You guys, I have a problem.
I am unable to stop listening to the Spice Girls.
Ever since this, I simply can’t stop. I have spent over $30 on Spice Girls music on iTunes. This is currently in my DVD player. I created a playlist called “Spicy” (an action so cripplingly gay it makes me feel like I have a dick in my ass just typing it [eew! Who said that?! PURILE]). It is completely out of control, and I am at a loss as to what to do.
I EVEN BOUGHT THEIR SOLO MATERIAL.
(But not Scary’s, cuz hers blows.)
AND I LOVE IT.
In an effort to confront my demons, I have been doing much soul searching as to what exactly is compelling me to spend nearly 100% of my music-listening hours blaring various and sundry Spice into my ears. I’ve come up with three causations.
1—Obviously, it is because Posh’s celestial perfection touched my heart and my aching soul is longing to praise her as she should be praised and open a portal through which her galactic benevolence can flow into the hearts of others. This goes without saying.
2—All music I was hotly anticipating in 2008 ended up blowing real hard, leaving me with nothing better to listen to:
*Madonna’s Hard Candy came out in April. I was over it by June
*Beck’s Modern Guilt is a load of art-for-art’s-sake horseshit
*Jem’s Down to Earth is an SNL Stuart Smalley sketch set to electronic music
I suppose these two are reasons enough. But they still do not explain why I choose, as my dear friend, Gospel reader and fellow Posh devotee Miss Kate and I like to call them, Les Filles D’Epices, over, say, simply a different Madonna album than Hard Candy, in the absence of good new music.
But I’ve figured it out: Depression 2.0.
Think about Depression Beta and its artistic legacy. Jazz. Big band. Fun, peppy songs like “We’re in the Money” and “I Got Rhythm” and “C’mon, Get Happy.” Irving Berlin. George Gershwin. “Rhapsody in Blue” anyone? Please. And need I mention musical theatre? The likes of Show Boat and Anything Goes? And how about movies? Busby Berkeley? The Marx Brothers? Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers? Grand Hotel? 42nd Street?
Pretty light-hearted stuff, no? In the face of war, economic fallout and a complete and total lack of certainty, it’s as if everybody said, “What we need here is some glitter, foolishness, and *flourish of the arm* tap! DANcing!”
Now, fast forward a good 75 years, and what have we here? A shitstorm of epic proportions. War. Economic fallout. Sarah Palin. And for the first time SINCE the first time, a total lack of certainty.
Plus, if you’re me, you’re about to turn 30. It ain't cute.
Now. There may no longer be youth. There may no longer be stability. There may no longer be job security or, you know, two pennies to rub together.
But goddammit, there ARE the Spice Girls.
Seriously, trust me on this. I’ve been listening to them while I commute. I’ve been listening during my runs around the reservoir (all four of them). I’ve been listening to them while I touch myself. Whatever. They are all-purpose purveyors of transcendent joy.
Here’s a fun little tidbit to brighten your day: Try to identify whose voice is whose. It’s particularly fun to do with Posh, because her voice sounds like it could be anyone’s—mine, yours, the dry cleaning lady's, Barbara Hershey’s, whoever’s. Is that Posh’s solo line, or is it just a subdued Mel C or a higher-pitched Mel B or a lower-pitched Emma or a toned-down Geri? There’s no tellin’! It’s anyone’s guess!
So certain am I of the Spices’ perfect suitability for these shittiest of shitty times that I am here going to share with you the most cogent evidence thereof, litigious record companies be damned.
Herewith, the delicious and incomparable sublimity of “Voodoo,” which I discovered last week while feverishly combing iTunes for Spice songs with which I was not yet familiar.
Spice Girls: Voodoo
How is it possible to feel down about things when you have Posh narrating—because that’s the only word for it—each chorus with “So baaaad!” and “You can!” How can you worry about the state of the world when you have a bridge composed of equal measures Sporty takin’ it to church and Posh…well, narrating again? Please. Heeyyy heyyyy party la, indeed!
And how can you watch this and not laugh your ass off, and, hence, feel a little better about things? It’s five minutes of five grown women doing nothing but pawing themselves!
Now, of course, there will be days that feel impossibly bleak, when you’re, say, eating ramen noodles you bought with your credit card while attempting to keep warm by scalding yourself with tea kettle water and swallowing lit matches.
THAT, my friends, is when you break out the big guns: Mrs. Victoria Adams-Beckham.
Now, of course we (by which I mean, as usual, me, you, and my non-existent editorial team) here at The Gospel According to John have made no bones about our dedication to She of Intergalactic Omniscience. This is clear. Be that as it may, I think it’s fair to say that all of us—by which I mean humanity—are dubious as to Ms. Adams-Beckham’s vocal stylings.
However. I have purchased roughly half of Victoria Beckham’s 2002 flop Victoria Beckham, and I combed the interwebs for her never-released second album, Open Your Eyes. And I downloaded the whole thing. And it is AWESOME.
First, there’s this:
You guys, she’s not made of china, and she’s not made of glass. And answer truthfully: does it shatter your illusions that this angel has a past? By which she means growing up totally regular in suburban London? (I read her autobiography. I know her dirt.)
Also, don’t wrap her up in cotton wool. Which is clearly British for like…cotton balls or tampon filling or something, and hence is automatically awesome.
Also, what in the ever-loving hell is this video about? Why are their space motorcycles? Why are there two Poshes? The obvious answer is, of course, “because if you have a Poshbot, you might as well.” But still.
Next, we have this:
Let your head go indeed! How much more apt to actually GO to that jazzercise class would you be if you knew this fierce jam would be playing? Also, don’t they make wacky videos in Europe? What mirth!
What’s that? You want more? Alright. How about one featuring Nas? Cuz Posh is so very, very street? Go on then.
And so, you see Gospel readers, I am done--finished--with apologizing for my love of the Spice. Sure, they may be totally passe, and sure, their reunion may have gone over like a lead balloon, and granted, nobody (including you, I imagine) cared then and nobody (including, still, you, I imagine) certainly gives a hot shit now.
But while everyone else is watching their life's savings erode while standing on the bread line and beginning to draw flies like those children in Africa on the commercials, I'll be laughing my ass off at this.