Like its immediate predecessor, 2010 was one of those times that try men’s souls, boiling in disgruntled fuel for rebellion. And once again, rock ’n’ roll didn’t show up, unless you count the performances by Sheryl Crow and a few other none-too-relevant Billboard names at the “Rally for Sanity,” that ill-defined, quickly forgotten collection of corny Henny Youngman jokes intended to counter the bigoted fearmongering of Fox News.
Not that another Rage Against the Machine-headlined rebel-rage-palooza would have done the trick either. In 2010, the most agitating punk artist wasn’t even a musician, it was author Matt Taibbi, whose thousand-megaton snark-nuke Griftopia still has the potential to inspire every American citizen to take up torch and pitchfork and head straight to Wall Street demanding the return of all their money. An easily readable, scary, hilarious exposé, Griftopia could be the Common Sense of the next revolution, if Americans can tear themselves away from Celebrity Rehab long enough to Google where to purchase brand-name torches and pitchforks in their zip codes.
The Lady is a Something-or-Other
No, in fact, in 2010, music took its cues from Fox News, propping up porn-worthy girls babbling ideological, unimportant distraction. Where politics had illegal aliens, music had Lady Gaga’s fake meat dress. “What an ironic and brilliant sculpture to promote vegetarianism, I think, maybe,” people thought, as Gaga immediately put the meat dress behind her and fired off her most NC-17 video yet, for the Ace-of-Base-stolen “Alejandro.” More buzzing ensued, including a fantastic, terrific, billion-word post from Mark Dery on the now-destroyed blog True/Slant. Meanwhile, Gaga boldly dipped more toes in the water, stealing more and more cues from Madonna, including the cone-bra. Also meanwhile, a visibly weakened First Amendment was under attack by crooked politicians pandering to ignorant, reading-phobic rubes dressed as their “favorite” Founding Fathers, who suddenly believed that Australian Julian Assange was doing un-American things with Wikileaks. What a lucky country we are to have Gaga’s Larry King Show B.S. stories to contemplate, instead of complicated national crises. So edgy!
Speaking of cones, retro-’70s-Marsha-Brady-brained Katy Perry’s disturbingly perfect boobs wouldn’t shut up, would they? Her PR people, omnipotent beings from another dimension, turned major media outlets into her personal Twitter account. Every time the woman burped, or claimed to be thinking about having to burp, it was the top Yahoo headline. I have other mean things I could say about future variety-show host Katy Perry and her boobs, like really mean, but all it’d do is make you think I have issues, and you’d just go back to marveling at her boobs. So by all means, go admire Katy Perry’s boobs. They’re right over there… oops, I think they just hopped in that cab and are heading for Starbucks for a triple-milk-fat latte.
Department of Epic Fail
Congratulations, hip-hop, your Doom Clock reached midnight in 2010!
What’s that, you “blame it on Ludacris’s Battle of the Sexes?” No, hip-hop’s death was accidentally shown on TV, when the T.Ocho show destroyed hip-hop culture, sports, the English language, the VS network’s budget, and the Cincinnati Bengals all within one mind-boggling half-hour. Woot!
Honorable mention: Christina Aguilera, who became the Edsel of entertainment.