The Blues

Madonna & Me

On August 31, 2009, in Uncategorized, by Rosie

Dear Ms Ciccone,

We go back a long way. I knew (of) you before I met my partner, before I realized hair product existed – wow, even before my first womanly awakening. Perhaps you helped elicit this yearning, but I won’t go there today. That’d be way too much information.

I was fifteen years old in 1982, you were probably about twenty-four.

It was love at first hearing. You tickled my aural cavities in a time when music video was in its fetal stages – when the initial moment you encountered a song was via your radio, and then on the weekend, you might get to watch Countdown or later, Rage.

Unlike the massive productions of 2009, the video clip in the early 80s lacked the technological special effects and the laser dazzle. What it did focus upon was the artist/band/singer, and when I first glimpsed you performing in the middle of 1983 Madge, I was pleasantly surprised:

You were producing joyous 80s dance music, you could sing quite well, and girl, you could mooooooove, and it was fun

(To be entirely accurate, the first clip I saw was Burning Up ) However, I love you in this pure-dance orientated clip for a couple of reasons — we saw you like this in Australia, even though this is unreleased footage, and it reminds me of the essence of you in an era where I was emoting teenage estrogen and progesterone (aka = moody adolescent). My old friend Fi learnt this dance to Holiday and was able to reproduce within the grounds of our Catholic ladies college whenever music was allowed at school. She is of Italian origin too, so that connection made it extra special for us all! (We didn’t get out much in those days.)

Madonna honey, I never had a poster of you on my wall, but I did buy all your albums. My first was your Debut, and I have collected dance versions of all your hits over the quarter of a century relationship we’ve had. I’ve seen you in concert twice. I’ve watched you reinvent yourself from Dance Junkie to Dick Tracey Mole to Mrs Ritchie to Mommy Dearest.

When you released Like A Prayer and received censure from the Church, I spouted ‘creative license’ and loved the song. When you used a bottle to open your mouth just a little wider in Truth or Dare (In Bed with Ya), I just smiled and listened to ‘Vogue’. When you produced your subtly-titled coffee table book Sex, I didn’t buy it but continued on the ‘freedom of expression’ thought about you.

Even when you snogged Britters in erotic fashion, I turned a blind eye to the ever-outrageous actions of a pop-star well used to being the centre of attention Because, let’s face it Madge, if I wanted class I would have listened to Dionne Warwick for the last three decades — oh, which I have — but there was always something about you that made me adore your music and listen with admiration.

You had flare and edge and the music to stimulate the boppiness. You were a party in a vinyl recording and you were willing to mix-up your style, changing your image in countless ways well before Kylie was born.

But, lady, I’ve gotta say the time has come. As much as I love the advances you’ve heralded and the music you’ve produced, I don’t need to see a 51-year old in leotards anymore. You have a great physique darl, and we have evidenced this a trillion times over the last 30 years. You continue to show sinews and suppleness far beyond what a woman your age may posses, but babe, it’s time to move away from Teh_Leotard.

A leotard lends itself best to underfed gymnasts preparing for the Olympics or little girls in dance concerts. It’s true! I could choose to look away if your clothing offends me, and to be perfectly frank, it doesn’t, but your antics — like the sheer fabric of the leotard — are wearing a bit thin. And I won’t even mention Babygate.

Perhaps I am finally growing up? I can thank my Lucky Star that I didn’t reach this Borderline before I had time to Cherish your Music. It’s only Human Nature to no longer need to Justify my love for you.