How NOT to write about music – 38. Christine and the Queens

christine-and-the-queens

She shimmers with passion.

I do not go too far into the depths of what she’s communicating – if her second album is about her newfound obsession with sex as she has claimed elsewhere then I think I will start running scared because if there is one thing lonely 57-year-old men living in Haywards Heath do not understand and cannot even begin to comprehend it is the illusion of attraction, the carnality of desire, the rules of the game – but I understand this one simple contention. She shimmers with passion, you can almost hear her shaking with lust on Chris. She shimmies across the dance-floor on spikes and sweat. She is self-contained, assured. This is very attractive to lonely 57-year-old men living in cold Haywards Heath watching reruns of Fargo and mainlining Ribena, although frankly any step in the dance of seduction is very attractive lonely 57-year-old men living in cold Haywards Heath watching reruns of Fargo and mainlining Ribena if I stop and give myself time to consider it, which of course I do not, too concerned with playing out my performance of being a…

Yeah, you got it.

I say this, not for sympathy (there are far more attractive ways of gaining that) but for clarity.

I do not know why I am starting off by talking about passion, about desire here. This is not how I hear this song. To me, this song is a beacon, a full-beam headlight steering me away from the ever-looming rocks – or maybe it’s towards, I cannot tell – a ray of hope, of understanding, that even as the grey and tumble of detritus threaten to overwhelm me, remind there are still Voices out there that can aid, inspire. Her music has feline elasticity, supine grace. Oh no… wait. I mean the opposite of that.

I understand what it’s like to strut around the house in platform boots, singing. I understand what it’s like to have never come to terms with your own gender. I understand pain, confusion, passion, sex. I just choose to try not and think about them, s’all. I sure as hell know what it’s like to feel vulnerable, and not in a good way.

Broken.

Broken.

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