Boyz II Men II Grandpas

I saw Boyz II Men perform at the MGM in Boston the other night. Somehow I’m not engaged to any of the Boyz and am in fact still single and driving Uber. I’m just as surprised as you are.

Oh but the show was so good for the soul. I expected it would be, but I could not have imagined how restorative, how actually radical an act going to see a live performance of songs that colored all of my middle and high school years would be. At one point, Shawn Stockman told everyone to turn to the person on their left, and to the other on their right, and to tell them WE’RE GONNA HAVE A GREAT TIME TONIGHT. Which is the opposite of what we were all doing when we were swaying awkwardly at a junior high dance in a dusty gym to “On Bended Knee.” Restoration comes, sometimes three decades later.

The crowd looked like me, and by that I mean everyone in the crowd all once made mixtapes without a sense of irony. They all once called their home answering machine to see if their crush left them a message while they were out at the mall, eating Boardwalk Fries in the food court while their mom tried on shoes at Dillard’s. Or while their sister perused the stickers in Spencer’s Gifts. Or while their friend returned some flannel boxers to the Gap. The venue was filled with a diversity of people of every size, shape, color, and no doubt creed but we were all paying homage to the religion that was Motown Philly in the early 90s, when life wasn’t ruled by cellphone ringtones but rather by smoooooove riddems.

Boyz II Men lost its bass along the way, and I don’t mean they lost him to the grave or anything so dramatic. I just understand he no longer performs with the group. Still, the remaining trio were still strong performers. They were all still in great shape, they danced well, they sounded amazing.

Also, they were so unbelievably dorky. And I loved them for it. Because the songs they were singing were largely syrupy ballads, but they all still held up. They were never singing just about young love and fading crushes. They were always musicians with sophisticated vocal abilities. But the trio also weren’t putting out new songs, or doing new things. They were still trotting out “End of the Road” knowing there were no new roads to begin traveling. They had no ego about who they were, and why they mattered to all these Gen Xers gathered together for such a time as this. At the end of the show, the Boyz just lingered on stage. They didn’t need to sprint off to convince us all they were Tokyo-bound tomorrow morning. They just shook hands and slapped skin with the fans who had kept them crooning all these years.

They owned that this musical canon was their bread and butter and it endeared them to people around the world. I think that’s beautiful. They kept making jokes about everyone in the building needing to sit down, or not having the agility to clap, and how they didn’t have anything better to do for the next 33 years so they might as well do this. They all looked foiiiiine, so, trust, I still don’t know why they played up their elderly status. I also still don’t understand how I went home without at least one BoyzIIMan, but there are still a few weeks until Valentine’s. I’ll be accepting any and all mixtapes with a sprinkle of Boyz’ ballads.


Alanis has made amends with us about "Ironic"

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My manlove and I got to see “Jagged Little Pill” last weekend on Broadway. Shoutiest of shout-outs to Nana Red for watching the offspring over the weekend that we ran away from home.

Microreview: the show is very, very good. The talent on stage overfloweth, from choreography to song arrangement to the book, which was written by Diablo Cody. I wouldn’t say the musical is a timeless work of unparalleled brilliance, but the songs and dialogue hang together pretty seamlessly, the character portraits are interesting, and you leave feeling hopeful, with a whole new appreciation for the Alanis Morissette canon.

Oh, Alanis. You really cannot say the name “Alanis,” even 25 years after “Jagged Little Pill” dropped, without asking the rhetorical, “Isn’t it ironic?” And you would not be the first to crucify Canada’s songstress for what amounts to a variety of cliched couplets that completely misunderstand the very concept of irony, conflating these supposedly inconvenient and upsetting things that happen with something that is so tragically coordinated it, well, figurrrrrres.

The song was an instant banger when I was in high school in Ohio where on any given Friday night, my friends and I would be doing our very best white girl howls along to “Ironic” and “You Oughta Know” as if we had any kind of romantic history that even came close to meriting that brand of bitterness. It was such a big moment to own CDs that you played nonstop and shared and left in other people’s cars by accident because they had jimmied their portable CD player to their car stereo and weren’t we all just living that high tech lifestyle on wheels?

Since that time, CD players are practically obsolete in cars, and I no longer think LLBean barn coats are the height of fashion per the contract of every Catholic high schoolie in 1996. But I still think “ironic” is a banger even if the irony is ill-conceived.

And I think we should all treat it as “Jagged Little Pill” the musical does: as a miscalculation by a young writer. Just like people should stop asking Ali MacGraw what she meant when she said “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.“ She’s sorry, all right? And Rebecca Black would like to forget she knows anything about any day of the week.

Perhaps I’ve become some kind of apologist for white women who make regrettable art in their youth. Maybe I need to examine deeper the implications of that. But I’m here as a writer showing up to do my utmost to synthesize my best ideas with my best dedication to the page. Just don’t show me the unadulterated copy from ten years ago. Or five months ago. Or last week. We’re all works in progress but our art evolves. I’d like to think I give as much passage and permission for other women to groove on with their bad, evolving, artistic selves—as much as I would hope the same is granted for myself.