Alanis Morissette's lumps are nobody's lumps but hers, no matter how much bling you offer
I have forgiven Alanis Morissette for the whole of 1995-96. I have forgiven her for tainting 12 months of my life with her Jagged Little Pill, as it was played in every shop, bar and restaurant I visited. I have forgiven her the ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife.
I have forgiven her all of these things and more, simply because she has just delivered the .
In Alanis's hands, My Humps becomes both hilarious and weirdly poignant: a Tori Amos-esque piano ballad, all sincerity and wailing and melancholic pining. And the video is brilliant - Alanis clad à la Fergie and surrounded by lecherous hunks who are all, quite patently, after her "lovely lady lumps".
The filthy-pawed bastards.
I have mentioned my sincere dislike of this song on several occasions in the past and Peaches has already recorded , My Dumps. Let me assure you, I still hate it.
It is quite simply the worst song of all time, a misogynistic wolf dressed up in a feminist sheep's clothing. It is a Panda Cola version of Gwen Stefani. It is as if Fergie sat down with her cohorts will.
i.am (really, would you trust anyone who called himself will.i.
am to write lyrics? wazzock.u.
are) apl.de.ap (ditto) and Taboo (named in honour of the white wine, vodka and fruit juice beverage) and made a song out of broken biscuits.
In fact I'm not even sure it is a song at all; it is the sound of someone gurning.
I am almost so dazzled by My Humps' lyrical atrociousness as to be unable to select the very grimmest lines. Could it be the opening gambit: "What you gon' do with all that junk?
/ All that junk inside your trunk?/ I'ma get, get, get, get, you drunk,/ Get you love drunk off my hump./ My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump,/ My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps (Check it out)"?
Or perchance the utterly superfluous roll-call of designer labels, from Dolce Gabbana to True Religion?
No, my friends, the absolute nadir of My Humps arrives midway through the song, when will.i.
am (grrrrr) tells us about propositioning a "girl" he met at a "disco" (since Mr will.i.am recently turned 31, I'm assuming he actually means "woman" at a "club"), in a verse that ends in a bout of cackhanded eroticism:
I'm not wholly certain whether I hate this segment more because of its playground innuendo, its sheer lyrical frailty or the fact that it has actually caused me to waste valuable moments of my life contemplating whether or not the Black Eyed Peas are making reference to anal sex.
Argh, whatever, let me raise a toast to Morissette for making something rather lovely out of all that junk.
Not convinced by Alanis's new feminist credentials, really. Isn't all this a bit late?
When I think of her I always think of Joni Mitchell's comment that she knew that AM was created by men "because I know the men who created her...
"
Now a Joni Mitchell cover, that WOULD be worth listening to...
Having said all that, I have to agree with the expressed views about will.i.am.
On the new Macy Gray album, the sound of Mr i.am "rapping" over a sample of Dead Or Alive's You Spin Me Round is about as much fun as sticking your head into a propeller.
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What I'm up to..
. Thinking about the newly announced programme for the Edinburgh International Festival with its focus on Monteverdi's L'Orfeo has reminded me of Orpheus the Lowdown, a half-spoken word, half-musical improvisation by Peter Blegvad and Andy Partridge which was released in 2003. That's keeping me in the mood for the forthcoming album Moonstrance, Partridge's instrumental collaboration with his old XTC bandmate Barry Andrews.
Communicado Theatre Company's adaptation of Fergus Lamont has inspired me to read the original novel by Robin Jenkins - it's a cracking book, written with clarity and pace, about the injustices of the class system. On my imminent trip to Paris it'll be impossible to resist the David Lynch exhibition at the Fondation Cartier pour l'Art Contemporain. My tip of the week: I heartily recommend Easter eggs for all.
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