douche-pop

The two dominant sounds of mainstream pop in 1999 were undoubtedly the melodic perkiness of teenpop (Britney, Aguilera, Backstreet Boys, and NSync) and the shouting misogyny of mook-rock (Limp Bizkit), while the underground saw the beginnings of the short-lived robo-synth hipster fagginess of electroclash (Le Tigre, Fischerspooner, Peaches). The ungodly spawn of this threesome is now making headway onto American pop radio a decade later in the form of the horribly named bands 3OH!3 and Cobra Starship.

Pictured above is 3OH!3, named for the area code of their native Boulder, CO. Don’t they look like they come from Boulder, CO? And they make music that sounds like it too. (Doesn’t blondie look like beardo Jesse McCartney?)

And this is Cobra Starship, named for no reason that I can see except that they contributed a song to the Snakes on a Plane soundtrack.

3OH!3’s “Don’t Trust Me” and Cobra Starship’s “Good Girls Go Bad” have both incredulously peaked at #7 on the Hot 100, which is apropos considering they both feature synth-fueled rave-ups supporting standard issue emo boy whine-vocals which undercut the bravado both songs/bands aim to project (main goal: treating girls like shit) while also shoe-horning cheerleader chant middle eighths that are completely unnecessary.

“Don’t Trust Me” is interesting in that in seems to aim for Lady GaGa-esque metajokeness and falls as flat as GaGa in the clever sweepstakes while also lacking her natural songwriting talent, but there’s something nearly breathtaking about the song’s (and the band’s) commitment to being Completely Wrong but sounding as if they’re Having Fun doing it. Sample lyric: “Don’t trust a ho/Never trust a ho/Won’t trust a ho/’Cause the ho won’t trust me.” Charming. And why would she?

“Good Girls Go Bad” is, in contrast, a joylessly shouty piece of braggadocio featuring actress Leighton Meester, who fulfills this song’s apparent need for a female voice to repeat the protagonist’s point of view, reinforcing his awesomeness (and her complete lack of agency, so who better than a Gossip Girl star?). Look, bravado is fun and great when people like Beyonce or Courtney Love or Tupac or even Toby fucking Keith do it, but this lead singer kid named Gabe Saporta? He has negative sexual charisma, so his boasts need a little bit more color to be convincing. And he doesn’t even provide that. Sample lyric: “I make them good girls go bad.” Oh? How? “You heard that I was trouble but you couldn’t resist?” Why is that?! “I make them good girls go bad.” Classic example of tell-not-show writing.

Both songs don’t hold a candle, however, to the repugnance of 3OH!3’s current song “Starstrukk,” which flopped so bad on release that they decided to do a remix with Katy Perry (as if this wasn’t hate-worthy enough). It sounds ugly, for one, and also has the jaw-dropping lines “I think I should know how to make love to something innocent without leaving my fingerprints out now/L-O-V-E’s just another word I never learned to pronounce.” This has none of the supposed Fun of their previous hit, and instead shows that any attempt at humor or self-awareness in “Don’t Trust Me” veiled exactly how much these two were actual sociopaths.

When I first heard these songs I thought, “Popped-collar music.” But these two bands’ self-presentation indicates how far scenesterism’s American Apparel
stunted-growth appeal has drifted into mainstream culture, now becoming Cool and Edgy. Because hipster men have always been misogynists (what do you think Exile In Guyville was reacting to?), and now the mooks are wearing the same clothes and highlighting the gross anti-woman subtleties of scene culture. And making it seem “fun.” 3OH!3 is much worse though; if Cobra Starship is just some frat dude hounding you at a bar thinking he’s all that (and calling you a bitch if you turn him down), 3OH!3 is that dude using his peculiar charm to bring you back to the house to get gang-raped. In your ears especially.

poor levi

This poor kid. All he ever did was have sex with his girlfriend just like 99% of all American teenage boys except it just HAD TO BE the daughter of the dumb moose broad thrust upon us by John McCain so he had to get trotted out onstage at the RNC with a nice haircut after being felt up by that old dude and then was ambushed by the AP in his driveway and now, NOW, post-Bristol break-up, gets accosted while in his FUCKING TRUCK by the fine upstanding journalists of Good Morning America.

Last week, after news of their break-up, I was commenting to some friends that I feel bad for Levi and Bristol when someone said, “Well, do you feel bad for all the other teenagers who get knocked up?” Yes, I do! Don’t you? The only difference is that this whole terrible private ordeal was shoved into our face by McCain and the Palins and the Republicans going “Boy howdy ain’t it grand this teenager is pregnant and keeping the baby!” and the media concocting a sideshow out of something as complicatedly personal as accidental pregnancy. There was no need for politics at this point, and yet because of who these two kids were they were thrust into the spotlight and were made to become some sort of paragons of conservative virtue (what?!) because they were keeping the baby (Jamie-Lynn Spears was just a slut though).

So I do feel bad. I feel bad that these kids had to have their own private drama, in media res all the way to its seeming finish, played out in front us, what with our horrifying bloodthirsty culture of celebrity. They never asked for any of it. So yes. I’m sad about it. It’s a sad situation that just about anyone else could be in, provided that you are both teenagers with impeccable skin at the height of your sexy powers.

Actually, you know? Fuck Bristol; she couldn’t wait to whore herself out to Greta von Susteren. So she is asking for every little bit that comes her way. Levi on the other hand has never seemed like a famewhore (I guess it’s only in the Palin genes). Staniel and I were having a conversation last week where he asked, “Levi will probably right a tell-all, right? That’s the next move?” I highly doubt it, considering these douchehole journalists keep trekking all the way to Alaska to bombard him with questions when he’s standing in his driveway or just trying to go to the gym for Chrissake.

Although Levi, really, you could just, I dunno, not talk to them, honestly.

I’ve been trying to work through my Levi Johnston issues you guys I know sorry, and other than Louche Doucheness (though I contend he seems like a nice enough boy, just watch how sad he is IN HIS TRUCK), I never really understood my weird affection until I noticed the following comment on this post:

this is a real life tim riggins.

Thus explains the appeal.

So here starts my petition for Levi Johnston to star in the next season of Friday Night Lights. Or in a gay porn. Or even better! For a life away from the spotlight as he learns how to be a father and hopefully gets to grow up.

romantic archetype, part 2

A few posts back I talked about one of my romantic archetypes, so studiously titled “Lacrosse Captain” by my roommate. This is not to say that I haven’t had others; there’s Doughy White Boy, Sardonic Asian, Homey, Bespectacled Intellectual, and Louche Douche. Louche Douche is generally some sexily mean-looking guy who would probably beat the shit out of me at a moment’s notice. I think high school was instructive in the creation of this archetype.

Good recent examples of Louche Douche would be our GOP sideshow clowns like Plumber Samuelbacher Joe and Levi Johnston (although this kid actually seems kind of nice), various athletes (punk bitch Phillies pitcher Cole Hamels comes to mind), and Scott Caan. I don’t know anything about Scott Caan except his father is James Caan, and they both seem like douches. I also have never seen any movies starring Scott Caan except for Ocean’s 11, wherein he is mute or something, and Friends with Money, wherein he is a douchebag. So, perfect.

However, while I haven’t seen Varsity Blues or Into The Blue or Bluesy Blue McBlueyton, I can now happily say that I have seen Scott Caan’s meat and potatoes.