Hole Lotta Love

I bought tickets to see Hole today. And I'm listening - finally - to Nobody's Daughter.

It's hard to explain the meaning of Hole to me without slipping into pompousself-parody, but I feel compelled to try. Because everybody has that one really great, significant band in their youthful biography; that revolutionary notion of personal affirmation set to a stinging strum of melodic guitar chords. You'll never forget the day you let your Fabian/David Cassidy/98 Degrees memorabilia fall into disrepair as a new, brighter, better object of raw power captures your affections.

That band for me was Hole, most certainly because of Courtney Love's unbelievable and brilliantly overwhelming presence on both the concert stage and the world stage. Listening to Celebrity Skin for the first time, approximately aged 13, and then subsequently watching the videos on TRL – I'd never known anything to speak to me quite so accurately before. Courtney, Eric, Melissa: they and their monumental project just fit right. Of course, neither angst nor glamour are mutually exclusive states of being, and thus I quickly moved on from the California dazzle of Celebrity Skin to the wailing crunch of Live Through This. Wow – has their ever been issued forth a more perfect record for the outlet purpose of howling out grief? I sincerely doubt anyone has captured female rage with such frightening accuracy as one Courtney Love. My only regret is that I was too young to appreciate what she did while she was in the middle of actually doing it.

And yes, as much as I look to think I can make them disappear by ignoring them, I guess I must say a little something to the myriad of haters out there who'd Love actually went the way of Anne Boleyn, rather than just pasting her image on the back of her records. To you, I have to say this: wake up, people. This is what your rock stars are supposed to look and act like. Yes, some of the things she has done are reprehensible at best, but I've yet to hear anyone question Scott Weiland or Mick Jagger's culpability as a father for their various drug escapades. And at least one of those aforementioned individuals (I won't say his name, but his band name rhymes with Scone Themple Kwilots) doesn't have nearly have the brains or creative, artist genius as Love, nor the successful amount of product output to show for it. (Lest we forget the Golden Globe nod and consistent critical acclaim for her musical body of work.)

Thus, for the hooker/waitress/model/actress in us all, take a gander from beneath your smeared, caked mascara and see what I'm talking about. Also, to acquire for concert attire: torn slip, baby doll dress, fishnets, Doc Martens, tiara, and fire engine-red lipstick.

Content © 2009 Emma Kat Richardson All rights reserved worldwide.
Site Development by Brainwrap Web Design.