I have a pal who reckons "I will survive" could work with a male singer and some slightly changed lyrics... Something along the lines of:
"At first YOU were afraid,- YOU were petrified... kept thinkin' YOU could never live without ME by YOUR side..."
I dunno meself...I mean,- I get what he's at, that is to say— such a song could have its place and certainly might not sound quite as ridiculous as a person first might think that it would sound; still... What would be the 'point' of it?
Is it not just mean to hijack a feminine anthem ('Fenthem' anyone?) and turn the message from one of personal triumph to an unsympathetic 'Get over it love!'?
- I do get the sentiment behind reclaiming this song from one of exultant feminine independence to sneering male indifference: it's coz we're sick of it.
We're sick of that mocking and accusatory expression worn on the faces of strangers as they gloatingly sing it at us in nightclubs.
Luckily for me, I know all the words and can gloat it right back but still, it irks to be blamed by people you don't know for leaving Gloria Gaynor ( who, in fairness, probably dumped a plethora of broken-hearted chaps who were mad about her but who warrant no inclusion into her song as they are useless as fuel for her man-ire and would only serve to remind our Gloria that people dump people and that it's not always about her ).
I've had an idea that I've been toying with,- that's not a million miles from the suggested re-working of 'I will survive' and probably just as likely to catch on.
I can blather on about it here because I've decided not to do it.
This is why:
When I came back from Finland and was idealistic about getting 'A Load Of Rubbish' performed my preferred Director asked me a question that astonished me: she asked, "Who are your intended audience?" and I was stumped.
Whether there ever was an audience for 'A loada'- I never found out.
But this idea is definitely audience-less and so I don't think I'll bother.
The idea was, to write a play inspired by Samuel Beckett's 'Happy Days' involving— not a woman chattering away while she is simultaneously and symbolically buried alive by the indifference of the world and her husband; but a man.
This man would be buried in newspapers and jazz mags and ash-trays and empty bottles and cans instead of sand and;- instead of a monosyllabic half concealed partner he would be alone. He would address someone who used to be there. His voice would be grumpier and more visceral,- he would sound like 'The Tropic of Cancer' by Henry Miller. The play would be bleak and depressing and completely unpopular with everybody.
I'd call it 'Crappy days'.
How are you feeling yourself?