D’you remember 1999? You’re channel surfing because you didn’t have a DVR back then, you stumble across MTV –which was still toying with the quaint notion of featuring “music videos”– and out of nowhere, you were slapped in the face by this nasally teen-aged singer with giant boobs who looked like she was fully prepared to de-chrome every trailer hitch in Louisiana? It looked something like this:
Good... God. I'm still amazed Rolling Stone got away with this photo shoot. It's as if someone in the art department was like, "Bob, you know who this magazine isn't reaching? Humbert Humbert. We gotta go after them Humbert dollas, yo."
For a couple years there, she was our Jailbait-in-Chief. I could be misremembering, but didn’t we more or less invent the “how many days until she’s legal” public countdown for Britney? It was like Jive Records had put a buncha people in a lab and told them not to come out until they had created a musical sex robot that appealed to everyone from eight to eighty.
And, sure, we know how that all worked out: hundreds of millions of dollars, multiple mental breakdowns, a couple of genetically dubious kids, and the world’s most famous shaved beaver.
(Speaking of which, have you ever paused to marvel at the thought that everyone who wants to has seen Britney Spears’ crotch? I mean, go back some more to, say, 1978. Imagine if we had all seen Olivia Newton-John flash her cooter back then! All the low-lying areas of the U.S. would have been spontaneously flooded by jizz within a day.)
He's got chills, and they're multiplyin'. Of course, that's because (a) Xenu's hands are cold, and (b) he's standing that close to a girl.
Fast forward to 2009, and things just aren’t the same. Take this Pixie Lott chick, for example. Like Britney, she’s quite hot… but without the delightfully cartoonish sexuality that made Britney come off like a cock-teasing Road Runner being pursued by a nation of horny Coyotes.
What would mama do, if she knew 'bout me and you? Based on past experience, she'd probably take out a restraining order.
The girl is eighteen, and aside from an odd affection for slightly unflattering leotards, she pretty much dresses and acts like a perfectly normal person. There’s not much in the way of acting out, and this kinda thing is about as scandalous as her photos get.
Well, lessee here. Lots of leg... that's good, absolutely. Blowing the camera a kiss is kinda flirty. A grungy brick wall never hurts. But overall, it feels like she'd rather snuggle and fall asleep after five minutes of heavy petting than rape me and leave me a broken shell of a man in a puddle of my own depraved satisfaction. Which, if you think about it, is really pretty inconsiderate of her.
And while Brit-Brit can sing a little when she’s sober and in the mood (her live cover of You Oughta Know is almost bad-ass), Pixie can flat-out tear it up with a voice and style that sounds vaguely like Natasha Bedingfield kicked up with a dash of Duffy and then filtered through Christina Aguilera’s pre-Dirrty sensibilities.
If this is the future, this whole “respect me for my talents as a performer and not merely for the way I make your wang chung have fun” thing, well, I call foul. Is it too much to ask these girls to concentrate on being entertainingly slutty? If I want to mix a tantalizing taste of raw sexuality with compelling artistry, I’ll break out John Denver’s Greatest Hits, thanks.
What? Oh, hell yeah. Big John could fill up your senses and your orifices. Believe that shit.
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