was fun to hear disco matriarch Thelma Houston, and Boyle has a voice like an angel. Then came Shakira.
Oh, my. I’m not a prude, and I’m also not a dancer. And so it’s quite possible that I simply can’t appreciate the artistic honesty and profundity of what I believe was conceived as choreography interpreting the intentions of a song called “She-Wolf.” But I have been on a stage before, and sat on a piano bench before, without engaging both quite as she did. It was something to behold, in an “I’m so embarrassed for her! Where’s her mother????” kind of way.
In a jumpsuit with the net body-coverage of, say, a generously sized Garden Burger, Shakira managed to exhibit at least 90 percent of what’s wrong with music and culture these days, and did so to an adoring crowd full of men who gave her a near-complete standing ovation before realizing that, ummmmmm, they really ought to sit down. Likewise, the women in the audience were captivated, applauding wildly as the Colombian singer-dancer illustrated, in six-inch stiletto heels, why the goals of feminism have still not been reached, and why the Birkenstocked among us must continue to fight. (And please spare me the “she’s a powerful woman taking charge of her sexuality” crap. Truly empowered women don’t simulate sex with furniture on stage and in front of millions, and I absolutely can — and do — envy her figure while nonetheless wanting to toss her a muu-muu and sensible, if not rascally, flats).
I sincerely wish Kevin Skinner well in his stardom, and I hope that he and not our She-Wolf In Spandex represents the future of popular music. While it would be inappropriate to write his name all over my Pee-Chee folder, Jeff and I do intend to buy his CD, if for no other reason than gratitude to him for not once stalking the stage in leather Speedos, oiled pecs, and high heels.
Stay tuned for a serious take on women, high heels, and the folly of crippling footwear . . .