by Bron | April 23, 2013 10:33 pm
Chrissy Amphlett terrified my parents.
Although to be fair, they actually didn’t know her name was Chrissy Amphlett. They wouldn’t have bothered with that much detail. To them, she was that vulgar woman who sang those lewd songs.
Cover your ears darling daughter, you might lose your virginity.
I’m not going to have my only daughter corrupted by such foulness on the radio.
Bronwyn, turn off 4IP (or 4BK) now, or I will confiscate your radio.
I think any woman who sang a song other than Fernando terrified my parents – Tina Turner, Martika, Martha and her Muffins, Kids in America chick Kim, Cher, Magenta, Madonna, that fabulous gal who sang about having brass in her pocket (Chrissie with an “ie”) and any female who wore a lot of black eyeliner on her lower lid.
Interestingly, they weren’t so worried about the boy singers, and there was no requirement for them to take the lead in Fernando. They particularly loved Racey, even though they begged me to lay my love on them. They adored The Proclaimers, even though they foolishly said they would walk 500 miles when airfares are so affordable. Peter Allen was a particular favourite but seriously, I give you one word. Rio. Code for gay.
Billy Field, Jamie Redfern, Glen Campbell. Any male on Young Talent Time, apart from its host. All were verifiable husband material. Bon Scott, Doc Neeson, Jimmy Barnes? No, they weren’t heavy rockers, they were just silly boys having a bit of silly fun.
Maybe the 1980s were too early for my folk to embrace girl power. Maybe they were worried I was going to take the lesbian route. Maybe they don’t like eyeliner.
Regardless, I loved Chrissy. Correction – love. I’ll tell you why.
Her song, “I touch myself” is pretty much faultless for me when we’ve all had one too many vinos and going to a karaoke bar seems like the smartest idea since Nicole married Keith.
Its sexy words and sensual undercurrent means I don’t have to dash about the stage in manner of a crazed Cyndi Lauper; instead I can croon seductively and truly believe that I have charismatic pheromone-infused vocal prowess.
Really it’s the wine singing, but so what.
You know how people talk about their favourite super power? Being invisible, bionic strength, reading minds?
I’d like to be able to sing. Sing like Kelly Clarkson. Or Whitney before the drugs. Hold a microphone and belt out a note – hard, strong and confident.
Chrissy’s song is the only song where I can do that, and still show my face in public the next day.
So Chrissy, thank you for music even though it wasn’t Fernando.
I don’t want anybody else. Just you and your song.
Hope you’re at peace xo
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