Sunday, September 24, 2006

Music Highlight: Kat reviews "Mommy, May I Pet With Danger?"

There's a big difference between Kat and Ruth.  We'll talk about Ruth in the next highlight.  But Kat's always working on a review and doesn't hand it over unless she's happy with it.  She had two she was working on when we all left for DC and we kept pestering her about them.  Could we read them?  Were they almost done?  She wasn't happy with either.  How come?  She was dying to review the latest 'release' from Justin Timberlake.  She actually had a dream about this CD before she went to Ireland this summer.  She told us about it at the time and we were all laughing.  Then she forgot the best lines.  But the CD came out and her friend Sumner slid it over to her.  It was so awful she had to listen twice.  We all told her she should write about this CD.  It's crap and it's as important to call crap "crap" as it is to support the artists who do great work.  Her next planned review is on an artist who did something amazing.  But the oder wafting off of Justy demanded she address him first.  Prepare to laugh from the first sentence to the last.  This is probably our favorite review she's done all year and we've loved all the others.

Kat's Korner: "Mommy, May I Pet With Danger?"

Kat: On the cover of FutureSex /LoveSounds Little Justy Timberlake looks like a young Brian Austin Green having a snit fit -- as though Mommy told him he couldn't sleep with danger and he responded, "Mommy, May I Pet With Danger?"

Yes, folks, that's how weak it is. It's not even fit to be the soundtrack to the infamous Tori Spelling/Ivan Sergei woman-in-jeporady Lifetime "thriller."

You'll note it's called "FutureSex" and, if and when he finally gets some, he might have something to share on the topic. "SexyBack" is not worth sharing -- except for a laugh. With a vocal that sounds like Grace Jones far too tired to pull up to the bumper and music that sounds like "What Is Love?" coming out of a fuzz box, "SexyBack" is sure to entice the virgins to the dance floor as the latest Peter Pan of the music world promises you can whip him if he's naughty -- which, judging by the lyrical content, largely means pull him over your knee when he picks his nose in public or uses a swear word that you just know he doesn't even grasp.

This is the dance music that gave disco it's bad name. Sexless, mechanical and, worst of all, limp, Justy as wanna be savior of sex can look forward to the crucifiction but for all the wrong reasons. As one song after another has you visualizing the rhythmic-impaired duo of Steve and Doug Butabi, you grasp that even if his "trouser snake" functions, he has no idea what to do with it. ("Trouser snake" is the name he gave it repeatedly, in the press, during the last marketing blitz while trying to pin the nickname off on "girls" -- most "girls" don't use terms like "trouser snake" but it may be popular with some gay males.) So it's probably just as well that he spends a lot of time "hoping" as opposed to doing.

We had some professional virgins in my high school as well. Like Justy, they tried to talk "sexy" and just ended up looking like "nerds," "turkeys" and "spazzes." Having suffered through the invasion of the Disney Kids and lost all perspective of sex as an act (as opposed to play acting), a lot of people are lapping this crap up.

"I think that she knows, I think she knows" he repeats incessantly in "Love Stoned" (before offering the most effete "Now dance" instruction) and you're left to remember all the boys who carried their text books clutched close to their chests in the high school halls, whose notes left in your school locker would provide hilarity to everyone you read them to.

It's fitting that he's always hoping from a distance. This is the boy who tours with Mommy, rolls spiffs with her (You so bad, Justy, You so bad!), and may excite those who want to Mommy him (or Daddy him) but will leave those desiring sex wanting.

To shore up his someday manhood, he shouts out "girl" and "girls" every chance he can --working harder to dispell the rumors than George Michael on the Faith tour and Michael Jackson in the unconvincing "The Way You Make Me Feel" video combined. He also brings onboard some rappers and, as Dak-Ho said, "At least Elvis had the decency to just rip off." Justy's not content with that. He wants to take a thug posse and make 'em come off like the Down-Low chapter of NAMBLA.

Speaking of the down low, in a recent attempt to up-market himself, Justy told Rolling Stone (Issue 1009) of the now out, former bandmate Lance Bass, "I'd be lying if I said we didn't all know. It was never weird, though, and it was never spoken about." The US military's excuse is Don't-Ask-Don't-Tell, what's the excuse for the boy who'd have you believe he's bringing sexy back? How do you do that anyway? How do you avoid that topic for years? And having done that (if, as he said, he did), how do you congratulate yourself for that -- for refusing to share someone's life?

Justy can't bring sexy back for a number of reasons. First of all, the only place sex was absent was in the Disney Kid's music. Second of all, you can't run from sexuality and claim to embrace sex. Mommy may get giggles over her claim that "I Had Justin First" but what you're dealing with is a stunted boy.

A very stunted boy who spends his vocal time when he could be getting some (what he wants you to desperately believe), wishing he was getting some. It's there in "Sexy Back," it's there throughout. In "Chop Me Up" (which may reveal some fondness for mutilation and dominance), you get why Justy gets none. It takes a special form of sexual incompetence and/or dysfunction to think name checking Tylenol in a song is sexy.

Worse yet is the only song that has nothing to do with sexual longing. After spending the entire album trying to pick up women (but apparently failing, quell surprise) with bribes of "backstage" and "V.I.P" and champagne, Justy suddenly wants to be 'real,' you feel him?, for the song "Losing My Way" (which should also be the name of the CD).

If there's anything less realistic than Justy having sex it's Justy as a 'working man' with a nasty crack habit. Better he stick to being the boy dreaming of someday having sex. Even in the so-called "Summer Love," there's no relationship other than what's going on in Justy's head ("I can't wait to fall in love with you" he repeats over and over to the woman he's apparently too scared to talk to). The sterilized "Until The End Of Time" may have Justy finally teamed with a woman (questionable due to the requests of "everybody sing") but there's no indication that they've done more than hug. Those who've seen Splendor in the Grass can skip the CD and content themselves with picturing the impending crackup of the sexually frustrated.

Point? Justy's no cherry poppin' daddy. Justy may ask "Mommy, may I pet with danger?" but the only thing working up a sweat is his palm.


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