Oh Boy!

Masculinities and Popular Music

Freya Jarman-Ivens

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2013
• ISBN:
  9781135866617
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Medios de comunicación y artes escénicas
• Subtopic: Música

From Muddy Waters to Mick Jagger, Elvis to Freddie Mercury, Jeff Buckley to Justin Timberlake, masculinity in popular music has been an issue explored by performers, critics, and audiences. From the dominance of the blues singer over his "woman" to the sensitive singer/songwriter, popular music artists have adopted various gendered personae in a search for new forms of expression. Sometimes these roles shift as the singer ages, attitudes change, or new challenges on the pop scene arise; other times, the persona hardens into a shell-like mask that the performer struggles to escape.

Oh Boy! Masculinities and Popular Music is the first serious study of how forms of masculinity are negotiated, constructed, represented and addressed across a range of popular music texts and practices. Written by a group of internationally recognized popular music scholars—including Sheila Whiteley, Richard Middleton, and Judith Halberstam—these essays study the concept of masculinity in performance and appearance, and how both male and female artists have engaged with notions of masculinity in popular music.

SECTION 1

Boys, Boys, Boys: Male Bonds, Masculine Connections

1

Which Freddie?

Constructions of Masculinity in Freddie Mercury and Justin Hawkins

SHEILA WHITELEY

As a popular musicologist, I find myself increasingly irritated by tabloid pop journalism, whether on television or in the press. Clearly there are notable exceptions, and I am an avid fan of The Guardian’s Michael Bracewell, whose insights into such artists as Patti Smith and Björk have informed my own writing; but all too often there is an emphasis on the three s’s of sensationalism, stereotyping, and stitching-up. Generally the spotlight falls on image, but when critiques include new releases, these are tethered by clichéd references to genres or past bands, and are all too often underresearched. As such, listening is tempered by a constricted interpretation.

This is evidenced by reviews of the Darkness (“Retro camp rock… comedy panto rock … they mimic the clothes and riffs of the ghosts of metal past”), which both situate and confuse (metal, rock). The problem is further compounded by snapshot journalism that situates the band as “hair metal,” “mock rock,” “glam rock,” “vintage ass rock” without analysis of the musical text. Certainly the Darkness invite intertextual comparisons—there are definite nods to past heroes such as AC/DC, early Judas Priest, or Led Zeppelin—and, as such, their music constructs a certain nostalgia. The band has a similar lineup to Led Zeppelin, with the guitars detuned to a drop D, at least one electric guitar, a bass guitar, drums, lead vocals, and backing vocals. Energetic drumming and guitar-based songs focused around a central riff or motif, often doubled by the bass, which is also heard as a grounding pedal or playing a counter-melody, reinforce this impression. It is, however, lead singer Justin Hawkins who attracts the most attention, whose camp posturing and falsetto invite a comparison with Freddie Mercury, not least those evocative hooks. But am I falling into the journalistic trap? Returning to Queen’s albums and videos, questions are raised as to “Which Freddie” informs the performative displays of Hawkins: to what extent is Hawkins retro-rock; and is this pastiche or parody?

While it is somewhat of a cliché to observe that listeners identify with performers, finding a sense of their own identity confirmed, modified or constructed in the process, as Richard Middleton points out, “there is nothing simple here,”¹ not least when considerations of sexuality and gender are taken into account. Two questions are raised: Can music (pop in particular) express, represent or construct sexual feelings, pleasures, behavior, identities, and, if so, how? If it can, how are these qualities mapped onto gender positions and relationships?

Simon Frith provides one route into these teasing questions by exploring three levels of performance: the persona created in interpreting the particular song; the image of the performer as performer (the star’s personality); and the individual physically present (a “site of desire”). As he argues, a performer can move between these, as it were commenting on them. Moreover, they can seem to slide together (or move apart).² My exploration of Freddie Mercury and Justin Hawkins draws on this model, raising questions as to whether their performing persona and sexual identities converge; and the extent to which they are constructed and stylized—so confusing the three levels through a sequence of “poses.”

Innuendo

I have always been an avid fan of Queen and still cry when I hear “Love of My Life,” or listen to their final album, Made in Heaven. Freddie Mercury’s death overshadows so much of his earlier output that it becomes difficult to listen with the innocent ear that accompanied such releases as “Radio Ga-Ga” or “We Are the Champions.” A recent NorthOne production for Channel 5’s documentary Freddie’s Lovers (July 14, 2004) confirmed my feelings. His songs contributed to his self-realization as an individual and relate not only to his numerous lovers but also to his emerging presence as gay. At the time, this was only hinted at, and his fans largely considered his performances theatrical camp.³

Early examples of his wit and innuendo can be found in “My Fairy King” and “The Fairy Feller’s Masterstroke,” in which the titles and use of falsetto implied an underlying sexual ambiguity. Characteristic of many glam rock acts, his androgyneity, which fused with campness, stood in sharp contrast to the vigorous heterosexuality of mainstream rock. The use of Zandra Rhodes silks, nail varnish, and makeup all contributed to a sense of “otherness,” but Fleet Street’s obsession with sexuality, “Who do you sleep with Freddie?” and his bantering response, “Girls, Boys and Cats,”⁴ kept his performances salacious but his private life at arm’s length. Although this is, as they say, no big revelation, it is salutary to remember why Janis Joplin kept her bisexuality hidden from the public gaze⁵ and why Dusty Springfield fled to Los Angeles to escape the scrutiny of an always zealous press.⁶ The Homosexual Reform Act (1967) may have seemed a step in the right direction, but the current climate was unforgiving of outed homosexuals and lesbians alike. The tremors surrounding Jeremy Thorpe, former leader of the Liberal Party, shook the walls of the establishment in 1975. Accused of having a homosexual relationship with Norman Scott, who claimed to have been threatened by Thorpe after the end of their affair, he was subsequently one of four defendants in a court case, but was acquitted of attempted murder. The ensuing scandal ruined his parliamentary career, and the animosity and hysteria directed at him by the media was a timely reminder that it was better to stay in the closet.

The paradox of legality/persecution is reflected in Queen’s 1974 album, Sheer Heart Attack which contained the single “Killer Queen.” Written by Mercury and notable for its studio mix and feel for narrative, it gave Queen its first American Top Twenty hit and became the gay anthem for the winter of 1974, aptly gaining an Ivor Novello award for Mercury. The album cover was particularly striking, with a photograph of the band collapsed in a heap, Mercury’s trousers undone, and black nail varnish on his left hand. Framed against a black background with gaudy red lettering, the imagery reinforced the ambiguities already surrounding Mercury’s persona, blending showmanship with high camp. This was heightened by his adoption of the Union Jack, which was often emblazoned on his jackets or draped around his shoulders, and his wearing of a crown and ermine-trimmed robes, which led to mass singing of “God Save the Queen” even before the band recorded a version of it in 1975.

“Killer Queen” is set at a deceptively fast tempo (dotted crotchet = 113 bpm), which is propelled by the drums and bass. The song is about a high-class call girl⁷ (known as a Killer Queen), but the vocal nuancing and provocative mic gestures in live performances⁸ suggest both campness and an affirmation of gay aesthetics. The opening bars (falsetto⁹ plus piano) provide autobiographical detail in the references to “Moët & Chandon” and “caviar,”¹⁰ while the “she” (“she’s out to get you … what a drag”) surely needs inverted commas, so providing the ironic connotations, whereby “she,” (the “willing” and “playful pussy cat” of the song) are “dragged” into association with Mercury’s Queen-like persona. The audacious video heightens the connotations, suggesting an audiovisual love call to the gay community and, as such, the release of “Bohemian Rhapsody,” a signature track from Queen’s 1975 album, A Night at the Opera, provides an intriguing insight into Mercury’s private life at the time, the song’s three separate acts reflecting three separate turmoils, all, it seems, underpinned by Catholic guilt.

The title draws strongly on contemporary rock ideology, the emphasis on creativity legitimizing the individualism of the bohemian artists’ world, with rhapsody affirming the romantic ideals of art rock,¹¹ as an epic narrative related to the heroic, with ecstatic or emotional overtones. Like all good stories, the opening starts with a sense of tension and enigma. The multitracked voices are unusually situated at the opening of the piece, the rhythm following the natural inflection of the words, the block chords and lack of foreground melody creating an underlying ambiguity—who is speaking, who is the promised epic hero? This sense of uncertainty is heightened by the harmonic change from B

6 to C⁷ in bars 1 and 2: the boundaries between “the real life” and “fantasy” are marked by instability, and “caught in a landslide,” the octave unison at the end of bar 3 propels the listener into the next phrase. Here, “no escape from reality” provides a clue to the underlying turmoil, but the piano arpeggios in bars 5–6 and the stabilizing effect of the harmonic progression, anchored this time by the root of the chords, shift the mode of address: “open your eyes.”

The introduction of the central character is marked by a restatement of the rhythmic motif in its realigned position in the lead vocal and piano. Underpinned by the vocal harmonies, there is a sense of pathos that is interrupted by a chromatic movement in the first inversion block chords of the voices and piano (bars 10–11, “Easy come, Easy go”) before the confessional of “Mama, just killed a man.” Here, the affected warmth of the vocal and the underlying arpeggios on piano suggest an intimate scenario. It is both confessional and affirmative of the nurturant and life-giving force of the feminine and the need for absolution. The emotional quality is given a particular resonance in bars 21–24. Framed by a lingering “Ma-ma,” the melody opens out, the vocal rising to a falsetto register only to fall dramatically downward at the end of bar 23. Underpinned by chromatic movement in the bass, there is an underlying mood of desperation (“If I’m not back again this time tomorrow”), which is opened out in bars 25–31, as the melodic phrases fragment, “carry on … as if nothing really matters.”

1975 was somewhat of a turning point in Freddie Mercury’s personal life. He had been living with Mary Austin, manager of the London boutique Biba, for seven years, but had just embarked on his first gay love affair with David Minns. Aware of the constant surveillance by Fleet Street, Mary accompanied him when dining out with his new boyfriend. It was apparently a very romantic affair, one that lasted until 1978, but the tugs between security (Mary), escape (David), and an acknowledgment of his sexuality are there. The confessional of “Bohemian Rhapsody,” the intimate address to “Mama” provides an initial insight into Mercury’s emotional state at the time: living with Mary (“Mama”), wanting to break away (“Mama mia, let me go,” bars 88–89). Bars 80–85, in particular, provide an emotional setting for the dialectic interplay between the masculine and feminine voices. The heavy timbres of the lower voices, underpinned by the phallic backbeat of the drums and tonic pedal, traditionally connote the masculine (“We will not let you go”), while the shrill, higher voices in first inversion chords imply the feminine “Other”¹² (“Let me go”). They signal entrapment and the plea for release.

The heightened sense of urgency seems to resonate with Mercury’s inner turmoil, leaving the security of Mary Austin (who, in fact, remained a close friend throughout his life), coming to terms with gay life (“Easy come, easy go”), and living with a man (“So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye”). Mary was, however, more perceptive than the song implies. At the time, Freddie had asked her if she thought he was bisexual. Her reply—“I don’t think you’re bisexual. I think you’re gay”—provides an insight into their relationship and her continuing support. Even so, the “just gotta get out” provides a metaphor for desperation as it moves toward the climax, the guitar supported by an aggressive drum beat, before the emergence of the piano at bar 120. The return to the opening tempo thus sug...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Half Title page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Contents
• Acknowledgments
• Introduction Oh Boy! Making Masculinity in Popular Music Ian Biddle and Freya Jarman-Ivens
• Section 1 Boys, Boys, Boys: Male Bonds, Masculine Connections
• Section 2 Boys Don't Cry Troubled/Troubling Masculinity
• Section 3 Boys Will Be …? Other Modes of Masculinity
• List of Contributors
• Index