Skip to main content

Ariana Grande

 I have no idea how carefully the writers of "Six" were thinking about Ariana Grande. There is of course the link between Catherine Howard's hairstyle and Grande's iconic ponytail. There is also the choice of song structure. Howard's solo is a kind of resume: the verses walk us through the story of her love life. Grande uses the same trick in "Thank U, Next": we hear about each and every major ex (rather than focusing on just one).


I can't help but notice an additional parallel. When a pop star addresses a crush, she is also (covertly) addressing her audience:

A little less conversation and a little more TOUCH MY BODY.
Cuz I'm so into you, into you, into you.

We would be naive to pretend that the music industry isn't--on one level--selling sex. "All you wanna do--all you wanna do, Baby, is touch me, squeeze me, birds and the bees me."

At some point, the relationship becomes toxic. Some of Grande's recent songs have been "about" personal trials while simultaneously confronting her "employers," her fans. Below, Grande is really talking to her listeners:

Know that you made me.
I don't like how you paint me.
Yet I'm still here hanging--
You got me misunderstood.

I can't help but think of Grande when I hear the startling conclusion of Catherine Howard's solo in "Six." A particular industry has squeezed all the life from this one young person. "Playtime's over." The story has to end in violence.

It's also interesting to pair the Howard solo with a new piece by Alison Pill in the NYTimes. Like Grande and like Hayden Panetierre, Alison Pill spent time contending with "child stardom." She writes that "no one deserves that fate."

P.S. I see that "Six" came before "Thank U"....so clearly the show was not quoting Ariana with the catalogue of love affairs. I retract my claim!
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more