As a young woman, growing up in Alberta and Quebec, I loved drama. I yearned to be on stage, wowing the audience, making sweeping gestures that would evoke memories of Judy Garland or Isabella Duncan. I wanted to wear fabulous clothing, clothing so stunning that people would stop dead in the streets to watch me as I sashayed along the pavement with my scarves twirling in the breeze, and my skirts trailing behind me like a bridal train.
I know it’s out of fashion and a trifle uncool but the 1980s are back. Not only was I not notified in advance, but no one asked my permission; After all, I am the Ambassador of Alphabet Town…the White Wedding Crasher…the Duke of Stratosphear. Its return was subtle and subversive but it was inevitable.
There was a window of about five years at the end of the 1990s/early 2000s where the 1970s returned in full force – Classic Rock became the clarion call of adults whose kids were old enough to wipe their own asses/noses and allowed disenfranchised parents of 1980s children to finally leave the nest, hit a night club and get their Frampton on.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 