LORDE

Not so long ago, Sir Edmund Hillary, conqueror of Everest, was the most famous New Zealander, beating out such early contenders as Bob Fitzsimmons, Ernest Rutherford and Katherine Mansfield. Hillary was the only New Zealander to be included in Clive James book on Fame in the Twentieth century published in 1993. Hillary was (possibly) temporarily pushed off the pinnacle of Kiwi world eminence by Peter Snell but more lastingly by Sir Peter Jackson.

Until a few short months ago.

But now, thanks to the power of the Grammy and the notoriously capricious adulation of the young, Lorde is probably the most famous citizen of Aotearoa. She is living history, and a Google tap on her US version of Royals sees her approaching a quarter of billion hits and rising. (Up five million in two days!) Her success has effortlessly surpassed all her recent sometime NZ female pop star rivals such as Bic Runga, Brooke Fraser, Ladyhawke, Gin Wigmore and Kimbra.

What is striking about Lorde is how old-fashioned she looks. Resembling a portrait photographed by Julia Margaret Cameron who specialised in Victorian portraits of both famous and unknown people between 1863-75, the teenager’s face is framed by full-bodied, impressively bedraggled hair suggesting a weekend spent in tornado alley at the wrong time. On stage, she looks moody, even vampirish – a sword & sorcery witch – deploying black and white intensity, dressing from head to foot in dark apparel that hides her youthful figure. Lorde is mysterious, almost pre-Raphaelite, the embodiment of the non-frivolous. Hers is the glamour of the vampire – the dark side of Romanticism, the opposite of the sunny girly Katy Perry. Quite possibly Lorde is beautiful but her makeup and her presentation makes this question secondary. The videos of her two big hits Royals and Team written large on grey cities, dingy bedrooms, and smashed up building sites exude urban depression and gloom, her voice mournful, plaintive. A new kind of blues?  While her voice is not the most polished, varied or powerful in the business, the tone of its pathos wins you over to her cause. Whatever that may be.

Lorde conveys the impression she is camera shy, yet confident. Without actually looking old, she seems more mature than the young 17 (as of early 2014) she actually is. Then there are the curious hand gestures. What are the gestures telling us? It’s difficult to say. Perhaps the hand is trying to sculpt some elusive immaterial material, an invisible ectoplasm (which eludes, though probably was sought by, the camera gaze of Ms Cameron). Are her twisting fingers the signature gestures of some new form of avant-garde theatre? Or a grope for meaning – which, alas, will never prove graspable. All part of the attraction, presumably. The mystery of Lorde is not in what we see but what it means, or hints at.

Like the Goths or the Pre-Raphaelites of whom visually she is a marginal cousin, Lorde looks like someone too serious for sunlight. One surmises her body is tan-less. And if you doubt the pre-Raphaelite comparison have a look at The Lady of Shalott by John William Waterhouse or Bocca Baciata by Gabriel Dante Rossetti. (On line discovery: you can acquire the Pre-Raphaelite look by braiding the hair when half dry and let it dry before taking it down. And if this fails, there is the triple barrel curling iron, guaranteed to produce the desired effect.)

Whereas, at this late date, a waterfall of hair doesn’t register as the sexually charged image which it did in the Victorian era, it still signifies a powerful icon of femininity. Daringly, in Tennis Court, her hair is tied up in head-hugging braids and the visual is her face only – almost a record in minimalism. And, of course, there is the voice - haunting rather than strident, possessing the timbre of someone singing in a cave or from the bottom of a well. More echoes of the Gothic?

What do the songs mean? The lyrics of Royals express a strident denunciation of ostentatious wealth and appeal to the masses (that is, most of us) who will never own diamonds, Cadillacs, islands, tigers etc and of course are never going to be royals - either by virtue of wealth or birth. Thank you, Joel Little, for reminding us of the yearning to not be ordinary. The wild popularity of Royals in America, suggests the citizens of the USA have tired of the phony glitz of success and want to re-earth themselves with some everyday reality without the razzle-dazzle of special effects – usually pseudo-psychedelic lolly shop gift-wrapped hallucinations.

Compared to a gaggle of contemporary talented and aggressively sexy female singers, the contrast with Lorde’s visual style is dramatic. Katy Perry is wholesomely and unashamedly girly, Hollywoodishly pretty, voluptuously figured, cheeky, playfully theatrical, with videos and costumes crammed with candy store colours. She even appeals to pre-teens – thanks to the jellybean hues – less so to grownups who presumably have more sense. Alas, it speaks for my own immaturity, that she appeals to me. And, by the way, she can really sing.

Beyonce is unrelentingly and athletically sensual. Rihanna is aggressively sexual. Christina Aguilera oozes American sexiness and produces the most stylish and surrealistically inventive videos - though Katy Perry is giving her a good run for her money. Lady Gaga (symbolic name?) varies between hectic undress and zany high camp over-dress. Miley Cyrus, once the world’s most notorious teenager, is rapidly aging into her twenties, and seems bent on out-Gagaing the Lady herself (if that’s possible). Madonna, now of grandmotherly vintage, hangs onto her seemingly perpetual youth by keeping in shape.

Lorde is everything that Katy Perry, Beyonce, Rhianna, Christina Aguilera, Lady Gaga and Miley Cyrus are not. She is quiet, sombre (and sober), dignified, mildly gloomy, neo-Gothic and non sexual.  Perhaps, instinctively, she realises that the limit of publically sexually tinged theatricality has been reached. The only parts of her that are visible are face, hands, arms. Hence, though sexuality is minimalised to vanishing point, femininity (aided and abetted by lashings of dark lipstick) is enhanced.

Lorde is sparingly face-on to the camera, retreating from the startle of confrontation. Whether Lorde will provoke a horde of shyish, neo-Gothic singers or is a one-off, remains to be seen. This is a pluralistic age and the media has always excelled in accommodating a vigorous variety of visual and musical styles. This unfolding drama awaits full fruition.

To re-vamp:

Katy Perry: Despite my womanly figure, I am a little girl who loves jelly beans.

Beyonce: I am a pole dancer without a pole.

Rihanna: I am a dusky sex vamp.

Christina Aguilera: I am the cool avatar of feminist surrealism.

Lady Gaga:   I am an unobtainable sex goddess who changes her costume every two seconds. How could you possibly be bored?

Miley Cyrus: I am prepared to undress and spit at a moment’s notice.

Lorde: I am a teenage black and white ectoplasm-grasping Pre-Raphaelite goddess .