When summer comes along, temperatures and hormone levels rise and clothing and inhibitions are minimal, which causes a temporary cease-fire in the battle between the sexes. Like many girls, I met a guy this summer, a singer/songwriter who spent his summer living in Manhattan trying to “break into the music business.”
This guy sings songs that are best lumped in the “cute boy with guitar” genre (the same musical category that claims John Mayer, Howie Day and Jason Mraz as charter members). But to me, all “guys with guitars” are somewhat similar in one key way: their music, looks, and persona are always marketed to be in some manner attractive to women. Whether romantic or angry, whether accompanied by screaming or a soft guitar chord, their lyrics are all in some way aimed at making women want to get in their pants. And their music usually features someone of the opposite sex in at least a few ditties.
Thinking about getting involved with this guy meant a lot of pondering on my part. When would we see each other? What would be the level of commitment? And, most importantly, how would I feel about being “the girl” in his songs?
People write what we know, so my assumption is that lyrics written about former lovers have inspired many songs that we, the adoring public, hold so dear without even a thought at to the possible reality of the subject of the song. However, not all lyrics can be traced to one definitive muse. Even worse, I say. Mystical, well-written lines filled with double entendres and vague word placement leave so much room for the mind to wander over what they could mean.
Who is Mick Jagger’s she in “She Smiled Sweetly?” And the “pieces of Maria in every song” that Adam Duritz sings? How does John Mayer’s ex-girlfriend feel about “Comfortable.” Did it make her want him back, or is she just waiting until he stops obsessing and gets over her?
Just imagine that an ex has a loudspeaker with the power to be heard all over the world. Every bit of his hurt would resound over and over again, increasing in intensity with each person that listened to or discussed the song. And his side of the story would be known-in abstract, of course, but still known-to gobs of nameless, faceless people. His “sensitivity” as an artist would be fueled by the pathetic breakup sob story that had nothing to do with anyone but two people who were, at one point in time, in love.
And if he got popular enough, one day the ex would be sitting in some random coffee shop, sipping nonchalantly on her caramel latte, and she’d overhear a few tenny-bopper girls with smacking pink lips and minty gum mooning over him. Maybe they’d say something about how sweet his new ballad is and she’d clench her glutes just to keep still, seething with the knowledge that the ballad was really about the woman about whom he’d lied to time after time. No, it’s not sweet, not really, not when she’d found out about the slut by a clich? lace thong left in the couch cushions.
Even if it went right, even if a girl managed to fall in love with a cute guy with a guitar and it worked, think of all of the songs he’d already have written about other girls. What fuel for the jealous girlfriend! A permanent log of the intensity of his feelings for women that aren’t her.
These poor women. All of these love songs that enchant the female public just help the cute boys with guitars sell more albums by making women want them because we think they’re sexy or sweet or both. Whether tart or saccharine, every ballad sung about a great love gone wrong has someone on the other end, a woman who has to deal with every perpetual word her cute guy with a guitar scratches onto sheet music. The possibilities are endless. Mishaps of all sorts can be imagined.
No, thank you, I’d rather not be immortalized in song. Leave me alone in my bubble, where my mis-estimations of the male psyche remain my business. So good luck to the cute boys with guitars of the world, may they sell many records and continue writing songs about love, songs about sex, and songs about the two in conjunction. I’d rather listen to this guy’s CD with the assurance of knowing that none of the words he’s written have anything to do with me. I’ll simply want the boy on the CD jacket rather than neurotically ponder his meaning, just like his record label wants.
Julia Cooke is a junior in the College and assistant leisure editor of The Georgetown Voice. She’d rather date a guy who plays the accordion.
