Notes on Song: Charlene - "I've Never Been to Me"

Hey, lady, you, lady
Cursing at your life
You're a discontented mother
And a regimented wife

The ‘60s and '70s witnessed a “sexual revolution” that undercut the traditional mores of patriarchal, deist society. All of a sudden men and women were flinging themselves around in heedless abandon, copulating in mass numbers, entertaining several different sexual partners (occasionally at the same time) and buying up all the penicillin. Those who didn’t partake in this bacchanalia were generally divided between the pious (see: Anita Bryant, The Waltons, most of the Osmonds) and the jealously missing out. The narrator, who has made something of a fruitful existence from her forays in the plush underbelly, is advising an unnamed housewife that she’s not missing out as much as she thinks she is, despite housework and child-rearing not being as innately rewarding as they looked in back issues of Good Housekeeping.

I've no doubt you dream about
The things you'll never do
But I wish someone had talked to me
Like I wanna talk of you

Regrets. The housewife is besieged and entrapped by them. She’s realizing that she may live out the rest of her days without ever once seeing the canals of Venice, the Wall of China, or the Norway Pavilion at Epcot Center.

The narrator bemoans that she had no abstinence-only education as a young person, and instead was forced to blaze her own trails and travel the world without once knowing the latch-like security of a small town with no Fotomats or BDSM “scenes” to speak of.

Ooohooo, I've been to Georgia and California
And anywhere I could run

The narrator’s first, and therefore supposedly most compelling, point is that she’s traveled to Georgia (a United State known for its peaches) and California (a United State known for its oranges). When the narrator had sampled all the wares of each state, she took off in a heated sprint to find other places in which to languish, possibly including Canada.

I took the hand of a preacher man
And we made love in the sun

Most, but clearly not all, members of the clergy either practice celibacy or possess curious ideas about sexuality. Indeed, the conflation of sexuality and divinity – intentionally or otherwise – is a hot debate item, covered in frock-based literature like The Thorn Birds and Season 2 of Fleabag. The narrator’s coupling with a preacher man appears not to have raised too many hackles or misgivings about the duality, although as we’re about to see the narrator didn’t stick around long enough to test any theories.

But I ran out of places and friendly faces
Because I had to be free
I've been to paradise
But I've never been to me

All this world- and bed-hopping has provided the narrator with rare experiences few of her ilk are ever likely to have. Unfortunately, in doing so, the narrator feels that she has never come to understand what makes her unique or different as a person. She feels distanced from her essence, so much that she proclaims to have no self-knowledge whatsoever. Furthermore, living with no self-respect (let alone self-love) has left her utterly unable to form a true relationship based on anything other than mutual business arrangements, decked-out yachts and gruff dismissals of breakfast because it’s already noon and she’s just getting up for Pete’s sake.

We know that “I’ve never been to me” is a metaphor because there is no city in the world named “Me.” The narrator might be bemoaning the fact that she’s never visited Maine, a state whose two-letter postal abbreviation is ME, but I’m not sure never having been to Maine is worth the anguish or the time it takes to address it.

Please, lady, please, lady
Don't just walk away
'Cause I have this need to tell you
Why I'm all alone today
I can see so much of me
Still living in your eyes
Won't you share a part of a weary heart
That has lived a million lives

At this turn of the lyric I feel it’s time that we ask a very important question: What, exactly, is the relationship between the two women in this song?

The narrator addresses the housewife as “lady.” That implies that the two are strangers who encountered each other shortly before the song began. It’s therefore quite strange – though not entirely unprecedented – that the narrator a) simply walked up to the housewife in a public situation; b) was able to identify her as an unsatisfied housewife; and c) began regaling her with lamentations about her fancy-free, globe-trotting existence.

Put aside the notion that the housewife needs spiritual help: If a random stranger began talking intimately about her personal life to someone else, of course the addressee’s initial inclination would be to walk away. There’s nothing this creepy stranger can offer that can’t be extrapolated from a half-decent TED talk.

We must therefore conclude that the two women know each other to some extent, but not so closely that the narrator uses a more personal form of address than “lady.” It’s possible that so much time lolling about in the bosom of luxury has sapped the narrator of any ideas about how to maintain a realistic friendship. (Indeed, that’s kind of what she’s complaining about in the first place. Man – she’s good.)

More likely, this is just a convention of the song: Charlene is not speaking to a specific person, but is indeed addressing all English-speaking married women in the world, using the mnemonically effective platform of pop music. Which makes much more sense than stopping them all on the street and talking to them personally, although it would be sporting to watch her try.

Oh, I've been to Nice and the isle of Greece
When I sipped champagne on a yacht

The reference to “the isle of Greece” is in error. There is no single location known as “the isle of Greece.” The country itself is attached to the mainland of Europe, so it’s not an island in itself. True, there are many islands in the Mediterranean Sea controlled by Greece, but no single one of them is so much more compelling than all the others that it could be considered “the isle of Greece.” You can’t just tell somebody “Hey, guess what: I just went to the Isle of Greece!” and expect them to know exactly which isle you’re talking about. Crete? Milos? Kos? Santorini? Naxos? Karpathos? The Ionians? What do I look like, a gazetteer? Cut out the “20 Questions” bit and be more specific, Magellan. Jeez.

If the narrator thinks there’s only one Isle of Greece, clearly she hasn’t developed the world-weary sophistication she claims. Not that this error necessarily negates all the deathly important information in the rest of the song, but at the very least it should call her credibility into question.

Nice is a town in France that rhymes with “Greece.”

I moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo
And showed 'em what I've got

Jean Harlow (1911-1937) was one of the very first sex symbols of American cinema. She was a protegé of the American industrialist and world-class germaphobe Howard Hughes. Harlow’s main appeal lay in her sensuality (hence the narrator’s references to her “moves”), and she was known for bleaching her hair obsessively until it reached a radiant shade of blonde. In fact, Harlow was the first person ever to be identified as a “platinum blonde,” a term bestowed upon her by Hughes' director of publicity.

When the narrator says she “showed ‘em what I’ve got,” she is most likely referring to a working combination of her more appealing aesthetic features and the concupiscent movements which best display those features. The forum for her “show(ing) 'em what I’ve got” is not clearly defined. It may have been a private, one-on-one performance in the recesses of a presidential suite, or it may have been at a group outing for which she supplied sensuous entertainment. There’s a slight chance the narrator is exaggerating her experience here for dramatic effect, like some do after mediocre fishing trips.

I've been undressed by kings
And I've seen some things that a woman ain't supposed to see
I've been to paradise
But I've never been to me

Perhaps the most baffling segment of this song occurs in this couplet: What things are “a woman ain’t supposed to see”? The inside of a Friars Club? Notes from a Shriners' meeting? A deer carcass? Semi-pro football?

This line adheres to an ideal of femininity that was already on its way out at the time of this song’s release: that certain situations or escapades are so rough-and-tumble that theoretically “softer” females should not be allowed to observe them. For obvious reasons this standard is no longer relevant, except in remote parts of the world where butter-churning and quilting marathons are still part of the community’s social fiber.

Hey, you know what paradise is?
It's a lie
A fantasy we created about people and places as we'd like them to be
But you know what truth is?
It's that little baby you're holding
And it's that man you fought with this morning
The same one you're going to make love with tonight
That's truth, that's love

This portion of the song is delivered in a spoken-word monologue. It is therefore the philosophical crux of the entire piece; it is the central point that the narrator has been trying to impart. Although the verses are sufficiently descriptive, their being set to music and imbued with a rhyme scheme may have a distancing effect on the listener. Up to this point, you wouldn’t be faulted for thinking the narrator has been half-complaining and half-bragging about her soul-divesting travel life. But not now. The music recedes, the narrator sheds the emotional constrictions conferred by melody and rhyme, and must make clear her point with some straight talk. This is the nub of the song, its profound core, its emotional gut-punch, its Oscar clip. It stops the listener cold, forcing them to really dig the science Charlene is dropping at this time. If, after this monologue, you are still not certain of the narrator’s intent, I’m not sure there’s anything more we can do for you here. Take some online courses and stop calling me.

Sometimes I've been to crying for unborn children
That might have made me complete
But I, I took the sweet life I never knew
I'd be bitter from the sweet

Previous generations believed that in order to have a truly fulfilling life, a woman must give birth to and raise at least one child. Some women, especially female characters in Aaron Sorkin teleplays, still feel this way.

I've spent my life exploring the subtle whoring
That costs too much to be free
Hey, lady, I've been to paradise
But I've never been to me

The narrator has devoted a lifetime investigating the many ways and methods one may employ their body and simulate affection with influential men in order to obtain visceral rewards. The fact that she has done so in a “subtle” fashion indicates that she really knows how to milk that G8 summit beer garden for all it’s worth. But, as the song will ask now, anon and evermore: at what price?

(This annotation originally appeared on genius.com, who I'm pretty sure are going to send me some constructive feedback about it.)