Sara ♥ Planned Parenthood
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
The Blood On Sara Bareilles' Hands
Well, it took me many dozens of hours to get all the cuts in the right place, and I’m still having second thoughts on the syncing of certain shots with the audio, but I finally finished editing this music video for a game I have not played set to a song I no longer want to hear. By and large I think it looks pretty good, though I leave it with a complicated mix of feelings encompassing pride and relief and a lot of sorrow, sorrow that so much beauty can be so tainted by such a bounty of violence and ugliness. And I’m not talking about the Teen-rated video game.
There was a time about a year ago when Sara Bareilles was one of my favorite musicians of the ten I paid any attention to whatsoever. This was long before I sold my soul to become a hipster and listen to real music, but I suppose I’d still really like Bareilles’ albums if I forced myself to consciously, deliberately listen through them as I once did before. She’s the rare, radio-friendly artist in today’s world who not only writes, plays, and sings all her own songs but also performs just as impressively live all by herself as on a record accompanied by a dozen producers and engineers. Each of her three studio albums has a flavor distinct from the last, with Little Voice sounding kind of retro and jazzy in a way I more than tolerate as a hater of all things jazz (except the nighttime sections of ODST), Kaleidoscope Heart going in fun, doo-wopey and piano-driven pop directions, and The Blessed Unrest nicely overhauling her traditional style with ambient electronic hums, beats, and even some country influences. All are excellent albums in their own right, and it should be clear to anyone who’s read this blog for a while that her wide-ranging lyrics have deeply influenced my editorial philosophy. Bareilles is just as precise a lyricist as she is a vocalist, and songs such as Brave, Chasing the Sun, Islands, King of Anything, and Love Song are arrayed with profundities on the individual and barely restrained F.U.s to the figures and machines that think they know what’s best for everybody else.
So too did I appreciate the way Bareilles molded her public image, which was simply not to try to make an image by any means available. Bareilles didn’t rely on a bunch of outrageous concert/awards show stunts, smutty fashion shoots, extravagant personas, or accessory boyfriends to sell her art; she just let the music speak for itself and people flocked to it. She wasn’t what some people – not myself, mind you, but other more misogynistic, Christian, Focks News-watching bigot people – might call a “whorebag”, and she mostly just focused on crafting exceptional music rooted in strong traditions. In addition to singing variable and emotional renditions of her own music, she also covered classics by Elton, U2, and Otis Redding, which demonstrated an understanding of her historical position and respect for the greats who preceded her.
Nor was she that much of a political stooge for the Left compared to pop music peers Katy Perry, Beyonce, Adam Levine, John Legend, and, well, basically all the rest. Sure, Brave as written was intended to be one of the gayest songs of all time, but that didn’t preclude dangerous, independent, unregulated journalists like your own Author from finding inspiration in its lyrics. Regardless, one has to applaud a mainstream artist for having the audacity to write a mainstream song that has a line like, “Show me how big your brave is.” I thought it was kind of silly the way she tried to shoehorn a very stereotypically homosexual couple into her not-at-all-political music video for I Choose You, but that song sucked anyway and it wasn’t like she straight-up called me a bigot, so it didn’t offend me much. I realize that if I were to draw my moral line in the sand at some creator’s support for homosexuality, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy much entertainment media at all. As of Friday last week, I’d also have quite a bit of difficulty going shopping, using my credit card, making a phone call, logging into social media, turning on my computer in the first place, eating fast food, traveling by air, or engaging in any other activity that defines our modern life, but that’s a blog post for another time in the near future. The point is that Sara Bareilles’ loyalty to the Democrat agenda wasn’t always fervent or forceful enough to deter me from enjoying her music, which is more than I can say of a heap of filmmakers, “artists”, and comedians who routinely run their mouths on matters they don’t understand.
Then this picture happened in October 2014. This smiley, happy, irresistibly optimistic ode to infanticide, sexual perversion, fiscal dependency, and chronic corruption. It was the kind of strikingly asinine, blissfully ignorant portrait a validation-hungry, relativistic college idiot would upload for the sake of showing off how much more virtuous and “courageous” he is than the world he’s so tirelessly “fighting” to reform. But Sara Bareilles isn’t an idealistic, self-enamored student happening to live in the digital era; she’s a 35-year-old, accomplished grown-up who should by this point have developed a tenable, philosophically consistent moral conscience. The picture doesn’t simply argue to the contrary; it argues that Bareilles is devoid of any moral judgment whatsoever and shows just how meaningless her facades of compassion and love for all people really are.
Now whenever I listen to Sara Bareilles’ music, I can only think about the unborn, the unwanted, the innocent millions who’ve been crushed, poisoned, decapitated, ripped apart and vacuumed from the uterus. I think about Planned Parenthood’s flagrant disregard of parents’ rights to raise their children as they see fit, their systematic facilitation of murder without parental consent or knowledge, and their unabashed promotion of deviant sexual practices to minors. I think about Planned Parenthood giving advice and promising help to whistleblowers posing as sex traffickers of underage girls, and I think about their repeated failure to report rape and sexual abuse disclosed by young and vulnerable clients, both proving that they care markedly less about the wellbeing of “the women they serve” than about their own sustainability as a business dependent on misfortune. I think about Planned Parenthood’s eugenicist founder Margaret Sanger and her endorsement of birth control and forced sterilization as a methodology for gradually eliminating the lesser, feebler-minded races – a woman for whom “reproductive freedom” didn’t mean the freedom to reproduce so much as freedom from reproductive capability. I think about the millions of confused, weak, or desperate women Planned Parenthood has taken advantage of for profit, sometimes at the cost of the mother’s own life. I think about Planned Parenthood’s propensity for lying about its expenses to paint itself as a “health care provider” instead of a taxpayer-funded slaughterhouse that butchers hundreds of thousands of infants every year, with the holy blessing of the president of the United States of America.
I think about all these things and think I’ll never be able to listen to that inhuman, odious hag Sara Bareilles again until she’s rolled over and gone the route of child predator Michael Jackson, another, all but indisputably better pop genius whose music I might have considered boycotting in his life but I now indulge and relish if only because he’s no longer a threat to anybody and has safely vacated the sphere of this our world. Gone to heaven, hell, Valhalla. Passed on to that great recording studio in the sky. Croaked his final swan song. Shall we say, aborted?
There’s a lot of blood on the floor, but none of it was spilt by Michael Jackson.