You see, my landlord finally purchased a television for the kitchen, which we broke in in spectacular fashion the only way I think you can break in a television in the kitchen of a communal apartment in a republic of the former Soviet Union: Eurovision!
Eurovision is a competition that pits mostly youthful performers from across Europe wearing spray tans and often not much else against one another in a battle of…um, well, what exactly does it take to make a run at Eurovision? Past answers to this question have included, but are not limited to interpretive dance (possibly interpreted by Howard the Duck), shiny pants, some really excellent hats, a pop ballad with lyrics ambiguously insulting Vladimir Putin, and as of this year, a fiddle. (For an illustrative look at four of these five criterion, see picture below.)
Since every point I just rattled off here can also be found in the dictionary under the heading “Russian Culture,” it should come as no surprise that Russia won last year. Winning Eurovision is a big deal. If you are very lucky, you might become an ironic internet sensation among east coast college students. If you are even luckier, you will become ABBA.
But most importantly, your country wins the right to host the show next year. The first thing you need to know is that many residents of St. Petersburg are angry that the government decided to hold the contest in Moscow. It really belongs in St. Petersburg, because this is the country’s cultural capital. That isn’t the first thing you need to know about Eurovision, it’s just the first thing you need to know about Russian culture.
There are several life experiences that only a viewing of Eurovision can offer. For example, you have never experienced country music until you have experienced it sung by a Dane doing grand pliés in pants trained experts identified as “very tight.” Eighties swing revival pop is not truly appreciated until performed by a German shimmying in pants our panel of experts identified as “tighter and shinier than the Dane’s pants.”
As the German example illustrates, performers frequently appear in some form of ethnic dress, often re-created entirely from sequins. The fine milk-maid tradition remains strong in Europe, as do the venerable institutions of the Madame and her male counterpart, the Bachelorette Party Stripper.
Particularly exciting moments of this year’s contest included the winning Norwegian performance, featuring fiddling and the human juggling of the backup dancers (not at the same time); the Bosnian performer walking forward in a particularly slow and purposeful manner, sparking wild applause from the audience; and the disqualification of Malta for fielding a contestant who could actually sing.
Low-lights included Great Britain’s choice to feature a song written by Andrew Lloyd Webber, which represented a new achievement for the songwriter by actually being too bad for Eurovision. Seriously, the only thing that made watching it bearable was when the singer strayed too close to one of the four animatedly bowing violinists on stage with her, who enthusiastically bowed her in the boob.
Almost as bad was the violent suppression by the Moscow police of gay-rights protesters outside the concert for promoting, according to the Mayor, “moral degradation.” This while the entrant from Moldovia pranced about the stage in her abbreviated milk-maid’s costume, while a troupe of besequined yodelers skipped and flicked behind her. Albania meanwhile presented a young girl in a tutu who spent most of her number being groped by a mime clad head-to-toe in sequined green latex. (This is, I assume, traditional Albanian dress.) But oh yeah, it’s the gay pride parade that’s responsible for the problems with the Youth of Today.
So to end this on a not-about-television note, the modern Russian exhibits an obliviousness to irony that would make Gogol role in his grave. (Undead zombie Gogol, by the way, reverts back to Gogol’s pre-crazy-religious-awakening days.) This is probably worth a whole blog entry of its own (or an entry on a blog not committed to total inanity), but the Russian relationship with the gay community would be hilarious if it wasn’t so sad. Because basically, your average Russian man is a tight-pants-wearing, hair-gel-using, leather-enthusing, Eurovision-loving, raging homophobe. You plunk Vlad, smarmy Russian ladies man, down in New York City, and I guarantee you that he will not be attracting the attention of the gender that he’s used to. Obviously this isn’t to say that all gay men are tight-pants-wearing, hair-gel-using, leather-enthusing, Eurovision-loving, raging Vlads. But it is to say that there sure aren’t a lot of American straight men who would fit that description. Think about that, Vlad, next time you “woo!” at a Norwegian with a fiddle.
