Skip to main content

The '80s Redux, '90s Got Next

Within every new decade, pop culture looks back 20 years. As we get closer to 2010, ‘80s nostalgia has reached its apotheosis. Look around. Lady Gaga is channeling not just Madonna, but the theatricality of Grace Jones with the spirit and hooks of Debbie Harry from Blondie. Atlanta’s Janelle Monae fashioned a robot persona to explain her music and stagecraft, a blend of techno, soul, and rock that seems like a foward-looking black spin on Talking Heads and David Bowie, who in the ‘80s was coming out of the elegant iciness of the Thin White Duke.


Edgy artist Santigold wears the day-glo colors and polka dots of ‘80s fashion with the door knocker earrings and asymmetrical hairstyles of early hip-hop circa Salt N Pepa, while her 2007 tune “Lights Out” is new age proto-punk surf pop, like the Go-Gos on acid.



Rihanna and Keri Hilson are rocking asymmetrical ‘dos right out of the ‘80s fashion playbook, while Dorothy Hamill wedge cuts and shredded T-shirt, straight-legged jeans and wide belts are in again. Kanye West is sporting skinny ties and everyone is wearing those giant white sunglasses that didn’t look good the first time.

It happened last decade as well. By the late ‘90s, culture was all about the ‘70s. We were rocking our bellbottoms and peasant blouses again, Afros and peace signs and smiley faces were back, and rappers were no longer the only ones ripping off classic ‘70s soul tunes to fashion new records, singers were too. So we’re on a roll with the double-decade about face.

The ‘80s were a whirlwind of self-discovery and change for me. I graduated from college in the second year of the decade, then spent three years working at youth and educational publisher Scholastic wearing Oxford cloth shirts, jacquard bow ties, padded-shoulder suits, baggie pants and kitten-heeled pumps. I started as a secretary and then graduated to reprint production editor, managing the production of several manuscripts at a time. In 1984, by a fluke, I was hired by Essence Magazine and the bow ties went out the window. By 1985, so did the Pat Benatar feathered hair. This was the first place I’d ever worked that was by, for, and about women of color. I began as the Careers editor, assigning stories about business survival strategies and educational paths, profiling business success stories and editing advice columns. I then moved to the Contemporary Living department, working with Harriette Cole. I met some great people. In addition to working for Susan Taylor and with Harriette, I also met Deborah Gregory (who wore fabulous Cheetah Girl prints even then), publicity mogul Terrie Williams, who was director of publicity, Keith Clinkscales, who was just starting his first magazine Urban Profile, and Nelson George, who wrote for Essence.

In 1986, I married a part-time musician. He was an avid Billboard reader, and I read it too, keeping up with Nelson’s column and the music industry. It was tough to make ends meet on my Essence pay so I left for an ill-advised three-month stint in the public information office at the New York City Housing Authority. It paid good money but I didn’t have a city employee mentality. My hubby showed me a NY Times want ad for a copyeditor at Billboard and I leaped. I sent my resume on a Monday, they called me in for a same-day interview on a Wednesday, and on Friday I had the job. Within a year I was promoted to head copyeditor and a year after that, when Nelson left his editor post, I campaigned to management and was named R&B editor in 1989. That year was all about new jack swing.

As 2009 segues into 2010, and a new decade begins, new jack swing is about to raise its head once more. Teddy Riley has reconciled with Aaron and Damian Hall and the Kings Of New Jack Swing tour is getting off the ground, and a new Guy album is due next year. Whitney Houston is back. Al B. Sure is back. Yep, it's gonna be the '90s again in a minute.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Notes On An Appendectomy

It's been two months since I underwent emergency surgery.  I'm absolutely fine. But an emergency is always a surprise. Here's my story:  It was the end of June. I was working online from home; it was a monthslong assignment that required daily 9-to-5 attention, and I was nearing the end of the bid. My stomach had been bad bad bad for quite a while. I was eating poorly (still am, essentially, but never mind), drinking too much, and stressed in my roles as paid online problem solver and unpaid parttime caregiver/lackey. My gut function was less than optimal.  For a couple of weeks I had noticed some abdominal cramping. These cramps did not feel like the period cramps I was tortured by in my 20s, 30s and 40s (which ceased once  I begged my ob-gyn for a sad but necessary surgery). No, these were more like muscle cramps, but stabbing me in my sides. At first I thought it was just evidence of more indigestion, more reflux, more physical complaints from my hyperactive diges...

Legacy

I am sitting in front of my TV, watching Michael Jackson’s golden coffin, bedecked with crimson flowers, as it is loaded into the hearse at the Forest Lawn Cemetery, just a few miles down the road from where I sit. It’s hitting me anew that this talented, conflicted entertainer will no longer be walking the earth in his velveteen loafers and military style jackets. I am both weary of the barrage of news coverage – Jackson doctors being investigated! Debbie Rowe decides not to attend public memorial! Battle over children to heat up! Estate wrested from Katherine Jackson! – and wholly riveted. The Staples Center memorial is getting underway half an hour later than anticipated. The golden-ticketed chosen gathering downtown are of all ages, all races, some dressed as for a funeral, others as for a concert. Roland Martin on CNN is saying that you can go to any club in America, and anyone young or old, white or black -- even the toughest gangbanger -- cannot stand still in the face of “You ...

Bittersweet Memories ….

Whitney Houston: An Alternate View From the beginning she was the embodiment of duality: Sweet yet sensual, young yet old, pop yet R&B, gritty yet sophisticated. Who could successfully balance these opposites without verging on schizophrenia? The world is bidding farewell to songbird Whitney Houston, who left us much too soon. Her passing at the age of 48 is so tragic, ironic, and awful that even these words can’t encompass it. Her voice was a gift to the world, a force so powerful that whole generations of singers owe a debt to her shimmering mix of gospel feeling and pop precision. She had seen the pinnacle of success through adulation, awards, applause, and admiration. She had also endured the deepest recesses of hell due to addiction, abuses, failed expectations, troubled relationships, and public ridicule. I mourn for her passing, and pray for her family, friends, and fans – all of those who loved her. I first became aware of Whitney Houston in the mid ‘80s via ...