Browsing my AOL news feed yesterday, I saw that Courtney Love was up to her typical "pay attention to me" highjinx that usually precedes a stint in rehab for undisclosed substance abuse (ahem...heroin) or a botched cosmetic surgery. While onstage in Brazil, Mrs. Cobain took the opportunity to curse out audience members for holding up pictures of her deceased husband/legend, call the Foo Fighters "gay," take off her shirt, and parade around like carnivale.
Because I am still (although, barely) in my 30s, I'm trying to understand what 47-year-old woman thinks that anyone wants to see her boobs (see, perhaps: heroin), especially under unflattering strobe lighting and without the benefit of some serious underwire. But let's face it, Courtney's doll parts have already been on display in various movies, pictorials, fashion ads, and concerts over the last two decades.
Of course, the reality is that no one at the show (or on youtube) saw anything they hadn't seen before, and probably better, back in Courtney's trashed babydoll mid-90s heyday, which is probably when her last bit of musical relevance expired.
But it got me thinking. Last week, I overheard Joan Jett's awesome ode to loving her body: "Do You Wanna Touch?" Honestly, this song sounds as wonderful today as it did 25 (!!) years ago. And it got me thinking about how Joan owned her sexuality not by playing concerts that disintegrated into tacky peep shows and leveling insults about the sexuality of other, more successful musicians in the industry, but by strumming her guitar, giving the rock boys' club the extended middle finger, and putting on an awesome show in tight black leather.
Oh, to wonder what Kurt Cobain thinks of his shambles of a soulmate, who apparently has nothing to do now but strive to be the exhibitionist face of Girls Gone Wild, Post-Menopause edition. Where is Joe Francis when you need him?
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