Live to Tell

The time has come for Madonna to take her pop and go home.

The following two events are connected: Now, right now, Madonna has a single on the pop charts -- "Hung Up" -- a quite danceable throwback to her '80s heyday. And, in 2000, after notable lack of success as stone-faced global moralists and the humbling horrors of "Lemon" and "Discotheque," U2 enjoyed a late-career swoon with "Beautiful Day."

"Beautiful Day" was the anachronistically uplifting overture of 2000. A philosophical rocker unashamed of its vulnerability, the single blasted from corner shops and Camaros with equal aplomb. The sneaky verse insinuated itself just gently enough to make the bombast of the chorus a new surprise with each listening and each remix. The tender hopefulness of "See the bird with a leaf in her mouth/After the flood, all the colors came out" jerked tears from eyes that rolled at images of Bono shaking hands with various dictators. And that's when the U2 bandmates (who, after all, had an amazing decade-plus run, from 1981's Boy to 1991's Achtung Baby) might have, should have -- really definitely should have called it a beautiful day and gone out, as is their right, as legends.

Madonna's "Hung Up" is no "Beautiful Day." It's not even "Vogue" or "Justify My Love." But it is a bona fide hit, one that appeals to three generations of listeners who know Madonna in at least one of her various incarnations. It affords her the opportunity to go out, to exit stage left, as ageless, nearly genderless, tragically successful (an image she no doubt would relish), and dignified. Such a retreat would spare her and us from a continually more frantic Jane Fondalike deployment of careers, interests, and style makeovers. But will she take the buyout?

An argument can be made that Madonna has been coasting and casting about for a singular identity since her split with lover and producer Jellybean Benitez nearly 20 years ago. Her career-defining early singles -- "Borderline," "Holiday," "Everybody," and the vocals on "Sidewalk Talk" -- were completed at Benitez' side by 1987. The skittery synth loop of "Sidewalk" and the awkwardly slow (yet hummable) stomp of "Lucky Star" were enlivened by Madonna's yearning-for-fame voice; the frank overture to the physical mechanics of love in "Dress You Up" became her more broadly drawn calling card by 1984, with the more stately pace and structured rhythms of "Like a Virgin."

During the turbulent age of Sean Penn, paparazzi brawls and Shanghai Surprise obscured what was really going on in Madonna's music: a pining for Jellybean. Even as she insisted she "dreamt of San Pedro," in "Las Isla Bonita," her heart was clearly on an island other than the one off Belize. And though "Live to Tell" so perfectly complemented the cornfields in the 1986 Penn vehicle At Close Range, Madonna is far more menacing than Christopher Walken as she intones, "The light that you could never see/It shines inside, you can't take that from me."

Finally in 1989, as the canonization of Ms. Ciccone truly began, Madonna seemed aware that without the aid of Jellybean, her Puerto-Rican-by-way-of-the-Bronx-sweetie shtick was quickly dipping into self-parody. Yeah, she produced her own jauntily eponymous four-beats-to-the-bar theme for the movie Who's That Girl? and followed her shaky grab at film stardom with -- if not her best music, her most memorable videos -- "Express Yourself" (the electrified blue milk-pouring) and "Cherish" (the mermaid child and Roxy Music Siren reference). But by 1989's Like a Prayer, the Madonna we had grown to love in the '80s was essentially no more.

Sure, Madonna's cultural-provocateur phase (which spanned the years from Like a Prayer through Sex) was interesting enough, but by that time, she had transformed herself from a pop singer to a pop-cultural symbol. It was great fodder for feminist-studies classes -- and perhaps provided more than a few theses for intellectually desperate grad students -- but much of the careless charm of the Jellybean years had vanished. The new Madonna seemed at times too self-conscious. By the mid-'90s, the act had once again grown stale.

The slide began in earnest with 1998's Ray of Light album -- on which she simulated a Björk-lite, pseudofuturist sensibility -- but it extended well into this millennium. Whether she was releasing 2003's abortion of an album (American Life), affecting a British accent, or declaring her devotion to the Kabbalah, both Madonna's music and her public persona during the past seven years have been marked by hopeless pretentiousness and cultural dilettantism.

Madonna fans may have hung their heads low during this era, but all that changed with the November release of "Hung Up." The song was stupid, in the best possible way. It seemed unconcerned with politics, art, or spirituality. Instead it was simply and beautifully fun. And although it broke little new ground artistically, much like "Beautiful Day," it was hailed as a return to form, and fans have rewarded her by making it her biggest single in years. For an aging pop star/provocateur/artist/whatever who is perhaps only a few years away from the Vegas circuit, the single's success is as much as she could've hoped for and a fitting bookend to her career.

In a way, though, the adulation for "Hung Up" is seriously fucked up. It's the same reason we applauded U2 for retreating from the irony-soaked Pop Mart years and embracing the more conservative and traditional "Beautiful Day," and it's also similar in spirit to the critical praise lumped upon Depeche Mode's Playing the Angel, an album that sounds in parts eerily similar to 1990's Violator. Traditional thinking goes that young artists are supposed to forget the past -- that they create brazenly experimental words that tear down previous preconceptions of artifice and aesthetics -- while older ones such as Madonna are seemingly bound by it, and once they venture outside their fans' comfort zones, they are plunged into obscurity.

Although Madonna may be just now coming to terms with this dynamic, sprinkled throughout her repertoire are hints that she has long been aware of it.

In her darkest song, "Oh Father," from 1989's Like a Prayer, the evocative stylist is ostensibly speaking to a fatally abusive parent, but it could also be interpreted as a plea to Jellybean, herself, and perhaps even her fans: "You can't hurt me now/I got away from you, I never thought I would/You can't make me cry, you once had the power/I never felt so good about myself." But, as the success of "Hung Up" proves, you can never truly get away from yourself.

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