"Sorry": Not like we are.

Madonna - New Music - More Music Videos

It's a little fucked-up to review "Sorry" when we haven't slain its prequel, the krump-'n'-fun "Hung Up." But I'm not in the mood to review six minutes of Madonna queefing at a wall of mirrors and grinding her leotarded chode against a boombox because that's "hood," or something. So we're starting fresh with "Sorry," and I promise your education won't suffer. Unless you actually listen to the lyrics, in which case your spasms begin immediately. Then come the concussions, of course, in a Madonna's-Idiocy-is-Tyson-and-Your-Hard-Earned-Intelligence-Is-Michael-Spinks way. I feel like gnawing on alphabet blocks already.

In 2005, Madownsydnrome released the unobjectionable dance album Confessions on a Dance Floor, a glitter-ribboned apology for the clinical void that was American Life. It's more of a niche disco work than Madonna had released previously (and more gay, to be accurate, with its Giorgio Moroder throwback, ABBA lionization, and jewel-toned album artwork reminiscent of fine anal beading). It's listenable. Cogent. Atmospheric. Not trying so hard. Granted, you have to swat off the festering Cabala platitudes with a beach umbrella, but Confessions makes enjoying yourself a distinct possibility. Alert the fucking locals.

That brings us to the album's second video "Sorry," a sinister, aggressively airbrushed bacchanal that sets up camp in Madonna's longtime favorite place to reel in quality dong: the back of a van. Though I imagine it's distracting to see Rocco's shin-guards lay willy-nilly under the front seat while you're getting double-teamed by the Detroit Pistons. I mean let me tell you.



"Sorry" opens as Madonna and her twentysomething club buddies (Mmkay) bound out of "Hung Up"'s climactic video arcade and into a giant van. Three dudes spot the troop, roll their eyes in horny anguish, and think some more about lacquering their chests. In the meantime Madonna coos these adages:

"Je suis désolé / Lo siento / Ik ben droevig / Sono spiacente / Perdóname."

That's "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sad, I'm sorry, forgive me," in a bunch of languages. Unfortunately the Geography Bee starts next week, and it turns out the multilingual greetings are just really fucking stupid in the meantime. Contrary to what shitty theme park rides have long insisted, it is not that small a world after all.

Within the van, ladies strip off their Monday streetwalker gear and reveal their decadent Thursday selection of gold lamé, bangles, onesies, pleather, and leotards. Everyone's bouncing and titillated to shoot the American Apparel ad. As emasculating lyrics like, "You're not half the man you think you are / Save your words 'cuz you've gone too far," gargle forth, Madonna and underlings swerve through nighttime New York and stop only to yank men into their awkward Pimped Ride. Roof-raising male riders are soon kicked out one at a time. I encourage the producers of MTV's "Next" to begin the copyright suit any day now.



Among the kidnapped passersby: a baggy-jeaned black guy, a professionally Caucasian nerd, a vacant bodybuilder, a beaming tubbalard, a hottie or two, andddd your tolerance. None of this actually gets funny or entertaining, but Madonna does dress like a nervy hybrid of Battlestar Galactica and Dorothy Zbornak. To be fair, that's how I usually describe Madonna herself.



The video ends up in a literal cage-fight because Madonna has long loved both Spike TV and The Scorpions. Now a regular feature of her tours, the Madonna's dancers convulse, flip, turn aerials, breakdance and boast breakneck agility, and then Madonna throws herself to the floor and whips a leg behind her head. It's performance art, world. I think the music video directors need to establish a moratorium on "dance-fighting," because word: This shit was MASTERED. And think of the DISTURBED ANCESTORS.



Our tame little vid is topped off with top-tier roller-skating choreography that Jessica Simpson gleefully hijacked for "A Public Affair." There's more foreign-language moaning too, but we can be certain it all means, "I'm highly educated too, Lourdes, you smart little bitch." Cut to some hand-jiving from "Hung Up," mad-swirling under a disco ball, the 57th appearance of a boombox because this is just like Do the Right Thing, and we've got ourselves a hot-out-the-oven forgettable clip that million-dollar eyelashes can't save. I'd say look forward to a scrappy, super-suave comeback, but uh, that's not how the story goes. The story actually goes, "Konnichiwa, assholes. I'm on tour and don't have a budget. Sayonara now."

The message of "Sorry" is a little nobler: Madonna's jaded, so don't try to apologize for your juvenile love of inorganic couscous and hobbies besides pheasant hunting. I can dig that. And trust me, this video seems downright humble compared to the sanctimony it could've achieved. Oh, Madonna. Twenty-five years in the music business have taught you that the best visual accompaniment to a remix is a montage of starving children. Congrats on the exploitation! See you in Malawi... at the Club Med, of course! NYAR.

"Take a Bow": Whole lawta bull!

A couple times a decade, Madonna tries on our least favorite reinvention -- dignity. Pop empires deflate at the very mention of the word, as do eager audience boners. "Take a Bow" approaches the dirty "D" but remembers its throbbing genitals by the 3.5 minute mark. Phew, girls.

In 1994, Madonna fans were confused. Reluctant followers balked at the poontang biathlon of the Sex book and Erotica, two projects that scared Tipper Gore and some smart people too. Apparently conservative types don't approve when Madonna throws acid and a little jizz in their eyes. Don't ask me. But even those who adored Erotica or those who just loved S&M (like Madonna's real fans -- and most businessmen) weren't hormonally sated. They scoffed at Madonna's cleaner projects, including her co-starring role in the family flick A League of Their Own, her accompanying crybaby hit "This Used to be My Playground," and the (oh no, a compliment) excellent ballad "I'll Remember" from the With Honors soundtrack. Though legitimate, those three works displayed a startling dearth of gaping vagina. Who the fuck was this genteel, approachable 35-year-old? Our sneering Salome appeared comfortable in her several dozen designer veils, and we wanted those veils in the mouths of crawling gay dudes. Was Madonna merely countering Erotica's negative press, or was she reemerging as a frightfully sedate, patrician balladeer? A nation prayed.

The answer turned out to be both. I mean, she did clean up, meaning she probably suffered a stroke. But then she did this:

Alright. Deranged. Foul. Badass. And most thankfully, a clear display of signature Madonna daddy issues and quasi-coherence. The wench was intact.

Strange to think her next album after the Letterman fiasco was Bedtime Stories, a slow, tasteful batch of evening R&B. The first single was "Secret," which yielded a deep, sexy video featuring a necessarily fierce RuPaul cameo. Then came "Take a Bow," which became the biggest single of Madonna's career (at least according to Billboard), and one of her most memorable vids of the '90s. Director Michael Haussman filmed almost 24 hours of footage for this clip, and he keep the parts showing bullfighting, Madonna in pain, Madonna masturbating, or the hot matador. This just in: Michael Haussman and I are soul brothers.

The video takes place in some sector of Spain where everything is golden-tinged. Must be nice. Madonna plays an ignored, but privileged wife who's forced to watch her famous matador beau on the telly and pretend he cares about their relationship. In the matador's defense, he's got his wonderful ass to think about. More to come on this scintillating discovery.

The lyrics to "Take a Bow" are heartfelt and cogent, describing an aloof lover's tendency to play stoic and strong for the public. "Take a bow / The show is over / This masquerade is getting older," etc. You might've heard them again recently when, hmmm, Rihanna shanghaied them for her OWN song called "Take a Bow." You're a ripoff, Ri Ri. I'm glad you sing fewer songs written around words you say funny ("Unfayyyful," "Um-burr-ella," and "DESTARBIAAAA" just to name my favorites), but still, go back to getting cool haircuts and not plagiarizing the songs of superstar gorgons.

We see a lot of Evita in Madonna's stateliness this time around, which is no surprise considering she devoted the year to convincing Andrew Lloyd Webber she wasn't just a lifelike mosaic of cone bras and gonorrhea. We also see a lot of super-duper acting, in general. And of course... doll parts.

I'm scared to know which video came first. Someone enlighten me about the original airdate of "Violet," but only after I climb under the covers and prepare to stifle my tears.

Anyway, the plot of this video is serious stuff, so no laughing until it gets unintentionally very funny in about fifteen seconds. The video quickly establishes that Madonna's relationship with Spanish Ass Bandit is not fulfilling -- she always has to watch him on TV while he waves the red cape for the adoring, hyper-Hemingwayian public. Read: not soulpleasing Madonna. Judging by his taut facial features and rigid discpline, Madonna clearly means to produce Lourdes with this man. Ergo, the stakes are high.

In private before attending one of her beau's bullfights, Madonna straps on a bodice-hugging dress and a sexy veil. She also pricks her finger with a pin and draws blood, which will come to foreshadow the video's SWEET BULLFIGHTING/RELATIONSHIP METAPHOR WOO RAISE THE ROOF, but for now it just reminds everyone of "Like a Prayer." Or Sleeping Beauty. Or that time we purposely cut ourselves after hearing that Madonna was dating Dennis Rodman.

Look, girls, don't hurt yourself over a guy, OK? Ever. No man is worth severing your relationship with yourself.

Except when he's this hot.

Good-jiggity-Christ, ladies. Can't you put that self-esteem on ice and understand those buns deserve devotion? And your silence? Gloria Steinem's strapping on the apron for that shit. Even depressed-and-abandoned housewife Madonna can aptly trace the man's glorious gluteus with finesse, as pictured above. I'm usually willing to sympathize with emotionally slaughtered women, but let's face it, Madonna needs to suck it up. The ass will return home shortly, the adamantium booty will be served, and a bountiful cheek feast will commence. In the meantime, take off the veil and treat yourself to a Sonic burger, Ciccone. And ladies, don't even bring up your "feelings" right now, because that bullfunky is verboten in Gold Spain Land.

Still, Madonna plays nice and attends a bullfight. But, oh, the burden of fame. It's hard on the eyes. These limelight romances will never do. I still feel bad for Lyle Lovett.

After a few more audience-dunkings in bullfight metaphor, "Take a Bow" finally allows Madge to go home, get nekkid, and start masturbating like the freak baboon we adore. Making love to the TV screen that broadcasts her lover's stainless image, Madonna submits to his game, even crouching like a bull once. She pours her bosoms onto our faces, wears decadent (mildly space-age?) undergarments, and twists under the sheets. Garish but smart stuff here, and actually a bit poignant. Unfortunately they don't grant Oscars for music video self-love jags. Jill Sobule remains ruefully empty-handed.

You know what they say. If you can't have your man in the sack when you want, you better... start giving birth.

Eventually Madonna and Matadorable butt heads, smear some lipstick, and the whole thing is worse than Chernobyl. Reflecting the self-inflicted pain earlier in the video, we witness the matador step soundly over broken glass. In the last shots of the clip, we now see Madonna on the TV, cooing, "Say goodbye," before the Babyface-branded strings play us out. But this time, Kenneth Edmunds, the "End of the Road" has nothing to do with R&B slow-jam sensations, and everything to do with... the pangs of love. Toro, y'all.

"Take a Bow" is a fine single, a fine video, and lyrically chockablock with more metaphors than the Kama Sutra. For a second I thought Madonna never treated us again to so much "bull" in one helping, but then I came to my senses.

Too easy. Nice Asian photoshop face, Madonna.

"Me Against the Music": To Catch a Predator... Named Madonna

Might I scintillate you with some tidbits about a little lump of magic called "Me Against the Music"? These are the zaniest funfacts you will ever consume, even if you read a Snapple cap this morning. So brace yourself. Because these funfacts might not mesh so well with your iced tea.

Funfact #1: This fucking video is a fresh-whittled shitbomb from Satan's woodshop, and I want to die.

Funfact #2: I mean, if we all signed a petition, I think we could receive compensation for having viewed it. Actually, I'm just going to call it -- we're veterans now. We deserve compensation, and then a parade. And then death, like I mentioned earlier.

Funfact #3: Madonna, is it weird when your fans want to punt you? You shouldn't alienate consumers by making them homicidal. Can I get a here-here from Jodie Foster? (Leave it in the comments section, girl.)

FuNnEsT FaCt!!: Remember when Madonna turned down collaborating with Michael Jackson on "In the Closet" because the song wasn't provocative enough? Clearly she held out for a real vocal artist like Britney "I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Husky Old Basset Hound" Spears. And boy is this a provocative number. Incomprehensible speed-rapping! Contrived horniness! Cryptkeeper harmonies from Twitney and our Jurassic MILF! And let's not forget declarations of "Hey Britney! Sexy lay-day! I wanna see you baaaaare your soul," from Whoreceratops herself.

Now that we understand the video's historical impact, let's retrace our burning steps to Gomorrah and deduce why our insides seem to be melting and why God hates us. In 2003, Madonna released American Life, a unanimously panned album that emblemized the self-seriousness and aloofness of her post-Evita career. But even during times of suck, Madonna remains scrappy -- at the VMAs that August, she collaborated with Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera on a medley of "Like a Virgin" and (Save yourself! Run!) "Hollywood." The performance geysered media insanity, with 100% thanks to the tonguey, saliva-slick "exchanges of energy" enjoyed onstage by Madonna and her dirrty proteges. Hot off that frenzy, Britney featured Madonna in the first single off her album In the Zone, and that, friends, is why "Me Against the Music" happened to you and your loved ones.

The video takes place in a venue I can only call "a club," judging by the darting, wall-hugging denizens who populate the joint. But apparently this "club" also sports specialty rooms festooned with leaves, wire bed frames, and rickety fence mazes. I assume this is Britney's attempt to recreate Brian Wilson's house in 1975. Much appreciated, Spears; it was tasteful to leave out the sandbox.

After Britney chills us with the goblin-tinged opening howl of "ALL. THE. PEOPLE. IN. THE. CLUB! GRAB. A PARTNER. TAKE. IT. DOWN," we're treated to what can only be described as a Britney/Madonna poetry slam. Prepare thy snapping beatnik fingers:

Britney: "It's me against the music."

Madonna: "Uh-huh."

Britney: "It's just me..."

Madonna: "And me."

Britney: "Yeah."

Madonna: "Come awn. HO! HUH. Hey, Britney..."

Britney: "Are ya ready?"

Madonna: "Uh-huh. Are you?"

Britney: "Oh!"

Sweet Jesus, no one is ready.



While Britney engages in standard-order "malaria jitters" chorography with Central Casting's "urban-looking dancer" regiment, Madonna stakes out Frau Federline and wields a cane.



Great Aunt Madge wore her cream-colored pantsuit too, which means Britney's not the only one getting fingered at the spring formal. Lads in letterman jackets, please steer clear of the gyrating chaperone.



But you see, there's no time for fraternizing in Britney's war against the music. She and Madonna telekinetically channel each other, which apparently forces the ladies to throw themselves at a wall, hump it a little, and generally hijack the concept of Aerosmith and Run DMC's "Walk This Way." Bowing to that video, Britney says "hey-diddle-diddle, put your kitty in the middle," and Madonna tosses up her pussy for others to play with.



At this point the video is not even fun to diagnose, because just look at that shit. Madonna is crabwalking for our libidinous pleasure. I don't know who misplaced the memo, but this just in: Sebastian from The Little Mermaid rarely garners erections -- delightful as his marine life anthems may be. Luckily, Madonna rolls over and shows us her flexible legs, which looks cute enough but is usually more impressive on Animal Planet.

Then proceeds the "fence maze" section of the video where Britney dodges left and careens right, trying to signal an "Amber Alert" on the Wal-Mart intercom, but it's too late: The pantsuit pedophile wins again and chases her down. No station wagon or offering of candy even necessary this time. Also, the scenery here looks EXACTLY like the chase sequence in that horrid Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake, which coincidentally came out the week this video was filmed. I sense some plagiarism on our hands, Madonna. If you didn't swathe your face in million-dollar lotions and insist on Botoxing your cheeks into Nerf-like fullness, I would call you Leatherface right now.





We're fast-forwarding now through Madonna's inexplicable "Don't I look hot in these LEAVES" mating dance and her Nastia Liukin-esque mounting of a skeletal bed frame. I know it's Halloween time, but I'm in no mood for frights. Let's just approach the heart of the video so we can dispose of it properly, maybe with the help of Karen Silkwood.

Madonna wins one 15-second solo at the end of the video. It goes like this:

"HEYY BRIT-NEYYY! You say you wanna looooose control? Come-ova-here-I-got-sumthin'-ta-show-ya! Sexy lady! I'd rather see you baaaaare your soul! If you think you're so hot, better show me whatcha got!"

Correct, it's like your grandmother cheering you on at your AYSO soccer game, while your teammates make fun of you and call your grandma "Chlamydia Monster." Of course Madonna's also rubbing up on perfectly harmless Mad Men extras and jostling her labia majora with a cane. Can't say I ever ogled Grandma attempting such a feat on the sidelines at the Lemont Park District.

Ugh, what else can I say? This video makes Madonna look like a bona fide creep-ass. The chase sequences would've been better served if Madonna just howled, "Britney, BRING ME THE YOUTH POTION!" Then we wouldn't have to gossip about how she claws after the ex-Mrs. Jason Alexander in octagenarian attire.

By the way, the end of the video emulates their VMA brouhaha. Britney traps Madonna and lines up a wet kiss, when -- oh no! -- Madonna disappears. Such a shame. Britney really wanted to be fitted for a Cabala bracelet too. Strangely enough, this might be the worst single ever for both Madonna and Britney. I hope "Love Don't Live Here Anymore" and "Overprotected" sleep a little easier tonight.

Especially because I won't. When the scarring of this catastrophic video wears off, maybe we'll return to form with some genuinely great Madonna work and (get this) cheerful commentary. In the meantime I propose we sterilize ourselves and pluck any lingering leaves out of our asses.

EDITED TO ADD: I un-journalistically forgot to cite this vid's most vile intention. The alliance between Madonna and Britney here suggests that Madonna considers BriLLIANtney the rightful heir to her legacy. Come now, Madonna, you've eaten the bad berries again. While Britney has produced a couple of winning singles (among them "Toxic," "Baby One More Time," and -- Christ, I'll say it -- "Lucky"), her presence doesn't compare to Madonna, who uses her dance background and subsequent showman tactics to inform her witty, outrageous, and often totally original image overhauls and music. Who else can boast such a mastery of pop imagery? I can think of only one lady whose panache and implied feminist politics compare. And her scariness is, watch this, intentional.

OK, you've got me, maybe this saucer-eyed telegenius measures up too.

"La Isla Bonita": ¿Te gusta mi vagina, senor?

Comin' at you full throttle and in horny Technicolor... my Catholic upbringing! Time to confess my unutterable sin: I've been avoiding Madonna's '80s trash trove.

I mean no offense, merry Maglodytes. It's just that... well, how shall we put it? Ah yes! These videos make fun of themselves. If Fucky Star's not knocking paws with a Venetian lion-man in a Goodwill wedding dress, then she's enraging Danny Aiello with her unladylike pregnancy. Come now, ladies, that's last week's episode of I Love Money. To keep things interesting, we'll analyze a video that offers equal sections of fun and epic discomfort. Please welcome to the program our long-admired, heavily herpe'd international trollop, "La Isla Bonita."

The fifth single off Madouchebag's 1986 blockbuster True Blue, "La Isla Bonita" is an homage to Latin America, where "the sun sets so high," "all of nature [is] wild and free," and also where Madonna and Sean Penn hide out after he bloodies the uppity paparazzi. Naturally, the video takes place in a blissful city saturated with grinning street musicians, dancing schoolchildren, and I guess no parents. Wuh-oh. Careful bouncing that elementary booty around the overzealous conga player, little Conchita. And don't buy his "chicle." Except the sad thing is you know they're MySpace friends.

The video opens with well-mimed guitar plucking by... my least favorite Los Lonely Boy? Did I even know I had a least favorite? Serious introspection occurring on this side of the blog, y'all. Stand clear.
How far is heaven, indeed. Hopefully not much farther than the unemployment office, from the looks of it.

Upstairs in a pretty-spacious-all-things-considered apartment, a conservatively attired Madonna peers out a window into her barrio below. Already we suspend our disbelief in record numbers. Still, the neighborhood's friendly, and Madonna evinces some credible, if melodramatic longing. The tear under her eye is a bit much, Director Mary Lambert.


After not spotting the amount of olive skin she hoped for in the 'hood, Madonna gives up on selecting a father for her first daughter. However, she does retreat to an altar, where she kneels, prays silently, and clutches a rosary. Ohhhh, the obvious career foreshadowing. Two years later, Madonna conjured some seriously perverse holiness, complete with crucifixes and rosaries, with the Pepsi-prickling "Like a Prayer." To be fair, though, from 1987 until 1989, she settled for dire unholiness.

Fear is the correct response, Griffin Dunne.

The video shifts to the street for more shots of our entranced Los Lonely Boy's pain-strumming. He's stirring up quite a crowd down there. Senseless Trivia Note: One of those boiz is Benicio Del Toro. Another one looks just like the late bassist Jaco Pastorius. Maybe Madonna threw in Debi Mazar somewhere too, who knows. And honestly, that Los Lonely Boy could be Sandra Bernhard. But before you start playing Where's Waldo with the prancing demi-celebrities, Madonna undergoes her newest reinvention right before your eyes!


Ow, ow! The rest of us foolishly pigeonholed the ladybug-flamenco get-up for the homos in Paris is Burning, but that's what's refreshing about Madonna. She reassures you that she's the gayest dude here. Seeeeriously though, my God, Lady M is GORGEOUS. Brunette always worked better on her, unless David Fincher or Herb Ritts helmed the lighting cues.

From here on out, Madonna transforms back and forth from pallid piety to harlot Miss Scarlet. The video weighs the conflicting, but ultimately interlocked worlds of religion and passion. And what interlocks them, you ask? Oh, Jenny, it's THE MUSIC, dammit! Of course! Yes, yes. I almost forgot to tell you: "La Isla Bonita" is a prequel to High School Musical 2.

Ultimately, flamenco Madonna heeds the encouragement of the swaying men on the street and sashays downstairs to entertain their daffy erections. She spins and flirts, even approaching Los Lonely and whsipering to him, "Te dijo te amo," which means, "He told you, 'I love you.'" Why Madonna is speaking in gay cryptograms to the hetero daddy, I will never know. But whatever, because Madonna ends the video by ditching them all and skipping down the block to her own beat and newfound joie de vive. Everyone thinks she's weird for that. Where are you going, Madonna? I'd love to hear a passerby guess your profession when you approach the street corner.

"La Isla Bonita" remains one of the most universally listenable Madonna tracks from the '80s. While Madonna produced flashier, more popular singles, "La Isla Bonita" feels so timeless, a genuine dance ballad with soul and spunk. The video's downright unassuming, but I think we can embrace carnal slow-play from "All the Way" Mae every so often. I wish the religious half of the video yielded more thoughtful results than a few lit candles (as well as an apartment that didn't feel like, hrm, a suicide), but I just-about love this video.

By the way, I guess "La Isla Bonita" is secretly about gypsies and shit too:

"Don't Tell Me": No Country for Old Menopause

Curse me for reviewing two videos in a row from the same album, but come on: How could I pass up revisiting Madonna's most credible, authentic persona yet? Face the facts, Jethro, when you think of Madonna, you never (ever) recall whorish gondola antics, or cross-burning, or material girliness, or the saliva Olympics with Britney Spears. Perish those limiting labels. Don't put this artiste in a box. We're talking about a Billboard Music Award winner here, you chauvinist.

Now sit back. Close your eyes. Demand honesty from yourself. Breathe. Think. Let the Light guide you. When you allow yourself to accept Madonna without the burden of the media's malignant snipes and liberal agenda, you begin to understand the craftswoman, the performance artist, the soul at work here. Two specific, powerful words spring to mind when you think of Madonna's true essence...

Folk hero.

Many casual fans forget that Madonna was born in the whispering prairies of Crumbling Fence, Nebraska, the daughter of a devoted ranch-hand and steadfast Sunday school instructor. She lamented the plight of the downtrodden farmer, vowing never to forsake her beloved terra firma. She clasped her first banjo down south at the crossroads, where the local black boys hollered call-and-response standards about the delta, the bottle, and the hurt. From there she set out for life along the rutted road, just she and her most trustworthy companion -- her six-stringed darling, Baby Annette. Or just Baby 'Nette, when you consider Lil Nonnie's harsh Dust Bowl twang.

Obviously the path from lonesome guitar vagabond to the Madonna we know in 2008 becomes refreshingly clear. Since she is A PAMPERED, BRAT-ASS MIDDLE CHILD WHO OBTAINED A TRILLION DOLLARS AND WOULD FUCKING POOP ON A FOLK ARTIST IF HE EVER DARED TO GLANCE HIS SHIT-STAINY EYES AT HER.

Let's start harmonizing several shouts of "WTF" for this effing video. We all know Madonna cops different personas for cheeky, half-provocative reasons. But country troubadour? It's just such blatant artifice, totally divorced from meaning and only justified by "Don't Tell Me"s somewhat folksy lyrics. The get-up feels as bizarre as the patent-leather Geisha from "Nothing Really Matters," but God, can we just not talk about that right now?

"Don't Tell Me" is the second video off Madonna's 2000 album Music, and according to Rock on the Net, it's her second biggest radio success ever. That's kind of redemptive, since "Don't Tell Me" ranks as a pretty tasteful, even emotional song from Magina's catalog. I can get behind its popularity. The video? Well, the video's a chore to swallow in some parts, but I do detect a modicum of wit behind the rodeo. Mind you, I also detect some funky manure in the form of Loretta Lynn's performance here. But ahh, one step at a time, pilgrim.

The video commences with Madonna strolling nonchalantly, if super-seriously, on what appears to be a marathon western road where Javier Bardem will own you. The camera pans back, revealing that Madonna is actually just walking on a treadmill in front of a staged, "long-country-road" backdrop. This theatrical unmasking alerts us that Madonna's in on the joke of her Bob Dylan shtick, but that doesn't stop her from mugging hard like a saloon owner's tobacky-hackin' battle axe. She means it, y'all. We're witnessing a conscientious songwriter here, so strap on yer grandpappy's bandanna and yank back the tears.

But while Madonna goes on hammering in the morning, or whatever, the rest of us need to rewind and observe the wardrobe (non-)choices:

Charlotte Russe? I didn't know you were invited.

I don't hate any part of the outfit (not even the dirt-dazzled jeans, courtesy of a top-tier douchebag at Guess), but just... blah. Mall clothes. Nothing memorable to write about here. In fact, enough already, onto the HAWT MEN.

I guess cowboys really enjoy throwing dirt, bounding into handstands, and two-stepping around their buddies, because I tell you these johns are positively ebullient. They also might be named Jack and Ennis, if you catch my definitely necessary drift. They clearly wish they knew how to quit you, Madonna. But they also wish they knew how to quit the adult film industry, Ecstasy, and checking themselves out in public, so maybe they're just impetuous people and you shouldn't really be flattered.

I'll hand Madonna her dues, though, because she pivots, swirls, and passionately rains dirt on herself with swell bravado. The melodrama of the kneeling-and-masturbating almost teeters into a full-fledged queef, but luckily we are saved by THIS:

YEE HAW! There's father's little psychiatry bill! You tease those boys with your coon pelt, Bonnie!

The outfit is hilarious or downright strumpety, depending on how fucking tired you are. The blue denim crotch is, quoth Aunt Michael Kors, "insane." I would've toned the attire down by roughly seven pegs. Fortunately, and I don't know if you all can see this from your computer, but THOSE MEN ARE SO HOT I'M CRYING. Please, more thrusting upward towards the hip-popping granny, lads! The choreography here, by the way, actually appears very rigorous, cool, and appropriately themed without venturing into gimmicks. It's just too bad our protagonist busies herself with dubious extracurriculars like shoving her boobs up to Venus, playing "Peekaboo Midriff" with the locals, and doing Dallas.

And it all culminates in some enlightened, Brahman level of flagrant poon imagery with Madonna conquering a mechanical bull and eventually strangling it with her Kagel muscles. I really applaud the juxtaposition of this majestic, almost maudlin instrumental with the bronco and billboard soundstages. Instead of becoming too precious and actually showing Madonna saddling up a real Appaloosa, we're treated to these clever, apparent facades. And yet the contemplative, cerebral vibe sticks. In a way this exemplifies Madonna: The culling of unexpected images and raiments for the viewer's surface enjoyment that are imbued with urgency, vitality, and wit. That triumvirate remains her signature.

Plus humping. She really gets a kick out of humping.

"What It Feels Like for a Girl": Kuntz come alive! But then they die, of course.

I admit bregrudgingly that part of this blog's purpose is to highlight the underrated works in Madonna's ouevre. Why "begrudgingly," you ask? One, it's a fun word. Two, I do such a good job trashing this woman. It's almost a letdown to acknowledge that I, er, devote much of my unsteady income to Madonna for a reason. Face it, you're disappointed.

Let's reestablish some givens right now: While I jest about Madonna's vascillating taste level and borderline-retardation, she's also -- in my humble, fascinating, correct opinion -- one of the few artists interesting enough to deserve lengthy scrutiny. She stands as the first artist to hone superstardom as its own artform. She's easily the best music video artist of all time. She's probably the fourth best gay man of all time. That said, many critics define Madonna's legacy only by her exploration of sexual politics, and that... sort of sucks. Especially when she made excellent music videos like "What It Feels Like for a Girl" that intentionally eschew overt sexuality.

In 2001, Madonna had a marriage with film director Guy Ritchie to defend, so she quickly embarrassed everyone and decided to collaborate with Ritchie on a movie. Their labor of love, a staggering shit-fortress called Swept Away, earned almost enough money to pay off Lourdes' eyebrow sculptor for a week. I said almost. Queerly enough, before Swept Away prompted Madonna to give up acting forever (fingers crossed), she and Guy collaborated successfully on her 2001 music video "What It Feels Like for a Girl," which was banned after only airing once on MTV.

Life's greatest journalist, Kurt Loder, broke the news during a 2 a.m. MTV news update that "WIFLFAG" wouldn't play in regular rotation. Those of us lucky to catch that announcement viewed the video the next night, and unless you were my professionally prude mother, you pretty much dug it.

This time, Madonna "plays" a stoic, guiltless woman decked in smoking-gun tattoos and tight, trenchy clothes. It's a hardcore redux of the pinstriped pantsuit from "Express Yourself," which garners applause from this fag.

Ever the environmentalist, Madonna mans the wheel of her Lamborghini (or something, don't fucking ask me) for a spin, and Guy Ritchie aims for subtlety by flashing the car's license plates, which say "PUSSY" on the front and "CAT" on the back. Do you see, world? She is a REBEL whore now. And that's two grades above the run-of-the-mill whore she usually is, 'kay?

In the car, Madonna remains expressionless and points her gloved hand out the window like a gun. Alright, we get it, Madge, you're pissed. We understand this video isn't the triple-perky sequel to "Cherish." I don't anticipate mermaids coming into the picture.

Our possessed heroine then stops by a nursing home, which is honestly called "Ol Kuntz Guest Home." Again, the theme today is subtlety. During Madonna's trip to "Ol Kuntz," she doesn't run into Leona Helmsley or Janice Dickinson, but she does find a kindly nonagenarian lady who occupies her time with jigsaw puzzles. But what to do with her? Steal her for a joyride in the Pussy-Cat roadster, obvi LOL!

Yeah, then the real "controversial" shit begins. As the daylight winds into night, Madonna and her elderly companion proceed to collide into a car full of alpha males at a stoplight, tase a bro at an ATM, steal wads of money, and befuddle a duo of police officers. No telling yet whether this video is just lifting episodes from the life story of Dana Plato.

It's important to realize that Madonna's character lashes out only at males. After mugging the man at the ATM, Madonna stuffs his money in the apron of a waitress at a drive-thru. You see, there is a little thing in life called oppression, and Madonna believes that women sometimes endure it. HARDY-HAR. If you liked that folk tale, Brer Rabbit's got a whole batch of others for you.

Anyway, after ramming her yellow speedster into a dreadfully unprepared cluster of street-hockey players, Madonna pulls up to a gas station and spots a cute red muscle-car with a thunderbird print on the hood, looking cuter than David Banda in a pit full of puppies. She must steal it. So she does! Gasoline spills everywhere, Zoolander is inspired, everything blows up behind her, and Madonna's off for the final act.

The last minute of the video flashes by in quick edits -- including frames of Madonna's fake IDs from multiple states, a tattoo on her neck that reads "LOVED," and speedy clips of bruises on both Madonna's body and the old lady's (Oh yeah, she's still in the car.) And then, as the hurtling trance music culminates, Madonna and her companion crash head on into a pole, and in slow motion we watch the car's red hood and windows shatter. A blazing suicide. Cute!

Also important: The last few seconds of the video provide a necessary parallel between Madonna and the old kunt. We see them strapping on bustiers, leg braces and other "confining" apparatus. The point being, both women find themselves bound; Madonna's the one lashing out, while the granny was letting it kill her. AND BETTY FRIEDAN CRIED.

What's special about this video's garish nature is that it gives way to a pretty well-executed message. None of this feels heavy-handed. And Madonna, for the first time in several centuries, gives a convincing performance. I mean, I wish the video didn't resemble that car commercial Ritchie directed (also starring Madonna), but, uh, this isn't bad stuff. You kind of don't stink right now, Madonna, and I don't know how I feel about it.

Oh-effing-wait. That bitch just dedicated her performance of "Like a Virgin" to the Pope. You see that sidebar at the top of the page? DID I NOT CALL THIS SHIT? P.S. You know Benedict XVI is more a Bedtime Stories homo, anyway.

"Fever": No, officer, there was seriously a fire in her pants.

We began with 1983, where an excited young tramp dazzled us with the flexibility of flannel on the dance floor. We cruised to 2008, where we suffered a concussion from a 50-year-old's overeager slingshot groin. And now we coast back to 1993, where Madonna finally revels in the simple things of patrician life. And I do mean banana hammocks and green-screen rave parties. Just like mom use'ta!

It is "Fever," bitches. "Fever" is a sweltering (ha), predictably libidinous track off the underrated Erotica album. As you probably know, it's a cover of the ancient Peggy Lee standard, except Madonna elected to erase the verses she didn't like. (All that "forsooth" and "Fahrenheit/Centigrade" shit hit the floor, along with Madonna's pants, which we'll so get to in a minute ohmigod.) This wouldn't be the last time Madonna gutted a pop classic, but whatever, Don MacLean, no one fucking knows why Jack Flash was sitting on candlesticks or bitching about fallout shelters for 9 minutes anyway.

Video legend Stephane Sednaoui directed this clip, and while his presence yields no cameo by four Alanis Morissettes caterwauling cross-eyed in an Oldsmobile, his fast, minimalist style is thumping all over "Fever." Let's talk about the complicated storyboard: Madonna is a pink-haired pussymonster gyrating in front of a convulsing green-screen. A shadowy naked dude artfully shrink-wraps his dong in lycra. Moaning from Our Mother The Whore commences. Then three trucks of body paint! More thrusting! Unnecessary costume pieces appear! Everything comes together! Madonna's boobs win!! "Rosebud" is his sled!!!

OK, while the video's short on plot, it's big on color and drama. That aforementioned green-screen morphs a few times, but mostly it remains a smoky red-and-pink hypermix lightshow. Even the casual fan knows we're inside Madonna's vagina.

Three things actually matter about this 3-star video:

1) The Silver Body-Paint, Courtesy of True Value's After-Halloween BLOWOUT: Stephane looooves the head-to-toe puffy paint, y'all. He directed the Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Give It Away" video, a stirring tribute to the lost craft of the circlejerk, and we all remember the silver-coated gymastics of that one. Madonna obviously saw that video's idea and quickly began doing what she does best, and that's stealing. Here she's decked in silver paint too, which turns her hair into unfriendly stalactites. Objectively I appreciate this depiction of primal sluttiness, but let's-fucking-face-it, this shit's dated. She looks like a Gatorade commercial. Or, like, Capri-Sun. Either way it's peasant swill, and Madonna's trying to be Evita in like ten minutes so just ew.

2) Only the best in Party City headgear: Man, 1993 is making its presence known here, almost winking at us with John Bobbitt's ailing dickhead. When Madonna dons the golden crown near the end of the video, do we not see a slight resemblance to Michael Jackson's 1993 "Remember the Time" clip? I mean, there's no hot-headed Eddie Murphy here, no state-of-the-art "quicksand morph" CG, and there's DEFINITELY no motherfucking-baller-Saint Iman here, butttt there is a golden crown and rigid posing. Mmmmkay, fine, bad analogy, it looks more like my high school's production of The King and I, which is nearly as horrifying, though not quite as littered with singalong racism.

3) Earth, Wind & Pants: Best idea Madonna ever had? Wearing green-screen goddamn PANTS. Check out the blazing billows on those stretch bad-boys; they look like special-edition pajama bottoms for the armageddon. They're positively smokin'! Teehee! And a dream to squat in!

All this talk of fevers and flaming pants really makes me wonder if this song is Madonna's coded message to Carlos Leon or Dennis Rodman that she contracted chlamydia. You just never know. Even though you do know that Madonna's vulva are apparently beaming with green-screen projectiles, steaming up the joint, and causing that naked lad's abs to perspire. Might be best to buy the latex now, Carlos. A latex motherfucking snowsuit.