The Reluctant Whore

I remember two things from watching the American Music Awards last night. One, Alicia Keys was singing with some guy that had Erika Badu hair – you know that hair? The tower of hair tied up in a scarf? But look, its fine and progressive because even though Badu did it years ago, now that there’s a man under it the whole thing has been reinvented. It’s black metrosexuality.

Quick, slap me.

The other thing was who the fuck are the Jonas Brothers? My fucking god, doesn’t anyone ever get sick of being served up the same plastic shit eating product? I mean, from the very beginning the entire THING reeked of plastic formula. Here are these three squeaky cute boys whose real defining differentiation is their hair. They all have moppish, black wavy hair. Ok great. Now I know where to go when I want to see that kind of hair. Which is rarely.

So, the best part about the Jonas Brothers apart from their crippling talent was when they got announced and the voice over woman did that Oprah thing where she holds onto the last syllable of their name. Oprah does the same thing when she introduces John Travolta except she has a lower voice. She’ll yell out “John Tra-VOL –taaaaaaaaa” but it’s like a robot. So, it’s like even if you have no idea who the guest is, which – let’s face it – is probably the case with the Jonas Brothers – you still feel like you kind of have to get all excited because even the voice over woman has modulated her voice to make it sound like you’re already expecting them and she’s just letting you know this is THE moment. The minute you didn't know you were always waiting for.

Second slab of fake hype was the legion of screaming, paid fans that flood the stage ready to scream and yell. Because if we suspend our disbelief for a moment it’s just possible that there really were 150 screaming teenaged girls and boys just bursting at the seams waiting for the talent saturated uniqueness that is the Jonas Brothers. Except – oh my GOD – who actually buys that?

Then their washed out synthetic poppy music turned out to be designed entirely to be the musical equivalent of corn syrup and crack mixed together. What a surprise. Meanwhile, one of them fell over onto the broken glass as he walked out to center stage. That was when I actually clicked in and paid attention because it was the only evidence of unpackaged humanity for the whole act. He kept up the relentless pop energy happiness the whole time even though there may very well have been a shard of glass lacerating his knee with every highly choreographed move. No blood though.

I kid, they’re adorable.