I may be bad, but I'm perfectly good at it.
--Rihanna
We sat in our seats waiting for the second half to start. With the score tied, the fans were hopeful that our team would come out fighting and put this one away.
The stands were abuzz with folks making the obligatory concessions and pitstop runs, standing up to stretch and nodding mindlessly to the half-time family-friendly events taking place on the field. At the 50-yard line, a group preteen girls danced to a catchy little tune. Their parents dressed the future Bey-Beys modestly and didn't over-do the makeup. How refreshing it was to see girls dressing and looking their age, rather than 10-going-on-30. Finally, I thought, people are getting it.
That's when my husband pointed out that the catchy little tune to which they were dancing was none other than Rihanna's S&M.
And the WTF moment quickly descended upon yours truly.
For my generation, it probably started with Madonna--this turning a blind eye to risque lyrics and performances. Seemed pretty harmless. Heck, it's pop music, for crying out loud. Most of the time, it's the beat you remember, not the words. And the dress? A sequined bra underneath a wide-open jean jacket? Why not? No different than wearing a bikini.
As time went on, other performers popped up and pushed the limits. Some of these occasions elicited a collective gasp from the populace. Others were lucky to earn a "Meh, it's just so-and-so being so-and-so." We saw Lady Gaga donning her meat dress. Yah? Gaga being Gaga. As a microbiologist by training, I was more concerned about skin infections gone awry than the controversial noncontroversy of a meat dress.
We've also had our share of good-girls-gone-bad. Jessica Simpson, home-grown preacher's daughter, turned heads in her Daisy Dukes. Katy Perry, also a fruit of the cloth, followed her Lady Gaga blasphemy charge with a whipped-cream shooting bra. Really, anyone who has had a case of mastitis should have called the Ex-Mrs. Brand out for trivializing a serious disorder.
But hey, that's just Katy being Katy.
Women "artists" using their skin to commercialize their voice--or lack thereof--is nothing new. Why the Miley Cyrus debacle at the 2013 MVA comes as such a shock is shocking in itself. I'm not shocked by her performance. Puzzled, maybe. Shocked, no.
What's shocking is that Ms. Cyrus was pegged out as troubled, disgusting and lewd, while Robin Thicke, the upstanding father and husband, gyrated behind the twerking Disney Star. (It's taken me this long to finally get what twerking is). The response seems largely lopsided--at least on the surface. Is there a double standard that insists that good girls always be good, while Johnny B. Good may be bad? Boys will be boys? Girls should know better?
Yes, girls should know better. Unfortunately, self respect is not inborn. It is a learned trait. I don't know what is going on inside Ms. Cyrus' world that would compel her to go ape-shit on stage in front of Mom and Dad, and a bunch of other Moms and Dads. I don't know what influenced her to believe that her worth must be proved by pushing the limits of shock value. I'm not even sure if limits exist anymore.
But while she, and she alone, is responsible for her actions, someone has to be the adult in the room. Someone--her choreographer, director, agent, back up dancers, hair dresser, I don't care who--should have stepped up and said, "This is just a bad idea." Someone should have put a stop to a disgusting performance and saved this kid from herself. I would expect that a production as big as the VMAs has a production staff. I fail to believe that no one had enough authority over a 20-year-old aimless pop artist to say, "Not only are we not going to broadcast this act, but also we are not going to allow it to happen."
But hey, it should come as no surprise that sex sells...and everyone is buying.
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