Rockin' – Not Humpin' – In the Free World

There was a lover’s quarrel on tonight’s episode of Rockstar: Supernova, and presumably on last night’s episode, as well, which I missed due to catching the fun of Clerks II at the cinema.

Jill is a pretty hot runt, she’s like 4'10 or something, but boy, you get her Italian angst firing and she might as well be six feet tall, man.

She won the rights to sing the Stones’ Brown Sugar with Supernova member Gilby Clarke (formerly of Guns’n’Roses, Heart, MC5, etc.) shredding some guitar. In her infinite wisdom, she thought it wise to, well, hump Gilby from behind while performing.

Gilby, and this fucking rocks, walked away from her antics. He strode towards the catwalk and got the hell outta there.

Then, the post-song comments were exchanged. Gilby said, “The only thing that really bothered me was the humping... Women in music today have sex, like that’s the only thing they can use. You have more than sex. I think it’s cheap, and it’s weak.”

Overnight, Jill commented that, “I think Gilby’s used to having Axl Rose up there, and it’s a totally different dynamic with a woman on the stage.”

She claimed that she did the humping as a means of getting her emotions out in her vocals.

Gilby retorted, “I played with Heart, two women, and Ann Wilson never had to stoop so low as to hump me to get her emotions out.

The next take from Jill was, I think, incredibly lame, but stay tuned for my opinion after the rehash. She said, “It’s rock and roll. Why is there a double standard where a woman can’t be up there and show her sexuality, but you guys can? You rip your shirts off and stuff like that.”

Gilby scoffed. “All the moves were predictable! I’ve seen it at the Holiday Inn, I’ve seen it everywhere!”

Gilby Clarke gets MY vote for feminist of the year, all right? Bang-fucking-ON, Gilby.

Any mainstream chick out there in rock and roll or pop or whatever is using their booty and boobs as much as their voicebox, all right? Don’t give me this “double standard” bullshit. There’s no double standard.

What he’s saying, honeybunches, is that he’s sick and tired of chicks who think they need to fuck their way to success. He wants talent to speak, not a twat. I’m pretty sure he also doesn’t want to be in a band with a guy like Tommy Lee and a chick who thinks grinding one out’s the only way to extricate her emotions.

If you have talent, brains, a body, and the whole fucking package – and she does – then let that speak. Let it wail. Let it send a blood-curdling scream into orbit. Don’t dumb it down or cheapen it by throwing some suburb blonde bubblegum “here, let me hump you now” bullshit into the mix. It’s trying too hard.

Since when was it only a display of sexuality when you reenacted sex? And why did I miss the bloody memo, huh? No one ever tells me dick.

Oh, right, because IT’S NOT the only display of sexuality! Fuck. That’s like suggesting the only way to be heard is to shout.

sub·tle (sŭt'l)
adj., sub·tler, sub·tlest.

1. 1. So slight as to be difficult to detect or describe; elusive: a subtle smile.
   2. Difficult to understand; abstruse: an argument whose subtle point was lost on her opponent.
2. Able to make fine distinctions: a subtle mind.
3. 1. Characterized by skill or ingenuity; clever.
   2. Crafty or sly; devious.
   3. Operating in a hidden, usually injurious way; insidious: a subtle poison.

Dilana, who I'm a secret lesbian for (okay, well, no, but she's got a fan here, man), can be as on-edge as anyone's ever been, but she was at her sexiest when she was her subtlest, during her performance of Nivana's Lithium a few weeks back where she just stood there, fucking STOOD there, staring straight ahead, and raging out the lyrics, her eyes emanating everything they had to, and her body doing nothing. It was so goddamned hot, man, so intense. Yet, subtle, baby.

Ain't you ever fucked someone with your eyes? Ain't you ever been fucked by someone's penetrative gaze? Don't you remember how goddamned HOT that felt? Yeah, well.

And that's what Clarke's saying. Let yourself do your talking – your talent, brains, eyes, pouty lips, the way you wiggle your ass. Don't think you gotta fuck or hump or grind your way to whatever achievement you're after, because if you start down that path, there's not really any other route for you. Respect is a very tenuous thing. Do not be fucking with the respect you have; you may never see it return to you.

It's really bloody cool to hear a guy get on a soapbox about that sort of thing, and I'm thrilled to see it in an arena like dirty, sexy rock and roll.

Have I mentioned how much I dig this show? Huh? It's like crack, man. One hit just ain't enough.

(Depress-o-meter: I forgot to include it! I'm doin' spiff. Holdin' at a 4 or so. Bought some new shirts today, thanks to some anonymous generosity I forgot to report last week, which is good for the old self-esteem, and in my wiley brilliance, I've managed to snag a hairdressing appointment with the chief instructor of a school owned by one of the best, most expensive, most glamourous hair salons in town, and I'll be able to get a rockin' dye job and cut for about $50, instead of the $200+ they charge in their salons. Yeah, all this and brains, too. Tomorrow/today, it's the good doctor and the onslaught of meds. I'm thrilled I'm progressing on my own, and as much as I dislike some of the sacrifices to come via being medicated, I'd rather have the insurance that my good nature will remain for the longterm, and not dissipate in a week, like it has been for the last year. Every time I get happy, I follow it with getting sad. Sick of the cycle. This week, baby, we're cycle-smashin'.)