All criticism is personal. Duh. Even the aspects which seem suitable for objective discussion are of subjective importance.
So I could discuss Ida Maria’s Cherry Red in a vaguely objective tone: cocksure bass hook, insistent drive, milk bottles, continental interlude and all; and it would be a reflection of my personal response to it. I could step deeper into my relationship with music, the nature of authenticity and such: considering how the stripped back, “real” rock band sound of Fortress Round My Heart and some of the jams/demos on her Soundcloud was married to a more polished, commercial production and knocks the whole things on it’s arse, turning out something joyous and shambolic and energetic and wonderful.
But I’d be missing out on something without saying something of my relationship to my own sexuality and gender relations and, and, oh, bear with me.
Ida Maria has the ballsy power I look for in a rock vocalist, the range and expressiveness to carry off whatever she’s singing and the song-writing chops to leave an indelible impression. She’d be one of my favourite singers even if I didn’t find her voice so attractive. But… yeah: I love this song largely ‘cos the singer’s hawt. Phwoar, helllloo, unf, etc.
Considering my objection to pop’s obsession with plastic prettiness, this appears problematic. It gets worse with the lyrics glorifying such a submissive approach to a woman pleasin’ her man. Hardly my typical preference at all. And yet…
This is far from a case of weak music wrapped in personality free, commercial carnality. It bristles with genuine, playful lust: the male figure becoming just as much of a sexual fantasy, the sense of glee in the voice and the suggestiveness of the dropped rhyme. It all sends me a little weak in the knees. Hearing is easily my favourite sense, so it’s unsurprising to find arousal in sound, and I do find it in Cherry Red, even if I find it a bit off-putting trying to analyse that response. But, y’know, all criticism is personal, as tomorrow’s choice illustrates…
