For a girl who like to wear giant glitter-encrusted fruit on her head, Marina Diamandis is sure full of darkness and angst. She comes out looking like she’s about to tell everyone to put their hands up in the air and dance like they just don’t care, and then she goes into a ballad about the existential emptiness inside herself. While all the fifteen-year-old gay bois in the audience sing along in rousing unison. (They’re all wearing giant bananas on their heads.) Yes, I have been to a Marina show. It was like a bespangled fever dream of gender-fluid hormones and inner pain. That’s what makes a camp icon for the ages, kiddos. Now, I wasn’t entirely sure that the younger generation were in need of a camp icon of their own, or if a child of fifteen summers would even know what camp is. But apparently they do and they do. The kids understand very well that the inner pain that’s simpering, boring and mundane in a basic bitch who shops at Marshalls becomes a boiling, heartrending, operatic statement of tragic longing and universal suffering when the sufferer is a glitter slut from outer space. The fission between outer fabulosity and inner turmoil just makes it all – mwah! – pure art.
Sham pain for my real friends and real pain for my sham friends, as they say… Marina Diamandis, clever as she is, isn’t above using some corny-ass dad puns as vehicle for her social commentary, in this case about the perils of getting yourself blackout drunk. She also wrote a song called Hermit the Frog. She likes wordplay. And she’s totally in using it. Humor and absurdity go a long way towards leavening angst-ridden topics, and Marina uses both, along with heady doses of glam and glitter, to get her message across. Underneath the hooks and costumes, there’s some heavy angst, and serious observations about how wounding and hard life can be for women and how much of a charade femininity essentially is. Also, the weight of creativity and fame, don’t forget about that additional burden. Life is an uphill battle. Let us have our dad puns.
“If women were religiously
We wouldn’t have to feel the need to show our ass,
It’s to feel free”
More pop stars should have lyrics this blunt. But few pop stars ever confront the conundrum of sex roles and entertainment. Marina Diamandis isn’t really a pop star per se, though. She just plays one as a means of writing commentary about what it means to be a pop star. And feminine roles in general, and the havoc they wreak on the feminine psyche. The fact is that women perform femininity, and in many cases the performance is as studied and effortful as a drag queen’s, except without the option of wiping off the mascara and being a man again the next day. We live our lives as an endless burlesque, putting on the drag in the morning, sashaying all day long, stripping artfully at bedtime, and if we’re fortunate enough to actually have alone-space, catching a few hours of unguarded snooze. Some find that the part comes naturally, that it’s easy and fun; for others, being a socially presentable female is a grinding charade. That’s just real life, though. When women become entertainers, they play wildly exaggerated versions of their own personalities, and the archetypes those personalities are boxed into. (Some end up playing archetypes that have nothing to do with their real personalities at all, which must be its own circle of hell.) There’s the option of satirizing the archetype, or of breaking the box and creating a new archetype, but in the big money pop arena, self awareness doesn’t pay. Nor does ‘the talent’ have much power over what they sing, say, wear or post on Instagram – it’s all managed by handlers. That’s why we really, really need a satirical pop star like Marina, who explores both the absurdity and the fun of sex roles, their potential for empowerment or damage – and wraps it all up in glittering, perfect pop songs.
“Underneath it all, we’re just savages
Hidden behind shirts, ties and marriages…”
As if I needed anything to validate my lack of faith in the species. We are, all told, impenetrably dumb, desire-driven dysfunctional monkeys and the only thing we’ve got going for us is a pop song or two. But, as Marina points out, we like to think that our suits and social institutions elevate us somehow. It’s all about that veneer of civilization that makes us think we have our shit together. Shocker, we don’t have our shit together. But, again, we do have culture, which is more than most of the other animals can say for themselves, and if it doesn’t redeem us in the grand universal scheme of things, at least it makes our short and brutish lives a tiny bit more meaningful.
Marina Diamandis sure knows how to make angst poetic. She’s dramatic in her lyrics, in her vocals, and in her image. She may have pop diva sensibilities, but they’re constantly in a balancing act with her emo side. Because although her music might sound ‘big’ her topics are intimate. She writes a lot about things that are interior in a way that most pop doesn’t usually touch. Lots of songs about insecurity, about not knowing who you are and what you’re doing. That’s an essential part of being young, of course, and dealing with those feelings in a productive way is an essential part of becoming less young. That’s why Marina strikes a chord with the young and the not so much. She’s a figure study in how to be vulnerable and creative about it.
Sometimes I wonder if my love life would be a bigger success if I made a bigger effort to be a toxic bitch. People like that, right? Men would flock to me? It’s a trope that mentally unstable people are more desirable, and romance isn’t really worth it unless it’s full of explosive drama and mutual bad behaviour. Most of us learn otherwise pretty quickly in life, but the trope shows no sign of losing its appeal. It’s the Manic Pixie Dream Girl’s rehab-failing older sister. The Toxic Bitch may smash your windshield and ruin your life, but nobody ever made you feel more alive. The male equivalent is the guy who breaks your nose on Valentine’s Day then takes you to brunch the next morning, and he is only marginally less easy to glamorize. Toxic people are shit and you should run away from them when you see them coming, but don’t you secretly want to be that out of control?
Marina Diamandis is the camp icon for the millennial set. It’s self-aware pop music for a generation that’s so self-aware and meta and ironic they can’t stop being self-conscious and just allow themselves to feel a natural emotion. Of course, vacuous idle youth have been the bogeybear that every receding generation shakes its stick at before reluctantly conceding that the kids are alright after all. It’s just the technology that keeps updating. Every generation gets the pop idols it deserves, supposedly. We certainly have enough of the kind who wholeheartedly and unironically represent the specifically modern tyranny of aspirational images. Some of them have a touch of the uncanny valley effect about the eyes that makes one wonder if they aren’t just digital sales bots. One suspects that Kendall and Kylie don’t actually exist; their eyes are glassy and they can barely speak in sentences, but their lives are impeccably well designed. Celebrity automatons may be easy targets for intellectual scorn – and may even be deserving of it – but who among us doesn’t spend time curating an ‘aspirational’ public image of ourselves as if we were of interest to anyone besides our 12 closest friends? What does that do to our souls? How does it affect our ability to be real people interacting with other real people? Are the self-regard and narcissism that social media so easily enables actually a satisfying substitute for the hard work of forming and maintaining relationships IRL? Why bother following the prescribed life path when you can just create the illusion that you’re following it? Sure, you’re a half-baked man-child or babygirl with no life- or interpersonal- skills and no interest in acquiring either, but you look like an interesting person on Instagram. And, really, when you think about it, aren’t you just a better-groomed version of the guy who leaves the club alone to go read books in the cemetery because solitary pursuits like reading and moping are so much easier and more fulfilling than the drudge and pain of trying to form meaningful connections with your fellow humans? It’s all the same miserablism played out on a different stage.