I can’t help falling in love
I fall deeper and deeper the further I go
Kisses sent from heaven above
They get sweeter and sweeter
The more that I know.

It was a cold winter night, and the big Victorian house was drafty at best. Downstairs, the wind swept by stained glass, while the wrap-around front porch offered little protection. Despite this, the dark home offered warmth and refuge, the velvet red wall-paper in some rich damask pattern winding through the first few grand rooms. This was Suzie’s house, where she grew up, and where my family spent all of our holidays. It was the repository of memories old and happy, sad and pronounced, silly and momentous. On the night at hand – sometime in late 1992 or early 1993 – Madonna had just released ‘Deeper and Deeper’ from the infamous Erotica album, and we were convening for a Friday or Saturday night of nothing. No more than seventeen years old, we had no idea what the outside world held in store, nor how protected we were in that old Victorian.

When you know the notes to sing,
You can sing most anything,
That’s what my Mama told me.
Round and round and round you go
Where you find love you’ll always know
I let my father mold me.

Deeply-stained wood framed everything, and the staircase wound round and round, higher and higher, or deeper and deeper. A small group of us wandered the dim corridors, peering into darkened rooms, seeking out the refuge of light in the kitchen, or the hidden recesses of secret passageways. Empty bedrooms, cold tiled bathrooms, and the call of darker secrets in the attic high and beyond lent the evening a slant of mystery. The flickering light of a few candles fluttered on the velvet walls, while shadows grew and receded.

Daddy couldn’t be all wrong
And my Mama made me learn this song
That’s why I can’t help falling in love
I fall deeper and deeper the further I go
Kisses sent from heaven above
They get sweeter and sweeter
The more that I know.

A bit of music played, someone did a little dance, and I sat on the couch and watched it all unfold, the only boy among all the girls, accepted as one of them, my gayness already entrance to the world of women. I leaned back and let my eyes close. A copy of the Sex book sat on the floor, and someone rifled idly through it. Ripples of laughter echoed from the kitchen down the hallway. Surrounded by ladies-in-the-making, I felt completely at home. No matter what else happened – and much did – I would always feel that comfort with them.

All is fair in love she said
Think with your heart not with your head
That’s what my Mama told me
All the little things you do
Will end up coming back to you
I let my father mold me…

How I loved those girls, and how loved they made me feel. When you took away the sexual tension between two people of the opposite sex (as being gay tends to do), it’s much easier to get along and become great friends. I wasn’t there yet though, and so we danced upon the rollicking sea of teenage hormones and the taste of freedom on the tips of our tongues.

Daddy couldn’t be all wrong
And my Mama made me learn this song
That’s why I can’t help falling in love
I fall deeper and deeper the further I go
Kisses sent from heaven above
They get sweeter and sweeter
The more that I know.

They would grow into women before my eyes. One would fuck me, one would hold me, one would laugh at me, one would make me laugh, and one would love me for life. Through it all, the woman to whom I compared all women sang her siren song.

Someone said that romance was dead
And I believed it instead of remembering
What my Mama told me, Let my father mold me
Then you tried to hold me
You remind me what they said
This feeling inside, I can’t explain
But my love is alive
And I’m never gonna hide it again.

The most fun song on the Erotica album whirled its dancing beat, and on the television upstairs the video played in an amber-lit room. On-screen, the candles and the incense glowed, the whole sexy Madonna mystique was in full effect, with echoes of Dietrich in her blonde-afro wig, and waves of Andy Warhol rolled through the disco party scene. There were drugs and danger, and the master re-arranger, and then, finally, for the first time, Madonna quotes herself, and the then-rather-recent past of ‘Vogue’:

You’ve got to let your body move to the music,
You’ve got to just let your body go with the flow.

The music took up again, spinning wildly into dizzy abandon, and with it a little pocket of our youth was turned inside out, emptied and torn, ripped ragged in the wind of that last winter of our high school years. We loved each other then, as best as we could. We tumbled together down the final rocky stretch of childhood, holding onto one another, grasping and pushing and pulling, hoping to make the night run on forever…

Falling in love
Falling in love
I can’t keep from falling in love with you
There’s nothing better that I’d like to do.

Song #61 – ‘Deeper & Deeper’ – Fall/Winter 1992/93

The iPod has gone back to the early 90’s, when Madonna released the darkly-shaded Erotica album. It was the perfect fit for an icy winter, and the somewhat icy heart I had at the time. I wasn’t always the best boyfriend. Oh, I tried, but in my younger years I was much more selfish (if you can imagine), much less concerned with any sort of altruistic love, and extremely exacting that I would be the one in charge. It is with a bit of embarrassment and shame that I admit one of my ex-girlfriends claimed that ‘Words’ was the perfect embodiment of the man I was when I was with her.

You think you’re so smart
You try to manipulate me
You try to humiliate with your words
You think you’re so chic
You write me beautiful letters
You think you’re so much better than me.

Now, I’ve honestly never thought of myself as better than anyone else (better-dressed perhaps, never wholly better), but that was the only line that didn’t ring true. There was manipulation, humiliation, and I could write a killer letter. Balk if you will, but I also don’t consider myself the most attractive guy, so I developed other talents, starting with my way with words. If my face and body didn’t entice (and more often than not they didn’t), or my fancy outfits failed to impress (as if!), I could still capture a heart with a clever turn of phrase. A little bit of laughter went a long way, and women were somehow better at men at seeing through to the heart of a person, to the kindness and goodness of a soul even when the rest of the package paled in comparison. That didn’t bode well for the life of a gay man, but back then I was still forging my way with the ladies.

But your actions speak louder than words
And they’re only words, unless they’re true
Your actions speak louder than promises
You’re inclined to make, and inclined to break.

Words, they cut like a knife,
Cut into my life, I don’t want to hear your words
They always attack, please take them all back
If they’re yours, I don’t want anymore.

It carried over to the men I dated as well, and when you’re the one who finally gets hurt, you sometimes make up your mind to be the one who’s on the inflicting end from that point on. To be in control of your emotions, to act as if you could care less – these were the desired states of existence.

You think you’re so shrewd
You try to bring me low
You try to gain control with your words.
But your actions speak louder than words
And they’re only words, unless they’re true
Your actions speak louder than promises
You’re inclined to make, and inclined to break.

Words, they cut like a knife,
Cut into my life, I don’t want to hear your words
They always attack, please take them all back
If they’re yours, I don’t want anymore.

While it’s a standard slice of 90’s dance-pop, ‘Words’ is a pretty strong song, unfortunately under-rated like much of the Erotica album. Dark and gritty, with the residual heat of love-gone-awry, Madonna’s delivery reeks of disdain and regret, both with the object of her derision and herself. There is anger here, backed by strength and simultaneously under-laid by vulnerability – a rather nifty accomplishment for a piece of pop filler. Not to mention the fact that the bridge is just pure heaven:

Friends they tried to warn me about you
He has good manners, he’s so romantic
But he’ll only make you blue
How can I explain to them?
How will they know?
I’m in love with your words, your words…

Looking back on that time, on the almost-man I was becoming, I see my folly, and my cruelty. I hear the words and cries of those few women I’ve ever dated, and I know the ways I’ve hurt them. I would inflict similar pain and heartache upon some of the men in my life. Hurt is hurt, regardless of sex and gender, and I did deserve a come-uppance.

You think you’re so sly
I caught you at your game
You will not bring me shame with your words

There aren’t many blog posts where I openly admit to my failings. I have thousands of “friends” on FaceBook and Twitter to regularly take the piss out of me; this is the sole space of the Internet where I can craft and create the image of the man I would most like to be. Yet there is room for honesty, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, we have to own up to our mistakes if we are to learn from them. If they never happened, we wouldn’t improve or evolve, and I am hell-bent on both. Even so, it’s tough thinking back to the jerk I could be, and even tougher when it was Madonna’s words being used against me.

But your actions speak louder than words
And they’re only words, unless they’re true
Your actions speak louder than promises
You’re inclined to make, and inclined to break.

Words, they cut like a knife,
Cut into my life, I don’t want to hear your words
They always attack, please take them all back
If they’re yours, I don’t want anymore.

The bottom line: guys can be dicks. And, technically speaking, I’m still just another guy. To hear Madonna aiming such accurate accusations at the man who has done her wrong had its own influence on me, even if it wasn’t until years later. God knows I’ve certainly had my dick moments. Some days, I still do.

Too much blinding light
Your touch, I’ve grown tired of your words…
A linguistic form that can meaningfully be spoken in isolation
Conversation, expression, a promise, a sigh, in short, a lie
A message from heaven, a signal from hell
I give you my word, I’ll never tell.
Language that is used in anger
Personal feelings signaling danger
A brief remark, an utterance, information
Don’t mince words, don’t be evasive
Speak your mind, be persuasive
A courage, a commitment, communication
Words.

Song #56 – ‘Words’ – Winter 1992-1993

Another Madonna Timeline is due up later today, and we’re going all the way back to 1992 and a cut from the Erotica album. I was a senior in high school. And dating a girl. Do you need to know how it ends?

Aside from today being my husband’s birthday, it marks another milestone – the 19th anniversary of the day Madonna’s Erotica album was released.

It is a fitting moment to recognize it, as this year’s Holiday Party invites and theme are very much inspired by that album, and the infamous Sex book (but more on that tomorrow).

This year’s Holiday Party is the hottest ticket in town, if only for the reduction in invites. (I can’t mass-produce these – they’re assembled by hand.) But such is the labor of hard love.

I don’t think you know what pain is…
I don’t think you’ve gone that way…

Erotica,
Romance…
My name is Dita,
I’ll be your mistress tonight.

This was almost the beginning of the end, and to anyone other than Madonna, the one-two punch of the Sex book and the Erotica album would probably have proved an insurmountable career finisher. Madonna herself has said she divides her career pre and post Sex book, so when the iPod chose ‘Erotica’ as the next selection, I took a deep breath and went back to October 1992.

If I take you from behind,
Push myself into your mind,
When you least expect it,
Will you try to reject it?
If I’m in charge,
And I treat you like a child,
Will you let yourself go wild?
Let my mouth go where it wants to…

My fandom was probably at its first orgasmic crescendo – and Madonna was wielding her whip as Dita Parlo. It was all about sex, even if I wasn’t having any, and at the start of my senior year of school, all that was yet to come, literally. The scratchy grooves of an old-school record signal the raw, gritty edge of the ‘Erotica’ single, then that devious and delicious bass-line kicks in, and before you know it the ‘Aural Sex’ catch-phrase of the promotional ads has delivered its promise in the five minutes of the song.

Give it up, Do as I say,
Give it up and let me have my way
I’ll give you love, I’ll hit you like a truck,
I’ll give you love, I’ll teach you how to… uhhhh…

To be honest, I think ‘Erotica’ is one of the weaker songs on the album, I don’t like speak-singing as a rule, and this follows on the same whispered tendencies of ‘Justify My Love’ – I didn’t like it then either. But at least there’s a better beat, and more of a melody, even if it is a dark one.

I’d like to put you in a trance… all over…

The ‘Erotica’ single, as well as the album, will always be remembered as the soundtrack to Madonna’s Sex book, and rightfully so. Taken together, they formed a multi-media project – a prototype for selling wares with an artistic slant – this time an album and a book – and the singular, sensational theme only served to wet tongues, nether regions and wallets.

Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body,
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body…
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body,
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body…
All over me…

There was something comical to sex too – both the first furtive fumblings with my own, as well as the humorous tone of much of the book (and the way I procured my copy. My friend Ann’s mother, Gin-Gin, bought the Sex book for me at the bookstore in Rotterdam Square Mall. I think it was 20% off the $49.95 selling price, and I told her to keep the change from a fifty for her troubles.)

The idea of the three of us executing this Sex book mission in the middle of Rotterdam Mall always tickles me – and if you’ve ever met Ann you’re probably smiling at the notion too. She is one of the funniest people I know, and my best friend at that tumultuous time. I picked up the album at the same time, in the music store next door – CD and cassette tape versions – and we listened to it on the ride home.

Once you put your hand in the flame, it can never be the same.
There’s a certain satisfaction in a little bit of pain.
I can see you understand me, tell me you’re the same,
If you’re afraid we’ll rise above, I only hurt the ones I love.

Once home, I brought the book into the basement, opened it up, and slowly began to turn the pages. With photographs by Steven Meisel, and Madonna in all sorts of nakedness, it was a feast for an adolescent’s eyes, even if mine were more drawn to the men than the Mistress of Ceremonies. It touched a deeper chord in me as well – one that resonated with my artistic yearnings, and inspired a creative drive to do my own thing no matter what anyone else thought. It may be the single most important lesson Madonna has taught me over the years. If nothing else, Sex served as artistic inspiration. From its industrial (if slightly faulty) aluminum binding to its mirror-like Mylar sleeve, it was an exercise in how to execute a project, and the promotional hoopla that surrounded it taught me the importance of making a scene and marketing oneself.

Collectively, the whole experience made the music and the book just that – an Experience. It was more than just a record and a few pictures – it was a form of art, a positing of scandalous behavior by a woman taking her clothes off and forcing us to examine our own feelings on sex and nudity. In the most damning reviews (and there were many) was the essence of artistic controversy. Coupled with the sell-out success of the book’s first printing, it was a smash, albeit a detrimental exercise in go-for-broke shock de-value.

To launch the book and the album, Madonna had a Sex Party – to which she arrived dolled up as a Swiss Miss Milking Maiden, breasts pushed up to high heaven, blonde hair pulled into a double bun, and a stuffed lamb in her arms. God knows I love a party costume.

Give it up, Do as I say,
Give it up and let me have my way
I’ll give you love, I’ll hit you like a truck,
I’ll give you love, I’ll teach you how to… uhhhh…
I’d like to put you in a trance… all over…
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body,
Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body…
All over me…

Oh, there was a video too. It was only shown after midnight on MTV, a quaint sign of the changing times, and was a grainy compilation of Super-8 footage taken on the Sex photo shoots. It is, like the book and the album, a little piece of pop art, Warholian in aim and intent, as stylized and sleek as it is raw and nervy. A masked Madonna in a severe white collar and sheer, bosom-enhancing blouse, bends a whip and flashes Dita’s gold tooth. A bit spooky, a bit sexy, and, thanks to a cheeky smile or two, a bit silly.

The humor of the video, and the project as a whole, was largely lost on the public, who finally seemed to turn on her, and if Sex and Erotica were commercially successful efforts, the damage it inflicted on her career – and where she went from here – was almost irreparable. But that fall-out would come slightly later – for now she was still the Queen of the World, riding high on her fame and power, and taking the ultimate artistic risk by taking her clothes off for all the world to see. And see we did, watching with rapt eyes and dropped-jaws, still transfixed by this cheeky vixen, and waiting to see what she would do next.

I don’t think you know what pain is,
I don’t think you’ve gone that way,
I could bring you so much pleasure,
I’ll come to you when you say.
I know you want me
I’m not gonna hurt you,
Just close your eyes…
Erotic, erotic, erotic, erotic
Just close your eyes…

As for me, the whole Erotica time period was fraught with suicidal adolescent angst. The darker tones of the album bled seamlessly into the dangerous undercurrents raging beneath my straight-A existence. Madonna’s rebellion was a pre-cursor to mine, a grand fuck-you to the establishment, and an almost transparent plea from a hurt little girl, that only a hurt little boy could ever understand.

Only the one that hurts you can make you feel better.
Only the one that inflicts the pain can take it away…

Erotic… A.

Song #39: ‘Erotica’ – October 1992

Bitch!

This is one of the most unintentionally hilarious songs Madonna has ever written! In keeping with that theme, I’m going to go very liberally on the exclamation points because I find them as unintentionally funny as this song! From 1992’s Erotica album, ‘Thief of Hearts’ is a catty bitch-fight which finds Madonna going after the woman who’s going after her man.

You’re a thief of hearts, and now you have to pay!

How many licks does it take?

You’re a thief of hearts, and now you have to pay!

Which leg do you want me to break?

Ha – Ha – Hilarious! My friend Ann and I cracked up over that last line every time we heard it. I mean, which leg do you want me to break? Oh Madonna – that’s rich! To this day, I laugh a little whenever that line is sung, mostly because of Ann.

Here she comes, Little Suzie Ho-maker,

Thinks she’ll get respect if she screws him!

I am dying! I can still picture Ann and I laughing in Amsterdam High School, thumbing through Madonna’s riotous Vanity Fair photos (the spread should have been titled “Boobs & Booty!” not “Hot Madonna!”) It was a minor vacation from that heady crest of adolescence, and abandoning oneself to the hokey hook-filled dance-filler of ‘Thief of Hearts’ was one way to make it through the misery.

You’ll do it, you’ll take it,

You’ll screw it, you’ll fake it,

Undo it, you’ll break it!

You’re over, you can’t take it!

{Repeat!}

Genius – simply mad genius! At a time when high school angst threatened daily to overwhelm, when the madness of hormones overflowed, there was Madonna, admonishing, “Someone please arrest her, she’s a thief of hearts! No one ever takes what’s mine!”

Bitch!

Saucy little minx, no? And as overly-dramatic as any other high school kid, which is why we could relate so well. Back then we spoke in song lyrics, and beats were our currency. We swam naked in the pool of pop music! Our heads bobbed to and fro like corks on the river of aural candy!

You’re a thief of hearts, and now you have to pay!

How many licks does it take?

You’re a thief of hearts, and now you have to pay!

Which leg do you want me to break?

Yeeowwww! Take me, break me, make me a man! Work it, perk it, freakin’ berserk it! Shake your booty to the ground and peek-a-boo-too! We will return to our regularly-scheduled sanity, such as it is, immediately following this post.

Stop bitch!

{Glass shatters}

Now sit your ass down!!!

Song #22: ‘Thief of Hearts’ – Fall 1992

And the iPod shuffles along to… “Bye Bye Baby”, from 1992’s Erotica album. I don’t think this got a proper US release – but I believe it was released overseas in the latter half of 1993, while Madonna was on her “Girlie Show” Tour, and that’s the period of time that comes to mind.

I was entrenched in my first semester at Brandeis University. While all my hometown friends had returned to Amsterdam for homecoming or other nonsense, I stayed away until Thanksgiving. It was just something I had to do – I was not ready to go back. My girlfriend and I had tried to stay together when we left for school, but the long-distance (and gay) factors didn’t really give us a fighting chance, so emotionally things were messy and rather difficult.

Of course, I was the bad guy in the whole scenario – a not wholly unfair categorization – and so I was left feeling attacked and ostracized – which is not unfamiliar territory for me. But in late Fall, when the leaves were down and the wind was cold, it was even more lonely, and rather than throw myself into the Brandeis social scene (cue laughter), I withdrew into myself.

Still, this silly trifling of a song about self-empowerment was a welcome distraction, even if the tiresome vocal distortion was just this side of annoying. The remixes were a riot – with an added-on “Star Spangled Banner” ending to one of them. All in all, an insane song for an insane point in my life.

I don’t want to keep the bright flame of your ego glowing, so I’ll just stop blowing in the wind – to love you is a sin. Adios!

Song #2: Bye Bye Baby – Late Fall, 1993

This is a sad confession of fanatical devotion to a woman I’ve never even met: I tend to remember events in my life based on what Madonna was doing – specifically if I’m trying to recall the date of something. For example, if you ask me what I was doing in October of 1992, it brings me thrillingly, chillingly, and achingly back to that Fall when Madonna was releasing Sex and Erotica, and my combustible final year of high school.

With that in mind, this is the first part in a long series of Madonna memories and moments, whereby I put the iPod on shuffle and whichever Madonna song comes up is the one I’ll write a brief memory on what was going on when it was released and/or came to prominence (memories evoked by songs don’t always have a definitive singular date, so I’m keeping it loose).

Here we go, let’s shuffle the iPod deck and get right to it…

First up – “Who’s That Girl” – (yes, I have that on my iPod – and to all the naysayers it went to Number one in 1987). Let’s see, the summer of 1987 – I can just barely remember this song playing as my cousins, my brother and I were crammed into the backseat of our station wagon, en route to a family wedding or some summer vacation. The hot wind blew through the windows, and we were traveling with our parents. They sat in the front, but they might as well have been worlds away, so concerned were we with the fact that we were hanging out with our cousins. This song came on the radio and I lost track of the kid stuff and listened.

The “Who’s That Girl” music video flashed across my mind, the image of Madonna running down the streets of New York with a cougar hot on her tail etched wondrously in memory, and always invoking a longing for some sort of madcap adventure of my own. That summer it was just us kids being kids, getting into minor trouble at weddings and loving every minute of it.

When you see her, say a prayer and kiss your heart good-bye…

Song #1: “Who’s That Girl” – Summer 1987

Apologies for another Madonna song reference, but if you don’t like it, you don’t have to play it. (Video-wise it is definitely one of Madonna’s weaker ones, the kind of throwaway soundtrack work she does between albums of brilliance.) Besides, so many summer memories are attached to songs. Like my online bud Matthew from Boy Culture once wrote in his brilliant compendium The Encyclopedia Madonnica, “Summer has a way of burning music into your consciousness.”

It was July 1992. I had just returned from a trip to Finland for a wedding, leaving the extended European trip early to attend a summer course at Brown University. I thought it would be a good thing to pad my high school resume for college (well, my parents thought it would be – I personally didn’t really care either way). It was a biology course, with some hands-on study at the Roger Williams Park Zoo.

Upon arriving at Brown, I experienced my first and only real bout of homesickness (well, after the age of ten at least) – I didn’t even feel it when I went away to college. This time I was searching for a private place to cry and remembering how I used to look up into the fluorescent lights of my first grade class hoping that they would dry my tears faster. The crying part was over by the second day, and when I found myself with the time and private place to do it again I didn’t even need to. Still, I missed my family, and to assuage the pit in my stomach I spent my free time searching the library at the University for genealogy books. Not that I ever expected to find any Ilagans there, it just felt good to look and make plans in my mind of when I would see them again.

My chosen project at the zoo was a study on the lemurs. I had noticed that one of them sat quietly, while the others ran circles around him, occasionally chasing him out of the way. It was my “hypothesis” that this lemur was more or less being hounded into submission, and was therefore not exhibiting all of his natural behavior. Looking back, it was probably the least scientific hypothesis ever almost-proven, but somehow I pulled it off and garnered an ‘A’ on it (which was the whole grade of the course).

By choosing the lemurs, which were off the beaten path of the zoo and not as exciting or awe-inspiring as the elephants or Tamarin monkeys, I could be alone, watching their antics and taking notes on behavior. I didn’t want to be around the other students, whom I suspected of intelligence greater than mine, but who displayed too many signs of immaturity. The ones I did find interesting – like the girl who wore a billion strands of tiny beads that she had strung herself – had ostracized themselves with their quirky fashion choices or propensity to sleep with each other.

I also had other concerns, in the form of  a psycho red-headed roommate. He had written out a ten-plus page treatise on how he planned to join forces with Satan, take over the world, then double-cross Satan and have the power to himself. Not kidding. When he left for the day, I promptly took a huge risk, stole the papers, ran to the library and made a Xerox copy, then hid it in my luggage in the event that my body was found slaughtered under the bed at the end of the two weeks. Luckily he left me alone, as I must have seemed a non-threat in his quest for universal domination.

The noxious purple loosestrife was just beginning to show its bright color in the zoo’s natural wetlands, and staff warned us of how dangerous it was, in its propensity to take over the wetlands and choke out natives. Summer beat down upon the zoo paths, and I was grateful for the air-conditioned bus ride back to campus at the end of the day.

I didn’t explore Brown University as much as I perhaps should have. Part of me dreaded the idea of college so much that I shrank away from anything remotely connected to it, such as checking out what campus life was like, even if it was the doldrums of summer. I did walk around the small stretch of shops and cafes, and I explored some of the art shops that were there (being in proximity to the Rhode Island School of Design). On one such excursion I picked up an old Herb Ritts compilation – a beautiful pair of of cloth-bound editions of some of his classic shots. In the black-and-white beauty found within its pages, I found a semi-solace from my loneliness, and a glimpse into a world so far and fully removed from my own.

On the radio I listened to Madonna’s This Used To Be My Playground, her last number one Billboard single prior to the Erotica years. It has not weathered the years well, and for quite a while I couldn’t even bring myself to listen to it because it was just so unspectacular. But it was part of my past, and part of that summer. A wistful look back on the season that used to be so carefree and celebratory. It was my last summer of innocence. The next Fall and Winter would bring my first girlfriend and last year of high school.