In Praise of Pink

I was never a huge fan of Pink.

I had nothing against the public persona of Alecia Moore, or the music she produced. But she was never my favorite. Her first single “There You Go” came out in 2000. It was sassy and catchy, but its popularity caused it to fade into background noise. It became a song that I only half-heard playing on the radio, or faintly emanating from speakers at the mall. Meanwhile, I was eleven years old. Anyone who has ever been or parented an adolescent girl understands the precipice I was on better than I did at the time.

                The following year brought the album Missundaztood. The lead single “Get this party started” was such a staple of middle school dances that to this day it inspires a self-conscious Pavlovian sweat. Songs like “Don’t Let me Get Me” spoke to the oddballs and misfits, and while I considered myself one of their number, I didn’t pay much attention. By high school my friends were getting into more obscure “indie” music, and I struggled to keep up. Oddball allegiance aside, Pink was decidedly mainstream. I filed her away with all of the other top-40 sellouts.

                As my adolescent angst darkened into depression, Pink was not among the female singer-songwriters I turned to for guidance. I felt that my experience was better vocalized by the likes of Cat Power, Joanna Newsom, and Amanda Palmer. The appeal of these gifted, quirky songstresses was enhanced by their lack of mainstream success. How could someone whose face was everywhere, who dominated the airwaves and made millions, understand the alienation of an anonymous high school girl? And even if I did find myself liking her music, I could hardly respond to a friend’s monologue about her vinyl collection with “hey, what do you think of that new Pink song?”

                By my twenties I was enjoying pop music again, or had become comfortable enough with myself to admit that I’d enjoyed it all along. In the meantime, a whole generation of luminaries had cycled through. Wide eyed hopefuls had been afforded their moment in the sun, a half dozen American Idol winners had fizzled out, and a few former goddesses had fallen from grace. Pink, however, was still going strong. She’d been steadily producing the entire time. She was still making it fun to say “no” (“U + Ur Hand is the kind of brazen candor we still need more of in pop music), and encouraging the weirdos of the world to unite and party. But she’d also dealt with a lot of heavier material like family dysfunction, substance abuse, sexuality, and body image.

                Then, somewhere along the line, Pink started incorporating aerial acrobatics into her performances. Most marathon pop stars rely on other people’s talent to keep their live shows feeling fresh. They wear increasingly elaborate costumes, and perform the same basic dance routines against a rotating backdrop of sets. All around them, a younger and more talented cohort of backup dancers deliver the really demanding moves. But Pink went another route, committing to a whole new art form that requires intense training and athleticism. I first saw her skill at the 2010 Grammy Asards. But I didn’t really take notice until the 2014 Grammy when she delivered her single “Try” in similar death-defying form.

                I liked the song “Try” so I looked up the video. It features a seriously ripped Pink sparring with a seriously ripped male counterpart. The two engage in gorgeously aggressive dance-fighting – as sexy as it is stylized. Pink is a perfect match for her partner. When he throws her down, we know that she will bounce back up and retaliate. The choreography represents a turbulent romance – but not an abusive or domineering one. Whatever they do to each other, they do as equals.  

                             To me, this video acknowledges the complexity of hetero-love without edging the woman into the role of powerless victim or cold-blooded she-devil. Pink herself was in peak physical condition. But she didn’t look like she was keeping it tight to retain a man’s attention, or fit into her size-2 skinny jeans. She looked like she was pushing herself to be strong, so that she could endure and thrive. I asked myself when Pink became so cool. Which led me to look back over last fourteen years of her career and realize (like the dumbfounded detective at the end of the crime-thriller) that the answer had been right under my nose the whole time: Pink has always been so cool.

                             Let’s revisit the year 2000 for a moment. Her first album was defiantly called “Can’t Take me Home.” This was a year when the Britneys and Christinas of the world were exploiting their barely-legal allure with coy references to their own burgeoning, untapped sexuality. Female pop songs were invitations. Then Pink hit the Billboard charts with an unequivocal “NO.” As her contemporaries perfected the seduction of girlish indecision, Pink dealt in absolutes. In doing so, she told young women: It’s OK to want what you want. And it’s OK to not want what you don’t want.

                             Over the next fourteen years, she’s come out with a total of 6 albums. The most recent, “The Truth About Love” is aptly titled. Throughout my recent personal Pink retrospective, I’ve been struck by how honest this woman is. She’s truthful about love. And she’s truthful about herself, remaining confident even when facing her demons head on. She speaks her mind. She respects, but is still able to laugh at herself. She is proudly flawed and fearless. I’m glad she has a daughter.

                             Meanwhile, I have faced down my own demons. I have learned that becoming a woman is hard, but that being a woman is worth it. And for the most part, I think that eleven year old girls today have a better selection of mainstream female singers to look up to. The teasing, the pouting, the breathy ballads of devotion have been widely replaced by full-bodied declarations of powerful, libidinous womanhood. I believe that Pink is partly responsible for this positive shift. I also suspect that my own formative years benefitted subliminally from her songs playing in the background. I don’t know how much she’s helped. But it’s gotten better, and she’s been there the whole time. So I want to say: thank you, Pink. Rock on.