Would You buy These Woman?

Would You buy These Woman?

And Of not, Would You Rent?

FEATURES

David Sprague

by

"Put women in front of a microphone and something happens to them. They become affected, overdramatic, high-pitched. Some turn sultry and sexy. Others turn patronizing, pseudo-charming.”

—Unnamed NBC executive New York Times, May 24, 1964

And to think this guy was faced with dames as harmless as Connie Francis. What he’d do nigh on a quarter-century later, now that the lipsticked pout’s spawned a radio

format, countless lines of clothing, and boosted shampoo sales to new heights, is a frightening prospect. Maybe he’d be indicted for machete-killing a family of possums. Maybe he’d merely turn to New Age philosophy and George Winston records. It’s hard to guess, but it just goes to show that a prophet really does go unrecognized in his own time.

Over the past year, women have dominated the charts more brutally than at any time in my 24 years on this I’il blue planet. Madonna, Tiffany, Belinda Carlisle, Whitney Houston, Jody Watley, Lisa Lisa—the list, while not endless, gets a little boring to type after a while. But with MTV showing no signs of breaking its in-depth coverage of these pop tarts, and the continued spiral of Madonna-clone “hot radio,” it looks like the rest of 1988 may well hold even more gold for this new breed of songbirds.

The truth is not sexist. With the exception of Madonna, none of these women is more than a voice propped up by staffs of managers, producers, engineers and songwriters. All can be classified as Mr. NBC did in 1964, and all—probably glad for their 15 minutes of fame—are movie-star distant. Make no mistake: the operational word is star.

1988 finds three of these ladies forming a trinity of sorts. Madonna Ciccone, Belinda Carlisle and Tiffany Darwisch are a veritable Mother, Daughter and Manger Child of Pop. A cause for concern? Maybe. A phenomenon to study? Probably. A reason to visit Tiffany’s hometown—to get the real story?

Now you’re talkin’!

IN SEARCH OF. . .

The chamber of commerce in Norwalk, California (when in town be sure and see the nice folks at 12040 Foster Road; they’ll give you plenty of maps and stuff) seems fairly aware of Tiffany’s existence, even if her house isn’t on the landmark map just yet. But Taco Bell cashiers and barmaids at the Comet Lounge—logical consumers of all things Tiff, you’d think—sure don’t. Firsthand experience shows a shocking lack of Tiffany consciousness among Norwalk’s 87,000 residents, who—considering they have no professional sports team or worldfamous religious artifact-should really be more enthusiastic. Downey, a town due west, has honored their beloved Carpenters time and again.

Maybe they could rename Leffingwell Road “Darwisch Road.” Yeah, that has a ring. But then they’d have to rename the Leffingwell Christian Academy for its most renowned alumnus (well, technically, she’s still enrolled...).

Tiffany’s school, like most Californian institutions, sprawls leisurely over a couple of acres, offering plenty of parking for students’ cars (there are many) and loads of outdoor space for potential illicit activities I only dreamed of as an inner-city Cleveland lad. Leffingwell, however, is a Christian school, so the pursuits are pretty wholesome. Surrounded by such purity, anyone would be intimidated. Even my travelling companion, after yanking a Marlboro from his omnipresent pack, fights off the nicotine urge, muttering ”1 can’t smoke here!”

And Tiffany would want it that way, Steve.

Indeed, the spectre of the Inland Empire’s reigning pop goddess hangs heavy over the softball field. There’re few Guess jeans in evidence (seems there’s a dress code of some sort), but the milling bodies seem ideally designed for such togs. Here for background on Tiffany The Schoolkid, I’m overcome by the same shyness around 16-year-old girls that prevented me from asking ’em out while a pube myself. I try to decide which gaggle looks harmless enought to intercept. Steve, of course, is no help.

”l knew I should’ve shaved,” he sighs. “And you look pretty seedy yourself.”

That seems to be the general opinion of the eyebrow-cocking teacher-types in the compound, too. We begin to worry about the prospect of spending the night in the Nonwalk City Jail on trespassing charges (private school = private property) and debate the chances that the publisher’ll bail us out. We decide a beer at the Comet would go down right nice.

“Hey, are you guys, urn, looking for somebody?” pipes up a Valley Girl voice to our left.

“Uh, yeah,” I reply rather wittily. “Tiffany.”

“Oh! She’s not here today. She’s sick,” comes the reply. “Well, she’s not sick. She’s not here. She’s, uh, out!”

HELL BENT FOR LERNER’S

Tiff’s way out, as a matter of fact. She’s so far out she’s in—in Munich, Germany, that is. In the midst of her first European tour, she confesses to disappointment at the lack of shopping malls. But, by Tiffany s own assessment, there s no lack of comprehension on the part of the locals.

“Even if they don’t understand exactly what I’m saying,” she offers, “they understand the beat, right?”

Judging by the success of her so-cuteit-might-just-be-art version of “I Think We’re Alone Now” and the more MOR strains of the follow-up “Could’ve Been,” it seems safe to assume the beat is understood. As we go to press, Tiffany’s debut LP, cannily titled Tiffany, is also poised atop Billboard’s LP chart. This is no mean feat for a teenaged girl. In fact, Tiff’s the first of the breed to ever hit #1, LP-wise (Brenda Lee, also 16 at the time, peaked at #4 in 1960). It’s a state of affairs Tiffany credits to the—in her words— “like, different kinds of things on the record.”

“I didn’t want to be limited as a dance artist or a ballad artist or a rock (!) artist,” she says. “So at my concerts, I see people who are wearing Motley Crue T-shirts and people who listen to classical music (must be those Tchaikovsky T-shirts—Ed.) and grandmothers bringing their grandkids, and I feel good about that.

“I attract all kinds of people,” she adds proudly. “That’s what my producer’s goal is. And also my goal.”

Her producer, George Tobin, is also her manager. And, together with MCA exec Larry Sorters, he’s probably the man most responsible for unleashing the storm which is Tiffany on America. Sorters came up with the idea for the Shopping Mall Tour, which marketed Tiffany (to use Sorters’s own analogy) in the manner of “Revlon and Toyota” among the Benettons and J.C. Penneys of America.

The idea, Sorters told Billboard, was hatched with the help of a friend who works for a company called the Shopping Center Network. Said friend maintained that it “might be a problem if Tiffany were perceived as rock ’n’ roll.” But Sorters put an end to such speculation by insisting “she’s America’s sweetheart; clean-faced, cute...” And so the Mall Tour went off fine, with Tiffany singing to backing tracks.

That’s right. The #1 album in the country and she has yet to perform with a band. So much for perceiving Tiffany as rock ’n’ roll.

SOONER

Belinda Carlisle also doesn’t want to be perceived as rock ’n’ roll these days, or so it seems. Her tres chic wardrobe (useful when attending Republican fund-raisers) and a press kit that highlights the words “sophisticated,” “stylized” and “Madonna” speak volumes. More on that last one later. There’s a curious (maybe not so curious if you've ever spoken to Belinda, which I haven't-more on that later) skein here. The fact that there's a cover photo of Ms. Carlisle in the package, but not the accompanying story, might imply that Belinda can’t quite hold her own in an interview situation. If you’re into implications. Hmmmm.

When the Go-Go’s collapsed some four years ago amidst broken liquor bottles and broken furniture, insiders predicted the bleakest future for Belinda. As the nonwriting, non-playing member of the band, she was pretty expendable. Her post GoGo’s solo debut followed suit: aside from “Mad About You,” which a was a modest hit, things were pretty bleak. But after slimming down, accepting Republican doctrine and hooking up with schlock producer Rick Nowels, her fortunes... changed. Suddenly, a sanitized version of L.A.’s punk-rock sweetheart was everywhere—from shmoozin’ with Merv to shampooin’ with Agree.

LATER

Since Belinda Carlisle is supposed to be one of the major players in this story, I figured it’d be a good idea to talk to her. It’s really not so weird—we do it with lots of folks all the time. The idea struck Belinda’s record company as totally off-thewall.

Belinda s really not doing any print interviews,” I was told, feeling the secondclass citizen we literati truly are. “She’s concentrating on TV and radio.”

Dandy. Let’s try another route... let’s call back and talk to someone else. And start by mentioning what a good interview Tiffany was, but...

“I really need to talk to Belinda. Or would you rather have her left defenseless? Only kidding!”

"Um, I’ll see what I can do.”

The days go by. The record company isn’t taking my calls. They do send me a Gladys Knight album. Finally, the publicist calleth.

"Hi, I’ve got some good news,” the publicist enthuses. "Belinda might be willing to talk to you!”

Golly.

"But first tell me what kind of questions you’re going to ask.”

Holy First Amendment! Just the usual things people wanna know about Lucky B’lindy. Car repair tips and stuff.

"No, really. Give me a sample question you’re thinking of asking her. Her management needs to know these things.”

Funny that no one else’s management has ever "needed” to know such things from me before. But I make one up, and the (becoming rather harried) publicist is satisfied.

When Belinda’s manager, Ron Stone, calls personally, he wants to know why we want to talk to Belinda. What is it with these people? Before I can answer, Ron has to take an urgent call from the lady herself. He asks to call back in five minutes, which he does.

"Sorry, but Belinda’s really impatient, and you can’t keep her waiting,” he explains. "We’ve got a meeting later on and I had to make sure she knew where she was going. As soon as I accomplished that, I called back.”

We talk Belinda. The possibility of Belinda being on the cover of CREEM along with Madonna. This makes Ron Stone very happy.

"I’d love for people to think of them in the same context,” he says eagerly. "Madonna is about as good as it gets. I’m not talking artistic quality here, I’m talking from a manager’s point of view.”

Ron talks from that point of view a lot. He compares his charge to Whitney Houston and Madonna, but gets a trifle uneasy when names like Tiffany enter the conversation. “I don’t want Belinda and Tiffany and, what’s the other one... Debbie Gibson? I don’t want her put in that 12-year-old little girl context.” (We don’t talk about the #1 album in the country context.)

Ron isn’t saying this to me, but to the (rather uncomfortable) publicist whose job is representing both songbirds. In our conversation, Ron’s a little more blunt. "If Tiffany is on the cover, we won’t be doing the interview.” Apparently unaware that I only wanted to talk to one of them, he continues: “Madonna, Belinda and Whitney Houston? Fine. Madonna, Belin-

"It might be a problem If Tiffany were perceived as rock 7T roll. ”

—Shopping Center network spokesman

da and somebody else... but not Tiffany.”

Well, gee, thinks the editorial staff as one, how can we keep everyone happy? That’s what we sit around agonizing over, as you all probably know. Keeping ’em all off the cover seems like the best solution. So we do it.

And Ron is happy—so happy he says I can talk to Belinda. The next day everything changes. Apparently concerned that Belinda might be grilled about some of her past statements (e.g., "We only have one President and I think we should all stand behind him” [there were days she couldn’t stand behind Meat Loaf]) or that their inquiries might stray toward her conservative politico hubby Morgan Mason, the third-hand info that the interview is cancelled comes my way. Ron Stone won’t answer my calls.

I can only speculate why... perhaps it is the Republican connection. Or maybe Belinda doesn’t want to discuss the days when, hair dyed blue, she "spat on Valley Girls” and tried out for a notorious punk combo, the Germs. Or maybe her weight loss regimen is off-limits. Could it simply be she knows her latest LP, Heaven On Earth, is a dead ringer for the Smurfs Christmas Album, and makes Up With People sound like badass rockin’ dudes in comparison—and she’s hiding in shame... ?

GIRL OR LAMP?

Luckily, 16-year-old Tiffany can fend for herself, and talks willingly about her meteoric rise (though MCA Records objects to the grizzled vet being called "an overnight success”). She’s not uncomfortable addressing the fact that she’s merely the voice on her million-selling disc.

"It could very well be that I am just a singer,” she admits. "Maybe one day I could write my material, but for me to say I want to write and produce my own rec-

ords now is kind of out of the question. I’d like to learn to write. But if it doesn’t come naturally, I won’t do it. I look at people like Elvis Presley and Barbra Streisand, who don’t write their own material, and it doesn’t make any difference to their fans.

"My manager, George, who also produces me, is very open,” she continues. “He doesn’t speak to me on the level of ‘You’re 16, so let me do everything and don’t ask any questions.’ That’s not it at all.”

So exactly how involved were you in the making of Tiffany?

"I didn’t tell them what to do. Rather,

I didn’t tell him—I only had one producer—what to do, but I gave my opinion. That doesn’t necessarily mean my opinion is right or wrong. If I said ‘George,

I rilly hate this,’ he’d go ‘Alright, chuck it.’

"But if it was something he really felt strongly about, he’d make me try it,” she explains. "If I did and I still hated it, he’d say ‘Listen to it more than once or twice and maybe you’ll accept it.’ And usually that happened. At the end, I’d end up going ‘Well, it’s not one of my favorites, but it’s a good song.’ ”

And, despite what many consider to be an obvious comparison, Tiffany doesn’t feel her success puts her in direct competition with the grande dame of dancin’ fools—the reigning Ranee of hot radio ... Madonna.

“That’s so weird. People always point that out, but I think we have totally different styles. I enjoy her music, and I’ve probably learned from her... but I’m just the All-American girl next door. And I think kids can relate to that, maybe more than they can to Madonna.”

SPEAKING OF WHOM. . .

Madonna, to the bulk of aspiring divas out there, is the pinnacle. Sure, there’re plenty of guys who might like to pull on a pair of lederhosen and give her a climb, too, but let’s consider her impact (both "artistically” and financially) on this business of marketing chicks. Sexism? Maybe, but not on my part. These females are marketing themselves (or, more accurately, being marketed) as throbbing pieces of sexual protoplasm. From teens like Lisa Lisa to pensioneers like Tina Turner, these solo songstresses, no matter how “independent” they’re trumpeted as being, sell themselves with their hips. After a while, it’s enough to make you nostalgic for Joni Mitchell or Judy Collins or anybody with any sense of decorum. Or, more accurately, for Patti Smith or Grace Slick: women with a little direction in their hormones. Women not afraid to go out in public sans push-up bra.

Admittedly, the blame can’t be laid fully at Madonna’s stilettoed feet. You can trace the “sex as a weapon” theory back to Clara Bow in the teens, but that whole thang was supposed to be over ’n’ done with after women started picking guitars up for themselves around the turn of the ’70s. No, I’m not forgetting about the Shaggs, but “My Boyfriend’s Back”—for better or worse—cut a lot deeper into the teen psyche than “My Pal Foot-Foot.” Just like, in nineteen eighty-and-eight, Belinda Carlisle’s latest comes off just shallow and contrived enough to satisfy the lowest common denominator more than We’ve Got A Fuzzbox.

With the exception of Madonna, though, it’s all a con. These women (and I wanna point out that the way-virginal Ms. Darwisch doesn’t fall under the satiny sheet of sexploitation) are, primarily, actresses. With varying degrees of success, they take the lines they’re given and read/sing them exactly as they’re told. And when one (Jody Watley, f’rinstance)

achieves a modicum of success, you can be sure there’ll be a lingerie store full of xeroxes. The immediate backwash of Madonna’s initial chart-toppers was the most flotsam-heavy. Bananarama, Princess, Alisha (remember the horrendous “Baby Talk”?) and the Canteloupe Twins—E.G. Daily and Sam Fox.

So why is Madonna different? Pretty simple—she’s done it herself.

From her first donning of multiple crucifixes (while she was still a hirsute punk rock drummer with a part-time nude modelling gig) through her ersatz Monroe preening, Madonna’s dressed exactly the way she’s wanted to dress. OK, she’s a big girl, that shouldn’t be a big deal. But there’s more. Her days sleeping with (don’t get your hopes up, folks...) a roomful of studio equipment while a starving artiste didn’t go to waste. She learned to use stuff. She’s written some pretty fair songs, too. And, yes, there are talented folks who’ve never written a song in their lives, but for it to be more OK to accept total fluff from women just because they’re women is.. .well, sexist. ©