In an interview this week with an Australian radio station, Nicole Kidman was asked about “Gemini,” a song in which husband Keith Urban calls her a “maniac in bed.”
Just what every wife wants publicly disclosed.
On the line to discuss the Season 2 finale of HBO’s Big Little Lies, Kidman — one of Hollywood’s most demure and elegant actresses — seemed taken aback when co-host Kyle Sandilands segued from her TV show to her carnal desires.
“I was looking through some other things that Keith had said as well,” said Sandilands, ominously. “It says here, right, Keith was asked about that song ‘Gemini.’ And he said that’s about you in the bedroom and that you are a maniac in bed. Did you say to him, ‘Watch what you say about me, darling?’ ”
Kidman laughed nervously, the way a celebrity does when a morning publicity hit goes sideways with a bawdy turn. One minute she’s gabbing about Meryl Streep and the emotional toll the dark scenes left on the cast. The next, she’s getting quizzed about her libido as if suffering from a split personality.
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Kidman told Sandilands and co-host Jackie O she does not “censor” Keith’s “art.” And she has no problem being his “muse,” especially since this was a compliment.
“It is embarrassing,” said Kidman. “At the same time, yes, it’s better than saying, ‘God, I’m so bored … Make an effort, Nicole.’ ”
But not quite done with needling his guest, Sandilands kept skimming the “Gemini” lyrics while Kidman, on vacation in Australia, presumably turned a shade of crimson while pressing the phone to her ear.
“Listen to this bit here,” said Sandilands. “He also says you wake up in the middle of the night to get your freak on.”
Sandilands: “That’s what he said.”
Kidman: “Shut up. You’re making that up.”
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So either, 1) Kidman has not listened to “Gemini,” which does include the line, “She’ll wake you to make love in the middle of the night” or, 2) Urban is a goddamn fool.
That this power couple, who celebrated their 13th anniversary last month, is madly in love is not in question. I’ll give 100 bucks to anyone who can show me a photo in which they are not staring into one another’s eyes with rapt devotion. You ever hear Urban give an acceptance speech at an award ceremony? It’s like having a two-gallon milkshake fire-hosed down your throat: nauseatingly sweet.
He adores Nicole! He is eternally grateful for their family and life together! I try to avoid the term “soul mates.” But if these two are not soul mates, there are no soul mates. I’d be shocked if Urban hasn’t already planned his next proposal for when he marries Kidman again in the afterlife.
But by hastily revealing how “Gemini” is about her — and creating the impression Nicole Kidman is a nymphomaniac — Mr. Urban has just put himself in relationship quicksand, should these two ever skid across a rough patch.
By admitting to writing confessional lyrics based on real life, he just screwed himself.
His “art” is now “autobiographically incriminating.”
His music is a mirror into how he really feels.
Consider other tracks on Urban’s most recent album, Graffiti U.
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In the song “Love the Way It Hurts (So Good),” for example, he croons about a past paramour: “We were making waves in the backseat/ Every time I close my eyes/ I sink into the pain of the memory/ I’m holding on for what it’s worth …
“And I guess we should have known/ It was too good to go on/ But there’s something about us that I just refuse to let go.”
Ah, dude? Let it go and shut your mouth. You are in a committed relationship and, as such, pining for an ex is a terrible song idea. Why not just write a ballad in which you fondly recall losing your virginity?
And what happens when Kidman listens to “Never Comin’ Down” and realizes she is not the partner in this romantic paean to recreational drug use: “When I take you by the hand, dancin’/ And we pass it around, ’round, ’round/ Yeah, we’re so high, we could paint the sky/ Tear the top right off the ceiling.”
Or what if these soul mates get into a spat about laundry or travel or parenting and, while blasting “Coming Home,” Kidman is suddenly crestfallen by her husband’s admission of existential angst and anomie: “I’m longin’ for the real thing, people who know the real me/ And all the ways to love me back to life.”
Did he just reveal he is dead on the inside?
This poor bastard is writing songs about the “red lips on a refugee” and how a certain A-lister in his life is now inclined to “steal my thunder.” It’s as if Ronald McDonald wrote a ditty about yearning for a Whopper.
In “Drop Top,” Urban is driving to Coachella with a woman who doesn’t know where she’s “gonna stay tonight” and recalling how another one-that-go-away left a “scar” on his “heart.”
If Kidman’s sex drive ever dips, Urban will no doubt write a song titled, “She Has A Headache (Again) And Boy Do I Miss Becky.”
Keith Urban is, by all accounts, a lovely fellow. But writing a song about wife Nicole Kidman’s erotic predilections was beyond idiotic; this reality is catastrophic.
Now everything he ever sings can and will be used against him.
Vinay Menon is the Star’s pop culture columnist based in Toronto. Follow him on Twitter: @vinaymenon