Shake It For Me, Girl

For reasons I cannot explain, I woke up this morning with country singer Luke Bryan's song "Country Girl (Shake It For Me)" stuck in my head. I cannot explain this, because it just happens to be one of my LEAST favorite songs. Ever.

Now, in general I consider myself to be a country music fan. But this relationship to country music isn't without its problems. In fact, much of what is played on my local country radio stations centers on objectifying (usually blond) women and drinking beer, two things I don't endorse or condone. Bryan's song is an obvious case in point - the lyrics invite his "country girl" to willingly objectify herself as she performs for the titillation of male fantasy:

Shake it for the young bucks sitting in the honky-tonks
For the rednecks rocking 'til the break of dawn
For the DJ spinning that country song
Come on, come on, come on

Shake it for the birds, shake it for the bees
Shake it for the catfish swimming down deep in the creek
For the crickets and the critters and the squirrels
Shake it to the moon, shake it for me girl

Aw, country girl, shake it for me
Girl, shake it for me, girl, shake it for me
Country girl, shake it for me
Girl, shake it for me, girl, shake it for me

However appealing and, in the most generous interpretation possible, ambiguous "shaking it" for "the critters" might be (I haven't tried it - why would I? - so I'm not sure what is to be gained there), the music video that accompanies these bizarre requests makes Bryan's meaning crystal clear. Really, between the boob and booty shots, bare midriffs and, of course, the "shaking it" by a group of young, too-thin and otherwise sexually objectified women, what else is there? This song has no other purpose than to encourage the belief that such behavior is "sexy" and desirable, and will make any woman willing enough able to attract the attention of her pick of equally attractive men. The prevalence, shallowness and pernicious superficiality of this message is painful, particularly in light of the centuries of feminist activism battling against this very kind of media representation. That it exists at all, in this day and age, irritates like a pebble in my shoe, one that returns no matter how many times I stop and try to shake it out (pun intended).

Thus, I can only conclude that my present torture, condemned to hear the teeth-grindingly stupid lyrics run endlessly through my brain, is the result of a subconscious desire to punish myself for some unrecognized offense. I hope I figure it out soon, because no better torture has ever been designed or inflicted!