Rosé: An Homage to Hedwig and What She'd Despise

I was driving back from San Diego, or it may have been Tijuana, or Riverside, or Santa Barbara. I vaguely recall the Wall Street Journal culture columnists being interviewed by Terri Gross say that Spain is experiencing something of a renaissance in decent, hella cheap wines. They may have said full-flavoured, very, and affordable. At any rate, I'd like to think that this bit of witty sophistication and trivia runs through the multitude of reasons why I sit here drinking $3.99 rosé on a Tuesday night. Enough of it has gone to my head that I clearly believe it's as untouchably vapid as the queen of all cheap thrills: '80s pop. The Smiths deserve the book I'll one day write. This is the rest of the '80s.

So while Spain dabbles in economical vinification, I've lately been dabbling in one-hit wonders and a few classics that made it to three or five because of their hair and the fact that '80s pop might as well be cocaine. Tiffany, the Go-Go's, The Cure, Pet Shop Boys, New Order, Berlin . . . they all make the cut. A-ha's Take On Me takes the crown. Where on earth do I find the desire to seek out, download, listen to any of this, my Victorian Ernie asks?

It's pure sugar. Actually, it's more decadent than that. Not at all rich, but there's some consistency, some buttery texture running incredibly low, along the surface, encased in plastic and pleather. Just unzip. Hear it again and again and for each instance, bliss Enough of it, and you have a downright juvenile tummy ache. After a dose of my '80s mix, I often find myself sporting heart-shaped sunglasses and a red lollipop a la Kubrick's Lolita, driving the 1 in a red convertible, white powder dribbling down my upper lip.

But I shouldn't make light of something so dear to my heart. The '80s pop machine was downright transcendent, and incredibly empty in that it didn't even serve the higher purpose of disco (the quest, the conquer, the glorious revolution of gay men's sexuality, and the antithesis of Vietnam, hippie faux intellectualism, and mediocre protest-rock). They weren't even rebels without a cause. Parelleling, perpendickularing, crossing over punk (The Pretenders, anyone?), it was good, utterly unclean fun.

Good.

And precisely because it was only good at best, and often terrible, it was brilliant in its own right. A formula for a high and a childlike camaraderie. Not to mention a dance-crazy nation. I can't help falling half in love, but mostly in lust, with my companion if we are privileged enough to serendipitously hear "The Tide Is High" in the grocery store together (I wish it were still the radio these days). And we dance our way to that imaginary club in Manchester, where the "better" music of the '80s was born (no doubt, I'm a fan, but Joy Division ain't joyful).

As I said, I'll rightfully save the genius of The Smiths or the like, with mono-note Morrissey's grand tongue-in-cheekiness, theatrical demeanor, and pan-sexual pitter-patter, for my bestselling tome. It's sugar pop's lack of those very qualities that makes it ripe for toothy grinning rather than sheepish crying, that fine line between profoundly romantic angst and undiluted British comedy.

I still can't bring myself to enjoy escapist cinema, but '80s popular composition really had it going on.

And how did '80s pop become this irresistable shooting star, while the '90s quickly congealed into a puddle of sticky drool? The crispness of the synth, the androgyny of the highest pitch, and the hedonistic hair. Formula. Zero originality. Machine.

Ignorence is bliss.

Next chapter: '80s pop as fascism.