The Go Go's are in town commemorating the 25th anniversary of "Beauty and the Beat," their debut album, which included the classics "Our Lips Are Sealed" and "We Got the Beat." Yesterday, they were on the TODAY SHOW's Summer Concert Series (photo below) bright and early, making nice w/ Katie Couric, who claimed she felt like "the 6th Go Go." Fuck you, Katie. You wish. They also had a gig how at the Nokia Theater and I went. If the Go Go's were reading Shakespeare at the NYC Transit Museum, I'd go.
They looked fanastic. Though time has been kinder to some (Belinda and Jane still look fresh and perky) than others (Gina Shock's deteriorated into a soccer Mom/linebacker, and Charlotte Caffey might as well have eascaped from the set of The Dark Crystal), those bitches can still rock. In 25 years, they haven't changed their schtick a lick. Belinda's moves are timeless and the clap above the head during "Head Over Heels" will live in infamy. And I'm standing there dancing like a white chick, too, because, well, I learned it by watching them. They played Beauty and The Beat in its entirety and blasted a few other classics, too. The crowd sang Happy Birthday to Jane in a touching show of emotion. Toward the end, they did one of my faves, "Throw Me A Curve, " from their 2001 release, "God Bless the Go Go's." It's a little ditty that celebrates the bodies of real women, not the size 0s of the world. The lyrics go, "Throw me a curve and I'll show you mine." While singing this line, Belinda bent over and wiggled her ass for a throng of adoring fans. I had a major flashback.
At 1537 S. Circle Lane in Palatine, IL you could walk up to the second floor of the Ennis family home, make a hard right and open the door to Shannon's room. From 1987 - 1990 the light blue walls were covered with magazine articles, pictures, posters, a ticket stubb or two, advertisements for Agree shampoo and L.A. Gear sneakers. It was my shrine to Belinda Carlisle. While my other friends bleached their jeans and began their trashy heavy metal whore days, I immersed myself in all things Belinda. Scoff to your heart’s content, but I loved that woman.
In the summer of 1986, she released her first solo single, “Mad About You.” I bought the ’45 and played it until the grooves wore thin. The video featured a newly slim Belinda dancing on a beach telling the world that she was “mad about you, lost in your eyes, mad about love, you and I.” I’m not sure if I was drawn to her passing resemblance to Ann Margaret, the way she looked in the passenger seat of that convertible with her head tossed back all vulnerable and coy or the oversized black turtleneck, but I was hooked.
By the time she released the “Heaven on Earth,” I was a full-fledged psychopath. Her tapes were the only thing I played, and when Mom finally bought a CD player, “Heaven” was the first silver disk I owned. If Belinda was on “The Tonight Show,” I taped it. If “Entertainment Tonight” did a segment about how she kept in shape riding a mountain bike, I taped that, too and went right out and bought myself a Trek. My life was an ongoing Belindafest. The covers of every magazine she graced were taped to my walls. I even spent a few days at the local library doing Nexus searches on her and the Go Go’s until I spent my allowance on Xerox copies of old ‘Rolling Stone’ articles. If perchance you’re not really getting the picture, I will confess that when MTV held a contest that promised they’d broadcast from YOUR HOUSE if yours was the winning postcard and guaranteed a performance by none other than the object of my obsession, Renee Gorski and I addressed nearly 200 postcards to 1515 Broadway in the hopes of hosting the event.
My devotion didn’t weaken when “Leave A Light On” failed to match the success of “Heaven.” I continued to buy everything she put on the market. A collection of music videos? Got it. A tape of her ‘Heaven on Earth’ concert live? Got it. Shit, I even bought “Live Your Life Be Free” the week it was released. Her son should call me and say Thank You for his braces and college education.
We moved my Sophomore year and the shrine had to come down. I transferred it to a scrapbook, though. We'd been in the new house only a week when Belinda popped up on 'The Arsenio Hall Show' and announced she was pregnant. She glowed and told Arsenio how much she loved Freddie Mercury and explained that the AIDS public service material in her liner notes was her way of telling the music industry, "Hey, this disease is a killer." What a crusader! My Little Belinda Teresa. Needless to say, I hightailed it to Second Hand Tunes and bought a shitload of Queen. But by the time I graduated high school, I’d sort of given up on her. She wasn’t on the charts anymore and didn’t get any rotation from radio stations. I was forced into being a closet fan. Loyal still, but hidden.
I had no idea that what I felt for Belinda all those years was a burgeoning lust. I just figured I really, really, really liked her, you know, as an artist. Damn, what a lame excuse for a latent case of lesbo love! Eh. My every teenaged desire was fulfilled when she posed for ‘Playboy.’ I put my cash on the counter for that puppy with no shame in my heart. Oddly enough, seeing her spread, the centerfold I’d fantasized about, gave me closure. Having the whole kit and caboodle laid out before my 20 something eyes helped doust the fire that raged for over a decade. But last night as she bent over in her little black slip skirt, it all came rushing back. I’d have given my left tit to run up to that stage and grab, grab, grab. Seriously, I scanned that booty for panty lines and everything! I’ll always feel the magic.
Te amo, Belinda. Je t'aime toujours!
posted by Shannon E. Ennis at
