So… if nothing else, 2012 proved that by George the Mayans had it all kinds of right: this year proved a renaissance of apocalyptic proportions – a year when the culturally amnesiatic cynics failed to recognize a sea change over the screams of their own skeptic scoffs… alas, even in the midst of privately-backed Super-PAC pocketed media, bindered women, NRA publicity stunts, mass school shootings, a deluge of false formations and knowledge starvation, the spectacle’s continued triumph over literacy shrugged – and oh, Sandy; even in the midst of all that, there was music – glorious music – because after all, to mark the fall, the birth of tragedy is forever conceived in the spirit of music.
Somewhere along the 365 steps on the road to perdition, albums debuted, someone named Franked caused an Ocean of tears, a boy named Ken lamented the m.a.a.d. urban terrain, and Fiona spun the wheel while time idly passed by… but this isn’t about them – although everything else prior has unremarkably revolved around the former two – this list is about five albums I listened to, five albums I didn’t need people to tell me I liked, five works that are tragic in their own right, five that may not be cool, may be too young for school, but five that at the end of the day reminded me of what “those” Mayans might play had they lived to see this day…
MDNA – Madonna
This was easily some of Madonna’s best work to date – contextually – period. Although sonic cohesion and precision ebb and flow within the confines of Madge’s contemporary discography, MDNA solidified a mood and melody for the Monarch’s tumultuous mindset. Ciccone grabbed the circuit and spun it up proper, regardless of all analog static enveloping the release. Best friends, boyfriends, and rhythmic revelations in tow – Madge dropped a bomb, aurally addicting, introspectively intriguing, albeit misguided at times, but always spectacular – MDNA what a mighty majestic show.
Now that your name
Pumps like the blood in my veins
Pulse through my body, igniting my mind
It’s like MDNA and that’s OK
She could be talking to you or the mirror, but it doesn’t matter. As the building block of modern Pop “I’m Addicted” is MDNA in its totality. The mitochondrial foundation, the relentless, the systematic hysteria from an absolutely static core, Molly the Dolly’s chemical composition riding the wave of that synthesized bloodline straight to the brain, building to that tipping point, the fever pitch of aural aneurysm in which the only constant over the chaos is the lone voice ringing: M, D, N, A #mcommadcommamcommaa I need to dance… it fits like a glove… like black leather clung to the steering wheel behind the white Bronco… coasting down the MDNA freeway. Fantastically frenzied Fame overdose pushed to the comatose – exhale.