Fetish in Modern Music: A Very Serious, Slightly Sticky Subject

Modern music has always had a weakness for obsession. Not just the usual kind — chart obsession, autotune obsession, vinyl obsession, algorithm obsession — but the more curious variety: fetish. And no, I don’t mean the leather-trenchcoat, high-gloss, candlelit sort exclusively, though that certainly has a cameo. I mean fetish as in fixation: when a song, an image, a sound, or a tiny detail becomes so magnified it starts doing all the emotional heavy lifting.

Pop music, especially, treats fetish like a magpie treats jewellery. It swoops in, steals the shiny thing, and builds a whole identity around it. One minute it’s a boot, a glove, a corset, a chrome car, or a red lipstick; the next, it’s an entire aesthetic universe with choreography, lighting, and a merch table.

The funny thing is that modern music often pretends this isn’t happening. Artists will insist they are merely “exploring themes”, while the rest of us can clearly see they are one rim shot away from a full-blown fixation. A song may be about love, but the video is about latex. A track may be about freedom, but the cover art is a close-up of a chain, a mirror, or someone looking mysteriously at their own reflection as if they’ve just discovered a new species of anguish.

And then there’s production fetishism, which is the cleanest, least discussed kind. The modern producer can spend six hours obsessing over a hi-hat pattern no listener will consciously notice, but everyone will somehow feel. That’s fetish too: devotion to the detail, worship of the texture, reverence for the perfect snare. Somewhere out there is a bedroom producer polishing a synth patch with the same emotional intensity Victorian poets reserved for sunsets and tuberculosis.

The aesthetics of fetish in music are also deeply democratic. You don’t need to be famous to participate. Any indie band can add a single ominous bassline and a suspicious amount of black fabric, and suddenly they’re “reinventing sensual minimalism”. A rapper can mention a designer brand, a car, or a watch, and it instantly becomes not just product placement but a shrine to aspiration. A pop star can wear one unusual glove and the internet will spend 48 hours building a theology around it.

Of course, the humour lies in the gap between seriousness and absurdity. Music is full of people acting as though their obsession is noble and universal, when it may simply be that they really, really like shiny things, dramatic pauses, and being looked at. That’s not a criticism; it’s the engine of popular culture. Without fetish, modern music might have fewer costumes, fewer hooks, and far fewer smoke machines.

So perhaps fetish in modern music is less about taboo and more about attention. It is the art of turning desire into design, fixation into fashion, and a passing crush into a three-minute anthem. Which is, when you think about it, exactly what pop has always done.

The nerves of a gambler, and the judgement of a priestess

In Rome, a woman in the oldest profession had to possess the skills of a general, the nerves of a gambler, and the judgement of a priestess who has just realised the sacrifice is late and angry. She rose before dawn, which in Rome was considered either noble or suspicious depending on who was asking, and began the day by making herself presentable enough to tempt half the city and respectable enough to avoid being thrown out of the other half.

Her wardrobe did much of the talking. While proper Roman wives swaddled themselves in dignity, modesty, and approximately six layers of social warning signs, she dressed to be noticed. A little colour, a little perfume, and a look that said I have time for you, but only if you pay in advance could do wonders. In Rome, as in all civilised places, appearances were half the business and the other half was lying with charm.

She worked in a city where every man believed himself a philosopher after three cups of wine and a man of action after four. This made for lively commerce. A good client was worth his weight in silver. A bad one was worth a quick prayer, a firm door, and perhaps a large bouncer named Lucius who had the manners of a collapsing temple wall.

The Romans were obsessed with bathing, which was useful, since it meant potential customers were often warmed, washed, and already half-undressed before they’d begun making a fool of themselves. Bathhouses were a wonder of civilisation: steam, gossip, body oil, vanity, and men pretending not to stare. For a woman in her line of work, they were practically a marketplace with better acoustics.

Of course, there were dangers. Rome was full of men who wanted discretion but dressed like they’d been ambushed by a wine press. Some were charming, some were cheap, and some had the emotional maturity of a donkey kicked in the head. She had to distinguish them quickly. A prostitute in Rome was not merely selling companionship; she was running an enterprise in advanced human nonsense.

Then there was the matter of the law, which in Rome often seemed designed by men who had never once met a woman and disliked the idea intensely. Respectable society condemned her, desired her, taxed her, and then acted shocked when she understood everyone’s secrets. Which she did. Possibly all of them. If a senator was cheating on his wife, she knew. If a merchant was lying about his profits, she knew. If a man claimed he had “only had two cups” and couldn’t remember his own name, she definitely knew.

Yet there was a strange freedom in it too. She was outside the cage of respectable womanhood, where silence was considered virtue and obedience was called morality. She dealt in wit, timing, and sharp observation. She knew men’s weaknesses better than their wives did, and often for a fraction of the cost.

By evening, after a day of smiles, bargaining, and strategic eye contact, she could count her earnings, her bruises, and her regrets. Sometimes Rome gave her silver. Sometimes wine. Sometimes trouble. But Rome, for all its grandeur, was built on appetite, and she had learned to profit from it.

The Social Hierarchy of Saloon Girls, or: Who’s Really Running the Place?

Apologies for the lack of posts in the last couple of weeks. here's a couple of light hearted historical ones...

When people imagine the Old West saloon, they often picture the men: the sheriffs, the cowboys, the card sharks, and the one guy who definitely owns a gun but not necessarily a personality. But the real social structure of the place? That was often found among the saloon girls, who operated a surprisingly strict internal hierarchy built on charm, stamina, tact, and the ability to survive a room full of overconfident men after nine o’clock.

At the top of the pecking order was usually the girl who could walk into a room and make it look as though the room had been waiting for her all day. She had presence. She had poise. She had the sort of smile that made men sit up straighter, loosen their purse strings, and suddenly remember they were meant to be polite. She was not necessarily the loudest, but she was often the one everybody noticed first, which is really just the saloon version of being promoted to living legend.

Below her came the seasoned professionals: the girls who knew every regular by name, debt, weakness, and preferred drink. These were the social engineers of the saloon. They could spot a troublemaker from across the room, sense a cheap tip before it hit the table, and tell within seconds whether a man wanted company, sympathy, or just someone to listen while he explained why his horse was “stubborn” in the same tone usually reserved for failed marriages. Their power was quiet but immense. They didn’t need to be the brightest star if they could keep the whole sky from falling in.

Then came the newcomers, who usually entered the hierarchy with the confidence of a royal procession and the practical experience of a suitcase. A fresh saloon girl might think the job was about looking pretty and pouring drinks. This is adorable, and also incorrect. She would soon learn that success required diplomacy, timing, a good memory, and the ability to tell whether a man was being charming or merely pending a future apology. The other girls might test her, tease her, or politely ignore her until she proved she could hold her own. In saloon terms, this was known as “initiation” and “Tuesday.”

Of course, there was also an unofficial ranking system based on practical matters. Who got the best customers? Who received the biggest tips? Who was trusted with the smoothest shifts? Who was assigned the loudest drunk with the least sense of dignity? These details mattered. A girl could rise quickly if she was clever, funny, and not easily rattled. Conversely, one bad night could push a woman down the ladder faster than a poker cheat spotting the sheriff.

What made this hierarchy so entertaining was that it was rarely about beauty alone. Beauty helped, naturally — this was a saloon, not a tax office — but wit could outperform looks, and reputation could outshine both. A woman who could keep a room laughing, defuse a dispute, and make a miser tip generously had real influence. Some girls ruled through glamour, some through intelligence, and some through the ancient and highly effective strategy of knowing exactly when to say, “Well, aren’t you something,” and letting a man do the rest.

The funniest part is that many of the men in the saloon believed *they* were the important ones. They were not. They were, in many cases, simply the budget.

So the next time you picture an Old West saloon, remember that behind the piano music and the tumbleweeds of male ego, there was likely a finely tuned hierarchy of saloon girls managing the whole show with style, wit, and a deeply professional eye-roll.

Unusual fetishes

Professor Mark Griffiths, who knows a lot about behavioural addiction at Nottingham Trent Universit+y, shared some of the most unusual fetishes he has ever come across.

For some people, the idea of being sexually aroused by cannibalism is a real thing. In 2021, Armie Hammer was accused of having cannibalistic fetishes.

He explained that ‘vorarephilia’ or ‘vore’ means being sexually aroused by the thought of being eaten, eating someone else or watching this happen for sexual pleasure. Most people with vorarephilia fantasies are the ones being eaten. Eating someone could be seen as the ultimate act of dominance by a predator and the ultimate act of submission by the prey.

The case of Armin Meiwes is a stark reminder of this. He was sentenced to life in prison for killing and eating Bern Jurgen Brandes, who had met him after posting an online advert on ‘cannibal fetish websites’.

Another fetish is dacryphilia, which involves being sexually aroused by someone crying in the bedroom. Dr Griffiths describes it as happening in three parts: compassionate dacryphiles are aroused by the compassion of comforting a crier, dominant or submissive dacryphiles are aroused by causing tears in a consenting submissive partner or being made to cry by a consenting dominant partner and ‘curled lip’ dacryphiles are aroused by the curling of a protruded bottom lip during crying.

Eproctophilia is an arousal to flatulence. This fetish might be considered a bit overwhelming, as it involves being turned on by farts. Professor Griffiths encountered eproctophilia in 2013 when he met a man called Brad (an alias). Brad had a crush on a girl who farted in class, which sparked a strange interest and when he heard a male friend fart, he also began fixating on the sound.

Here is a story about a man who bet on the loser farting in his face for a week. He lost these bets every few weeks for about two years.

It is rather amusing to hear that one [influencer turned a profit by selling jars of her flatulence online

Dr Griffith clarified that apotemnophilia isn’t a form of masochism. Apotemnophilia is when someone is aroused by the thought of or being with an amputee.

Some apotemnophiles might pretend to be amputees, but for a minority, it involves obsessive scheming to convince a surgeon to perform a medically unnecessary amputation. While this might seem like masochism, case studies suggest there’s no eroticisation of pain – only of the healed amputated stump.

Salirophilia is another complex paraphilia. It’s when a person is turned on by dirtying someone attractive, like covering them in mud, damaging their clothes, or messing up their hair and makeup.

In 2019, Dr Griffith met Jeff (alias) who explained his attraction to dirtying attractive women. He wanted to masturbate in dirty places and struggled to find someone willing. He also enjoyed the TV show Fear Factor, which featured contestants performing revolting tasks for prize money. These tasks, like eating rotting food or being submerged in foul fluids, were a source of sexual arousal for Jeff. He simply found the defilement of an attractive woman’s body erotic.

Kristina, somewhat normal after all..x