No Horny Gumballs Allowed

I’ve never been a girl-music girl. (Well, in high school, I was briefly obsessed with Fiona Apple, but she really counts more as angsty-sultry-poetic-despair-music. Perfect for high school, really.) Britney Spears/Christina Aguilera/Jessica Simpson/Mandy Moore? Mariah “I can sing higher than your mating cat” Carey? Janet “My nipple is more famous than yours” Jackson? James “I’m 98% eunuch” Blunt? Please staple my ears shut now.

It might be the pop thing, or the flaky lyrics thing, but it’s mostly the voice thing. These singers sound exactly like melted candy, and each note makes my teeth hurt. I’ve always preferred manly singers, with voices like sexy sandpaper or smooth as aftershave and Irish coffee. (I would list names, but my husband reads this blog. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone’s death, etc.)

However, the times? They are a-changin’, at least in my sphere of musiclove. I’ve been soaking in the gorgeous, earthy nuances of female singers lately: Imogen Heap, Ingrid Michaleson, Yael Naïm, Deb Talan, Leslie Feist, Camille, Corinne Bailey Rae. Maybe it’s due to the sudden loneliness of being in a new country, not yet fluent enough to make close friends. Maybe it’s the full-force onslaught of double-motherhood, making me realize all the more my identity as a woman. Maybe I’m starting to find greater relevance in the words of other gals who struggle with beautifully imperfect bodies and complicated emotions. Or maybe I should stop psychoanalyzing myself already and just enjoy listening to women who don’t sound like horny gumballs.