Not long ago, a post appeared on my timeline with a heartbreakingly beautiful black and white photo of Dolly Parton in the 1960s. The caption simply read, “What the hell did Jolene look like?” One can only wonder.
As a musical artifact, “Jolene” is hard to top.
It’s an epic piece of Americana, the favorite karaoke song of many amateur shower attendees, but also a favorite of professional artists looking to cover something.
What makes it fascinating, however, is not just the challenging melody, but also the message: the narrator of “Jolene” knows she can’t compete with the song’s titular antagonist, and has no intention of doing so.
Instead, she plaintively appeals to the other woman’s sense of decency, and perhaps even to her vanity.
“You can choose your own men,” Parton sings. “But I could never love again, he’s the only one for me, Jolene.” (That the man in question isn’t really a catch is never stated outright, but is strongly implied; this is, remember, a man who talks about other women in his sleep.)
Hence the excitement this month when a cover of the song appeared on Beyoncé’s new album ‘Cowboy Carter’ – and the uproar when it was discovered that Bey had changed the lyrics, and with them the character of the song.
‘Jolene’ is an epic slice of Americana, the karaoke song of choice for many amateur showers, but also a favorite for professional artists looking to cover something.
Hence the excitement this month when a cover of the song appeared on Beyonce’s new album, ‘Cowboy Carter’ – and the uproar when it was discovered that Bey had changed the lyrics, and with them the character of the song.
Beyoncé is not begging anyone not to bring her husband, thank you very much. What she’s telling you is that if you try, there will be trouble, maybe even violence: “I’m warning you, don’t come for my man,” she sings.
These changes are not that surprising. Beyoncé’s “Jolene” opens with a spoken-word intro from a 78-year-old Parton: “Hey, Miss Honey B, it’s Dolly P. You know that guy with the nice hair you’re singing about?” It reminds me of someone I used to know.’
The hussy in question is “Becky with the Good Hair,” an unknown woman with whom Beyoncé’s husband, Jay-Z, had a highly publicized extramarital affair; Although the famous couple has always been coy about the details of Jay-Z’s flirtation, Beyoncé frequently references it in her work.
It’s unclear whether Beyoncé’s “Jolene” is specifically intended as another jab at this woman, or simply a warning to anyone thinking about following in her footsteps.
However, its message is unmistakable, which is to say trite and predictable.
As The Atlantic’s critic wrote, “Beyoncé has replaced the vulnerability that made ‘Jolene’ one of the best songs of all time with a bunch of bad clichés.”
The interesting thing about those bad clichés is how often they are deployed in the service of something that claims to be feminism, but in practice seems to be the opposite.
Threatening Jolene with violence instead of begging her for mercy is of course the most powerful choice according to the principles of YASS-KWEEN feminism – but what kind of feminism reserves all its opprobrium for the woman who pursues a married man while she release? the hook?
Add to that Beyoncé’s peacocking, masculinized “if you try to touch him I’ll kick your ass” attitude, which paradoxically shows how powerless and insecure she is.
If she is a queen, as the song says, and has no doubts about her husband’s devotion, why does she threaten to throw hands at any woman who looks sideways at him?
Threatening Jolene with violence instead of begging her for mercy is obviously the most powerful choice according to the principles of YASS-KWEEN feminism. But what kind of feminism reserves all its opprobrium for the woman who pursues a married man while letting the man go free?
Add to that Beyoncé’s peacocking, masculinized “if you try to touch him, I’ll kick you” attitude, which paradoxically shows how powerless and insecure she is.
But this kind of photogenic but ultimately insubstantial feminism is one that Beyoncé has long engaged with, dating back to at least a decade ago, after her 2014 VMA performance, where she stood in front of a screen that spelled out “FEMINIST” in giant blocks was projected. letters.
At the time, all eyes were on the “FEMINIST” sign, but when I watch the video of that performance now, what strikes me most is the faceless silhouette of her body opposite: high heels, legs crossed, virtually impossible to distinct from the stock photos that appear on the flyers for a particular type of establishment in Las Vegas or Atlantic City.
If those places use these types of images, it is obviously objectification and sexism. But with Beyoncé it’s different, for some reason.
It’s not that you can’t be sexy and be feminist at the same time, but there’s always been something strange about the circa-2014 idea that feminism itself is sexy, that this is its main selling point.
This same mentality has given us a culture in which various archetypes of female resilience have increasingly been replaced by the “badass,” a woman who is void of feelings and flaws, and who has little use for other people except as casual sex partners or as punching bags.
It is ironic that in a world where women can take increasingly varied paths to fulfillment, the representation of feminine power in art has become increasingly limited, one-dimensional and masculinized.
The self-rescuing princess; the emotionally detached action heroine; the invulnerable, workaholic, commitment-phobic playgirl – a lot of ‘strong female characters’ these days are actually just men, but with tits.
This category may well include the unnamed protagonist of Beyoncé’s “Jolene,” making the song an interesting example of the phenomenon where a supposedly feminist update ends up being less enlightened than the original work of art.
Parton’s song is actually secretly subversive, even if it fails the Bechdel test: These women are talking about a man, yes, but he’s more of a prop than a person.
Note that the singer doesn’t beg him not to leave; he is not consulted or even present because he is not in charge. Instead, his fate lies in the hands of two women: the one who loves him despite himself, and the one who could have him, but hopefully won’t.
The narrator of the original “Jolene” is by no means a villain, but this is the point, and something she is not ashamed to admit.
She is heartbroken at the thought of losing her husband. But she’s not crazy either; she knows that her best chance at happiness requires playing to Jolene’s decency, woman to woman – or possibly anticipating man-stealing impulses Jolene might have had by respectfully cajoling her into submission.
Here I must admit that after listening to the song on repeat for most of the day, Parton’s lyrics began to remind me of the scene from “The Hobbit” in which Bilbo Baggins attempts to disarm the dragon Smaug by giving him a to give increasingly flowery power. series of superlatives: Smaug the Great. Smaug the most important and greatest disaster. Smaug the inestimably rich! And as such, Smaug, who certainly has much better and more important things to do than eat a hobbit of no importance.
The song is an interesting example of the phenomenon where a supposedly feminist update ends up being less enlightened than the original artwork.
Perhaps Jolene’s narrator really is the pathetic, simplistic being she pretends to be.
Or maybe she just figured out that the best way to get what you want from a more powerful person is to make her feel magnanimous about giving it to you.
And while the new “Jolene” struts its chest out and makes superficially feminist noises (and as such acts as catnip for Beyoncé’s fans), it is Parton’s who imagines women in the greater fullness, who recognizes female power as it exists outside its boundaries exist. the superficial archetype of the tough bitch.
There is the gentle power of the seductress, whose charms no one can resist. And there is the even gentler power of the supplicant who – as another song would say – is not too proud to beg.
This article was originally published by UnHerd.