I'm writing this while on holiday with my daughters in the picturesque town of Berry, nestled in the rolling hills and vineyards of the southern highlands. As I sit here, surrounded by some of the friendliest finches known to man, I still can't shake the lingering memory of those Summer Nights.
During lunch at a "retro bar"—clearly designed by people who’d mistaken a ChatGPT prompt for an understanding of retro culture—the Grease soundtrack started playing.
My jaw clenched—and not just because of my ADHD meds.
There’s something about that music, that soundtrack, that sends me spiraling.
The songs bring back memories of being an awkward, chubby eight-year-old, dancing gracelessly in school halls shoddily transformed into makeshift discotheques. Smoke machines sputtered, fluorescent lights flickered, and the whole scene felt like it had been pulled from the 60s—barely staying alive, much like those lights.
There we were, decked out in our brand-new Hot Topic ensembles (or Miss Shop, if we were really lucky), standing awkwardly in our boy and girl groups, pretending not to care if our crush looked our way.
As the music kicked in, you’d hear the telltale squeak of sneakers skidding across freshly polished floorboards.
First came My Sharona by The Knack, then a little Take That, followed by Nutbush City Limits, and inevitably, the night wrapped up with the Grease Summer Nights medley.
You know that final note? The long, drawn-out NAH-HIGHTS that every man and his dog feels compelled to belt out at full volume? Well, dear reader, that’s what the Eighth Circle of Hell sounds like. Just that note. On repeat. Forever.
I realize this stance might (perhaps) get me ex-communicated from the great pantheon of adopted Australian cultural icons, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay.
Look, my issue isn’t really with Grease itself. Honestly, this could apply to any movie. What perplexes me is our protectiveness over cultural osmosis. Are we so starved for originality that we feign cult-like enthusiasm for anything that catches on?
I remember working for a woman a few years ago, and we were discussing movies we hadn’t seen. When I casually mentioned that I, a living, breathing woman, had never watched Grease, she looked at me with pure, unfiltered disgust.
“YOU WHAT?!”
I repeated myself.
“OH MY GOD, YOU GUUUUUYS,” she yelled to the entire newsroom. “Tash has never seen Grease!”
The outrage was so intense, I might as well have told her I ate puppies.
“Well,” I replied, “you’ve never seen Amadeus, which I grew up watching. I find it strange you’ve never bothered to watch that, so... you know.” I added a nervous laugh, the kind we women tack on to ensure we don’t come off as threatening.
My issue isn’t with Grease, per se (for what it’s worth, I adore ONJ). It’s more about how we cling to whatever’s popular to craft our personalities, because it’s terrifying to admit we don’t actually like a, b, or c. Maybe we prefer d, e, or (gasp) f instead.
This, of course, flips when people go out of their way to reject anything popular just because it’s deemed “lame” by the crowd around them.
It's ironic and a bit sad that the biggest faux-fans aren't teenagers—historically the most susceptible to peer pressure—but adults who should know better.
And it's not just movies; it's everything. Honestly, think about it.