Sex Karma: Why Are We Not Getting Ours?

15th September 2010

Post with 27 notes

Sex Karma: Why Are We Not Getting Ours?

Pitchfork’s closing remarks on of Montreal’s solid latest release, False Priest, were rather disconcerting to me: “it might also be time for Barnes to find his muse outside of the bedroom.” Um, what? Is any muse really found outside of the den of iniquity? I thought the muse was always somehow of the fleshy realm. Whether in actual idealized male/female form, or as a representation of those physical needs that are transformed into the sublime when put to music, I thought the muse was always a mirror of our purest nature. And somewhere within the purest distillation of ourselves: we all want to bone.

For some time now, I’ve been troubled by the omnipresence of what I deem “neutered rock.” This is rock without brio, without bravado, without scuzzy, unbridled lust dripping out of every chord, every note, every wail, without giant, sweaty cahones. And one does not need to be male to be equipped with said cahones! To rock without emanating sexual desire, without addressing the ineluctable need for late-night action, or performing as if you are a eunech that has transcended earthly desires for a bounty of cerebral delights is to not rock at all. In fact, I would say that to do so is to be the antithesis of rock. Rock without sex is a desecration of its very essence.

And yet, there seems to be a preference to ignore the corporeal inherent in music as if its tacky presence would dumb the audience down, defiling its tastes, and rendering it impossible for ascension to more lofty heights where Art and Truth can be discovered. Cartesian dualism does a great disservice to the enjoyment of rock-n-roll as I’ve been under the, perhaps, false impression that rock music unifies mind and body in a way that the two become happily conflated. In my understanding, rock is visceral, rock is intellectual, rock is primal, immediate, and enlightening. Rock targets the loins, but still hits the heart.

Of course, this might just be a personal preference. Some of my favorite bands include The Stooges, Van Halen, Led Zeppelin, Scissor Sisters, and of Montreal. While diverse in sound and style, all musicians mentioned share a brazen approach to individual, as well as collective, libidinal pursuits. They unapologetically explore human sexuality in its myriad of forms and aim to seduce their audience in joining them on a blue escapade of sight and sound. I like my music—no, I require my music—to come-on to me. It is imperative that a band makes me feel sexually viable, undoubtedly present, and sometimes even a bit violated. I want the frontman to share his rawest, crudest, most honest reflections on what turns him/her on and why. I want to hear Iggy’s animalistic growls as he writhes around in a dangerous fevered state , witness Robert Plant thrusting his denim-clad groin, see Diamond Dave lick his lips in an X-rated manner while proclaiming that “Everybody wants some/I want some too!” I revel in Jake Shear’s orgiastic glee as he delivers euphemisms about anal sex that don’t really qualify as euphemisms because they are so incredibly explicit. And when Kevin Barnes croons that I “look like a playground” to him, I take it as the creepiest and most sincere pick-up line I’ve ever heard.

Maybe I am reading too much into the Pitchfork review that started me on this whole tangent. Maybe the reviewer didn’t find much to his liking apart from the “tarted-up” themes that pique Barnes’ interests. Maybe there isn’t really this underlying fear of sex. But when I attempt to form a list of current rock bands that are overtly sexual in content, image and/or performance and that garner critical attention and mass appeal, my minds goes blank.

Where did all the sex go? I want music to get laid again.

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Sex Karma: Why Are We Not Getting Ours?