One of my favorite perks of working retail was the incessant repetition of the same soundtrack on a loop such that one feels they are being lightly tortured. The bookstore’s soundtrack was admittedly better than other places I’ve worked—a semi-eclectic mélange of pop from various decades and races, folk, soul, the occasional John Denver joint (not my thing but I guess I get it). When “Harvest Moon” would come on during the closing shift I’d get teary eyed and slow dance a little with the broom. When “Automatic” or Stevie came on I’d lip sync while shelving, and when we were blessed with the rare and treasured “Dancing Queen” appearance, I’d get on a stepstool and twirl slowly in a circle. The first key-tar chord of “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” made bratty customers vaguely more bearable. One of the tracks on repeat was The Zombies’ “She’s Not There”.
her voice was soft and cool
her eyes were clear and bright
but she’s not there
I didn’t hate it. It felt half trapped behind the wall of sound— a cross between the atmosphere of a dim, smoky club and that palatable British invasion pop.
One day my coworker and friend admitted he hated the song. I asked him why and he referred to the misogyny of the lyrics. I listened closer. The entitlement of the singer to the woman’s emotional interior became apparent to me. The suggestion that the singer was swindled into a bad deal, that the woman is a maneater leaving a trail of broken men in her wake.
her voice was soft and cool
her eyes were clear and bright
but she’s not there
There’s something strange about the juxtaposition of the woman’s present body and her supposed absence. That divide. There is a second self behind the woman’s clear, bright eyes that the Zombies have no access to.
Naturally, this dynamic is highly gendered, as my coworker first expressed. I thought of the amount of times I’ve been referred to as cold, or distant, or aloof, or even affectless by men. Double digits. Either maliciously or in an effort to get close. The feeling of terror when a man races toward anger at your indifference to him. The feeling of watching a love search behind your eyes for you, a sting.
her voice was soft and cool
her eyes were clear and bright
but she’s not there
I love More Life. You know this. “Ice Melts” is number 5 in my top 5 off that album. It’s so fun. I try not to listen to the lyrics, which is usually true of my mortifying devotion to Aubrey. These lyrics in particular are a 2017 iteration of the Zombies classic.
Drake’s coaxing-near-begging of his love interest to warm up to him, his contrast of her “icy” exterior with the tropical Jamaica climate truly makes the skin crawl. The title of the song is imbued with a certainty, a cockiness— just as ice melts, eventually I’ll wear you down. Drake attributes the woman’s lack of interest to another man “doing a number on her” but this attribution, true or false, is ultimately a projection. Somehow, just as the Zombies did, Drake must justify the woman’s noticeable disinterest in the context of hurt at the hands of other men. Neither of these women are tricking their suitors. They’re simply protecting themselves.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel tougher, but on days like today I feel it’s best that access to my secret, second self is limited or flat out denied. Because so often, when many men get close to women and the tender parts of ourselves are exposed, they hurt us, or take it for granted, or want more more more. Even to the point of our lack of safety. Those infinite hidden, protected selves must remain hidden, or only exposed in glimmers.
I suppose glimmers are a cautious start.