Thoughts on Lorde's "Royals"

Okay, so it struck me tonight that Lorde's song, "Royals," makes absolutely no sense. Of course, you might say, "Duh. I could have told you that months ago." Well taken. Maybe I'm slow. But I really did think "Royals" was on to something until I read tonight that a reviewer for the New York Times praises Lorde's "Royals" as a song that allegedly "inverts the good-life bragging of archetypal Top-40 radio songs into a cry of consumer alienation." 

And that phrase got me thinking because, first, it sounds like indirect, high praise for the song, and second, it makes me wonder if that's what the song actually attempts to do. Is "Royals" really "inverting" anything? Because in my mind, the song bites the hand that feeds it. And the hand that feeds it is the underlying desire for power, fame, fortune, wealth, etc. It's the assumption that we'd rather be higher than others than not, and we're happier ruling rather than serving.

I could help prove my thesis from the verses, but let's just skip to the chorus. Lorde proudly proclaims that "we'll never be royals; it don't run in our blood. That kind of luxe just ain't for us; we crave a different kind of buzz." So far so good. She's making the point that we won't live like royalty, but what she's saying goes even further: she's claiming that not only do we not live like royalty, but we don't even desire to, since that "luxe just ain't for us; we crave a different kind of buzz." So from the heart, apparently, we as the common people desire something altogether different than the bling-crazed aristocracy. 

But for me, that then begs the question: What do we desire, Lorde? If the "luxe" of the ruling class ain't for us, then what is it that's our cup of tea? And why does your very stage name seem to imply the opposite of what you seem to be saying? Please explain.

So she goes on to explain in the second part of the chorus, and the self-contradictions start multiplying like a viral infection: "Let me be your ruler (ruler). You can call me Queen Bee, and baby, I'll rule. Let me live that fantasy." 

So wait. How are we common folk any different than the shallow bourgeoisie? What runs in our blood that's not like them? What's that different kind of buzz that we crave, oh fearless leader? 

And as it turns out, there's nothing different between us and them. Lorde, you're lying to us. You fantasize about ruling over me just as much as the royals do. You crave to be Queen just as the people in power do. We all spring from the same heart, the same desires for power, as much as we want to declare our uniqueness. The only difference between us and them is that they actually rule while we only long to "live that fantasy." 

And so the song shoots itself in the foot, disproving the very thing it so desperately wants to prove: that there's something different about us common folk, something sacred, something more worthwhile than the trappings of fame and wealth and success and the drive to rule. But no hope here: deep inside, even our precious Lorde just wants to have us bow the knee and call her our Queen Bee. 

I suppose that, if the song had stayed consistent in its message, the song wouldn't have had nearly the same popular appeal. Because all of us really do want to be our own proletariat "Queen Bee": we want the power to play ruler and judge and master of ourselves and others despite whatever is really going on around us. I mean, just imagine if the second half of the chorus went this way:

Let me be your servant. You can call me lackey.

And baby, I'll bow. Let me live that legacy.

Nope. That just wouldn't fly. Not in this world.

Thoughts During Winter in Brooklyn

I choose metal over wood,

Faithfulness over decay,

Permanence over reverie,

Walls that protect over windows that peek.

I want my legs strong, my roots deep,

My foundation immovable, my anchor secure.

All here fades –

Starts with freight train passion

And then, over time, superficially sputters

To a disillusioning halt,

A heart-shattering, decisive deactivation,

Leaving the conductor befuddled

And the cabin mates craving

A destination.

These tracks are wood, not metal,

And they crumble underneath

My onerous wheels

Because I am metal. I last.

And what doesn't last will kill me.

A Poem I Wrote Six Years Ago

I just found a poem I wrote on October 7, 2006. It amused me, so I thought I'd share it with you:

Somewhere

In my room

Lodged probably

Between a couple

Dusty books in some

Dark corner

A cricket is dying,

That energy to hop

Succumbing to the enervating

Burn of killer spray.

I feel bad,

But one of us had to go,

Though I know

He must've had one long trek

To make it from outside

All the way into my

Second-floor abode,

Following the light, the light,

Probably not thinking of anything else

But the light

Upstairs.

And too soft to smash him

I sprayed him mercilessly with

Bitter fiery stuff

And now

Unseen to me

He's squiggling about

On his back

Frantically

Still calling for the light

Flabbergasted

As the poison

Eats his shell,

And his body

Involuntarily

Ossifies

Into a ball of cold, dead

Exoskeleton.

A Reflection on a Hospital Visit

We are too preoccupied with this life. We see this in the decrepit way we pray for and encourage the sick. 

This Raucous Insecurity: An Attempt at the Meaning of Nero's “Promises”

In August 2011, the song debuted at #1 on the UK's pop music charts. By February 2012, the music video had received over 11 million views on youtube. Yet the irony remains that, in the face of such accolades, Nero's song, “Promises,” defies any definitive meaning. Nobody seems to agree on what the song actually says, and the sparse lyrics provoke depth and yet evade anyone who attempts to interpret them. Do the lyrics actually propound a decipherable message rooted somewhere within the pulse-pounding, high-energy dizziness of the track? Or are the lyrics just ornaments loosely hung as frills to the rapturous dizziness?

I side with the former, that a message does indeed lurk amidst the loud, wobbly tones. So, without further ado, I give you the lyrics:

You got me so wild,

How can I ever deny?

You got me so high,

So high I cannot feel the fire.

And you keep telling me,

Telling me that you'll be sweet,

And you'll never want to leave my side

As long as I don't break these...

Promises, and they still feel all so wasted on myself.

You got me so wild,

Why should I be so surprised?

You got me so high,

Don't you see it in my eyes?

And you keep telling me,

Telling me that you'll be sweet,

And you'll never want to leave my side

As long as I don't break these...

Promises, and they still feel all so wasted on myself.

So here's my thesis: I think the song is about the raucous insecurity that a woman feels within a budding romance, a romance that both excites her and scares her to death as she wrestles with her own inadequacy to sustain the exhilarating and yet emotionally dangerous possibilities.

Now to try and prove my thesis. To start off, I think definitions are in order, especially for the song's key word: Promises. I must state my presupposition up front: For my thesis to work, the word “promises” must stand for a mutual, bilateral commitment rather than singular vows made unilaterally by one party to another. In other words, promises operate in this song in a covenantal way, binding two people together in a committed relationship. So in the song, the promises aren't words of assurance upheld by one party for the benefit of the other but rather a set of binding symbols of a romantic commitment upheld by both parties equally, with both parties equally capable of “breaking” the promises (i.e. failing to uphold his or her end of the commitment). Only by conceiving of promises in this way does the song make sense; otherwise, one cannot conceive of how the woman could break her lover's promise or vice versa, or how her own promises could be wasted on herself.

So, with this covenant-commitment definition of “promises” in place, we can now exegete the song. With the first two lines, the woman already betrays that she feels disarmed and vulnerable: “You got me so wild, / How can I ever deny?” The question in the second line divulges a latent desire to deny the intoxicating effect that her lover has on her, but she cannot hide it. He drives her crazy with dizzying passion, and although she wishes to conceal her turbulence and maintain propriety, she finds herself unable to mask the wildness he has effected in her.

Such emotional invigoration feels to her like a drug, and she refers to it as such in the next two lines: “You got me so high, / So high I cannot feel the fire.” In this context, the fire here cannot refer to her passion because although she feels her passion acutely, she cannot feel the fire at all. The fire, then, would stand for something too hot and too dangerous for her to touch. In other words, her lover is causing her to throw caution to the wind; her passion for him is causing her to neglect or even to ignore the possible dangers inherent in this kind of relationship. Romantic failure can produce the most searing kind of pain, and it's fear of this pain that prompts her desire to deny her feelings. She finds such feelings impossible to deny, however, and her lover's intoxicating effect on her also numbs or disables her ability to assess the possible dangers of this romance. She feels vulnerable. She feels undone. She feels insecure about surrendering this much control to someone else.

(Seen another way, “high” could refer to height rather than to the effects of a drug, in which case she would then be describing how she feels like a bird soaring so high above an erupting volcano that the bird cannot feel the heat. Given either interpretation of “high,” however, the meaning stays the same: Her lover's presence disarms her, rendering her unable or at least unwilling to evaluate the possible ways that she could get “burned” by the fire of romantic disappointment. She is aware of the fire and knows that she should not get too near lest she get burned, but she cannot feel the force of that danger right now because her intoxication with her lover crowds out all other feelings.)

As if her mention of the fire sparks just a little rationality in her, she speaks the next lines in almost an accusatory tone: “And you keep telling me, / Telling me that you'll be sweet, / That you'll never want to leave my side...” Here, the insecurity begins to nestle in like a black cat upon her shoulder. Even while her lover is whispering tenderly and repeatedly to her, trying to reassure her of his love and fidelity, she finds herself unable to accept his assurances, not because she doubts his words but rather because she doubts herself. She puts the responsibility for maintaining his words squarely on her own shoulders: “As long as I don't break these / Promises, and they still feel all so wasted on myself.”

And here we've arrived at the chorus, the enigmatic punchline of her song. Here she reveals that she wants to accept her lover's generous words, but she views his words as merely conditional upon her own performance in the relationship, conditional upon her ability not to “break these promises.” 

Perhaps she thinks this way because of wounds she's received from a man in her past who said the same sweet things to her but discarded her the moment she couldn't fulfill all his dreams. Perhaps she thinks this way because she's crippled a past lover by something she did or said. But whatever the reason may be, the “as long as” destroys everything for her. It's only “as long as” she doesn't break her end of the commitment that her lover's words will stand, and she very much doubts her own ability to uphold her end of the “bargain.” 

Therefore, she finds herself not encouraged but rather resentful of his words because they only remind her of her own insecurity, her own inadequacy, when it comes to making the relationship last. She finds herself all too able to break her promises to him, to botch her end of the commitment and thereby render all the commitments that he makes as “all so wasted” on her.

By implication, then, she actually does have a high estimation of her lover. She actually does trust him enough to take his words at face value, but because of her insecurity, his assurances of his love for her only cause her to feel unsure about her ability to receive and to maintain that love. She seems to respect her lover, but she doesn't respect her own ability to reciprocate his love. And if his love is contingent upon hers, she thinks, then she might as well declare that he is only wasting his promises on her because she feels that she will only fail to uphold her end of the commitment. 

The thought that she could lose his love because of her own inadequacy makes her want to send him away to find a more “worthy” partner, a partner who won't be as prone to breaking her commitment to him. She's thinking, “Perhaps he's only wasting his time on me because I'll only end up hurting him.” And the fear of hurting him seems to supersede even her fear of getting hurt by him.

This raucous insecurity bleeds freely into verse two: “You got me so wild, / Why should I be so surprised? / You got me so high, / Can't you see it in my eyes?” The questions now multiply. She is indeed surprised by the ire of her passion for her lover, a passion that apparently dilates her pupils and blazes from her eyes like sunbeams. And yet, such a visceral response seems only to make her more self-conscious and diffident as she repeats, “And you keep telling me, / Telling me that you'll be sweet, / And you'll never want to leave my side. / As long as I don't break these... / Promises, and they still feel all so wasted on myself.” Probably a part of her savors the thought of a man who would always and only speak to her sweetly and who would never want to leave her side, but she believes that such a dream could never last; in her estimation, he will leave her side when he finds out more about her, that she can't pull her weight in the relationship, that she will fail him, that she will break her promises and thus prove to him that all his promises were “all so wasted” on her.

This fear paralyzes her. This fear that “whether or not you love me depends solely on me” is, I think, a fear that many women (and men) feel every day as they struggle to negotiate their lives in a society almost totally devoid of grace. If there is no such thing as grace, if there is no such thing as “I will love you and forgive you no matter what you do to me,” then perhaps we're perpetually cursed to live in a prison of relational insecurity, wherein your love for me will always be contingent upon what I can do for you in return. By contrast, how much more room there would be for true love and security if we could just get past the give-and-take mentality that forms the foundation of just about every interaction between human beings.

Beyond the society of give-and-take, there lies the dream of a society of grace wherein a man can honestly say to the woman in this song, “You can forget the 'as long as.' I will be sweet to you. I will never want to leave your side. And when you stumble, and when you fail me, and when you break my heart, I will still be sweet to you. I will still never want to leave your side. Because my love for you is not contingent on what you do for me or to me. So you need not fear that my love will be all so wasted on yourself. My promises to you won't break, even if your promises to me do.”

What a security it would bring to be loved steadfastly like that. But I know of only one man in all of history who could say all that and really mean it.

If only I could be more like that man. 

Passionate Commotion over Personal Connection: A Relational Analysis of Lady Gaga's “Bad Romance”

Lady Gaga seems to excel in fashioning accessible music. My Russian friend told me recently that nowadays in Russia, even gruff old men like to bob their heads to Lady Gaga's music. No matter what you might think of Gaga, she has made a name for herself on a global scale, so that even choirs made up of old Chinese people in Hunan Province have a blast singing her songs (just google “Old Chinese Choir Lady Gaga,” if you don't believe me). This world-going-Gaga phenomenon astounds and compels me to query her music for the secret of her fame.

I read an article wherein a music critic tries to assert that we should understand Gaga's song “Paparazzi” as a denunciation of the media. But as I listen to the song, I search in vain for that denunciation, for that level of depth. In fact, it seems to me that Lady Gaga's songs avoid depth entirely. Her songs seem to defy any attempt to find deeper meaning behind the words. Instead, they stay invariably surface-level, maybe in order to remain immediately accessible to the widest possible audience.

Perhaps it's this lack of depth, this rootedness in rootlessness, that makes Lady Gaga so marketable. With such a vacuous message, she can have us experience in her songs whatever cheap emotion we would wish, while the songs' repetitive catchiness drowns you in the numbing bliss of not having to plumb the depths of any deeper meaning.

Perhaps therein lies her genius: Mindless music crafted by one so mindful that the masses would prefer not to bear the burden of sober thinking but rather to pulse with indiscriminate, animalistic feeling. Perhaps she figures that the average Joe and Jane would rather engage in a passionate commotion about nothing than to negotiate the messiness of real personal connection. That relational detachment seems, at least, to be the thrust of her song, “Bad Romance,” a song in which the main character's desire to craft a dramatic story completely replaces a desire to engage in any real relationship with another person. It's as if she's saying to a man, “Let's just use one another to write a bad romance novel, full of melodrama, because what really matters is the story, not you and me.”

Consider the first lines, for instance. They consist of a string of drawn-out oh's followed by the line, “Caught in a bad romance.” From the get-go, she's already "caught" in something - something dramatic. One would think that if she feels “caught,” the “romance” has her in its custody, not allowing her to escape from some kind of unwanted prison. However, she quickly reveals in her next intelligible line that she actually wants such a “romance”: “Want your bad romance.”

Describing what makes such a “romance” bad, she reveals that she relishes those things that would actually bring tension and thicken the plot of her supposed relationship: “I want your ugly; I want your disease. I want your everything as long as it's free.” She gives a condition here: she will only enter into this “relationship” if everything remains “free.” In other words, it must cost her nothing, like a cheap romance novel in a trash bin. To her, this “relationship” must stay merely surface-level and run no deeper, lest one find obligations or expectations that would require any level of real sacrifice. Sacrifice isn't her thing; she's looking only to write a fictional, heart-wrenching story to tease the imagination, a story wherein she can feel free to act like a desperate woman screaming, “I want your love!” but only for the fun of saying it to advance her fantasy.

Then, her next line reinforces this idea that she's not looking for a real relationship but only a romance novel-like story: “I want your drama, the touch of your hand; I want your leather-studded kiss in the sand.” And she tops off her drama lust with a flurry of highly performed statements of melodramatic love: “I want your love... You know that I want you, and you know that I need you. I want it bad, your bad romance.” The vacuousness of these phrases tempts even the cursory listener to fill in the dots with whatever one wants to hear. Desire? Desperation? Actually, no; just a woman whispering sweet nothings to you to see if she can treat you as a character in her fantasy.

The chorus confirms this. She sings, “I want your love and I want your revenge. You and me could write a bad romance.” So the story to “write” is all that really matters to her. She could care less whether you two stay together. In fact, she will deliberately fracture the relationship by cheating on you so that she can experience your revenge and enhance the emotion of her story's plot line.

The plot certainly thickens with the second verse, taking the form of thriller cinema: “I want your horror, I want your design; 'cause you're a criminal as long as you're mine.” Craftiness steeped in lawbreaking: the stuff of an engrossing Hollywood film. And what else must be in a Hollywood film? Gratuitous sex: “I want your psycho, your vertigo stick. Want you in my rear window; baby, you're sick.” So she continues to add elements to her story to make it more and more like cinema; once again, what matters to her is not the other person but rather the crafting of a spectacle full of theatrics. In other words, the story's passionate commotion reigns in her heart, not any sense of personal connection.

Surface-level image is all that matters to her, which she accentuates in the bridge: “Walk, walk, fashion, baby; work it, move that b---h, crazy.” Nothing puts a passionate focus on externals more than a fashion show, and she draws that focus out by crassly depicting a runway full of strutting models. She simply refuses to go deeper or to tie herself to a real relationship, a refusal that she proclaims proudly at the end of the bridge: “I'm a free b---h, baby!”

To put an exclamation point on the dramatic tension that she wishes to create, she repeats, in both English and French, her desire for the story rather than the relationship, the commotion rather than the connection: “I want your love, and I want your revenge. I want your love; I don't wanna be friends.” So she purportedly wants love, but only the kind of love that is heightened beyond reality, the kind of love that won't allow her to be friends with her lover, the kind of love that makes a good movie but a horrible relationship.

Perhaps, in this way, Lady Gaga's attitude toward her “romance” mirrors the cinematic emptiness of relationships in our society today. Perhaps, in these days of movies and television and pervasive fiction, we have ceased to seek real personal connection and have busied ourselves with authoring our own vain, passionate commotions that now comprise our lives. It's as if we are writing our own romance novels. But perhaps our novels would read much better if we simply chucked all the passionate commotion and went back to valuing personal connection. 

A Valentine's Day Poem

A chill cuts my jet black jacket

And creeps up my arms and aching neck

To whisper loneliness into my ear.

Singleness Awareness Day.

I find myself

In an old church,

The wind tip-toeing through the wooden rafters,

And I play piano,

All alone.

I suppose someday, perhaps,

I will long for a day like this again,

Without a care but for myself

And the freedom of alone to bask in.

But tonight,

Flooded by discontent,

Squeezed by my own isolation,

I struggle to speak to God.

Much later, I walk the bustling mall,

And I see those workers

Who work because they've no one to go home to,

No girlfriend to call,

Nothing but the ridiculous electronic ping

Of gadgets that no one needs

And that, tonight, no one wants.

All the young female employees

Have gone home to kiss their boyfriends,

And so I walk among only the tired-faced riffraff,

Those who would redeem cruel time by making a buck.

I see the tall smiling faces of girls

Hanging out together in groups of five

Because they've as yet no masculine arms to hug them,

And their nervous, slightly-too-loud laughter 

Covers the otherwise overwhelming desperation

That perhaps they might never know the love of a true man.

I see the frenetic bodies of waitresses

Racing to and fro across linoleum floors

Trying to please unpleasable customers

On a night that will inevitably end with, “Well, that was okay.”

I see the hand-holding couples walking with half-smiles

Trying to fool the world into thinking

That everything is well between them

When this day simply covers (for

Oh so short a time)

A multitude of sins. 
Indeed, as today ends, 
Tomorrow will prove again that “the world goes forth to murder dreams.”

And yet, 
As today's dream finally dies, 
One refrain settles like a soft residue

Atop my unsettled soul: 
“Hear my prayer, O Lord.

Let my cry come to You.

Do not hide Your face from me

In the day of my distress.”