Dear Popular Culture,
I write this letter to you out of deep and earnest concern. What has happened to you? Are you ill? You must have caught a debilitating flu that clouds your judgement because, of late, popular music is truly sickening. One after the other, utterly detestable songs are incessantly poisoning the radio and infecting millions of ears. To bring the severity of your unstable condition to your attention, I’m going to elaborate on your three worst recent creations, which, unfortunately, are only a few of many.
Your first symptoms appeared around the release of the song “Blurred Lines” by Robin Thicke. Throughout the song, Thicke repeats, “I know you want it,” a total of 18 times, and, at that point, I totally don’t want it.
Thicke also sings, “He was close, tried to domesticate you, but you’re an animal, baby; it’s in your nature.” Last time I checked, I was a human.
The Guardian calls it “the most controversial song of the decade.” I, Jane Levy, think that’s the understatement of the century.
Popular Culture, as if your condition couldn’t get any worse, you allowed “Talk Dirty” by Jason Derulo to top the charts. Derulo discusses how he travels around the world and doesn’t speak the language, but the only thing he cares to understand is when women “talk dirty” to him.
The constant blare of “Talk Dirty” on every pop-playing radio station has not only reached me, but my little brother, who innocently sings, “Talk dirty to me,” while skipping around the house. That’s exactly the kind of message I want my nine-year-old brother to advocate.
And then, 9-1-1! You hit a 105 degree fever, and we rushed you to the hospital in a blinking ambulance when we heard “#SELFIE” by The Chainsmokers, a song that holds its very own category of horrific and humiliating. “#SELFIE” epitomizes the stereotypical teenage girl of my generation: obsessing over a boy, another girl, the importance of Instagram likes, pretending to be drunk, hashtags and, of course, the infamous selfie.
Whenever this song comes on and I’m in the car with my dad, he can’t contain his laughter at its stupidity and superficiality. “I only got 10 likes in the last 5 minutes. Do you think I should take it down? Let me take another selfie” and “OK, let’s go take some shots. Oh no, I feel like I’m gonna throw up. Oh wait, nevermind, I’m fine. Let’s go dance” are his favorite lyrics.
Even worse, as I am practicing balancing equations in chemistry, my phone buzzes with a text from my mom of a picture of her, my dog and my brother in the car, captioned “Let me take a #selfie.” Clearly, this infection is frightfully contagious.
Look, Popular Culture, we all get sick sometimes, but you are in desperate need of a remedy before it’s too late. I promise I’ll try to find a way to help you get out of this awful funk.
But first, lemme take a selfie.
Yours Truly,
Jane
