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Justify My Love continued Inevitably, reality will bite. I imagine it's similar for the 13-year-olds today who "love" Dave Navarro; do they really want to hang out in his coffin while he shoots up heroin and makes out with porn stars? I think not, nor would any of A.J.'s 9-year-old fans actually want to stand by him while he works through his addictions. Attaching such impassioned feelings to celebrities is more about defining qualities we want (or don't want) to cultivate than actually becoming intimate with the stars themselves. Through Michael Stipe I discovered the sensitive indie poet type. The skinny long-haired "grunge" guys (Kurt Cobain, Mark Arm, Chris Cornell, Eddie Vedder, Dave Pirner - all of 'em!) showed me that life's agony and ecstasy could be captured with a wail and a power chord. My most significant crush during this period was on the distinctly un-pretty and misanthropic J Mascis, the auteur behind Dinosaur Jr. In his mumblings and virtuosic, twisted solos I believed I heard the call of a kindred spirit. I tried to tell him this once after a show, but he refused to come out from behind his curtain of hair and I returned to my friends, who were nevertheless impressed. That was the last time I indulged my fan-girl delusion, placating myself with the thought "If he just got a chance to get to know me..." Don't get me wrong, I've been plenty disillusioned since, but at least it was by people I actually know. And sometimes I'm met with a pleasant surprise. A couple weeks ago I was at Coney Island for the Siren Festival. It was ridiculously crowded, and I spent most of the day avoiding the main stage area. But I've been a fan of the headliners Blues Explosion for years and I know they can rock the house. So when I heard their first sludgy chords and Jon Spencer's "yeah!" from the top of the Wonder Wheel I knew I had to get down and see. I snuck through Kiddieland and found a spot by the side of the stage where I was able to catch a glimpse of his scrawny frame, whirling and shouting as the Cyclone roared in the distance. With his shock of black hair and classic bone structure, Jon Spencer could be a teen dream. He knows it, too, and he toys with our expectations of celebrities, working an Elvis shtick that allows him to be clownish and overtly sexy at the same time. He addressed the crowd as "ladies and gentlemen!" and closed each song with a "thank yuh very much!" and a thrust of his hips. As the band cranked through its set, I found myself grinning and dancing and forgetting that my boyfriend was next to me and that Jon's wife was backstage with their son; for an instant, the rock 'n' roll fantasy had come down to earth. I rode a rollercoaster of sound and vision, and I didn't need to think "if only..." because in that 60 seconds he was all mine and it was everything I ever wanted it to be. Click here to read about the songs that got us hot under the collar and poured gasoline on the flames of the sexual revolution. Click here for info on VH1's five-part special From the Waist Down: Men, Women & Music. |
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