pretense: if only all covers projected couture #hauteculture #immerseinthepresent
If, If, I were to blinkk this I’d probably say… Disco Heaven, lucky sevens, “‘Bad Romance‘s bigger, badder, bolder older sister, the one who apprenticed under Baudrillard, and eloped with Josephine Baker one artful midnight in the city of lights – that older sister,” genes and jeans, harlows sprawled along quicksilver silkscreens, poetry in motion, paucity exposed gilded within, break beats, parisian heat, always Paris with artpop stars, bars and brilliance, every motion masterpiece a time and space void of twain…
always the anthem, all alone, because to go through life like a karate kid, eyes dream infinitely of love supreme… haus chic, somewhere basquiat and reagan… somewhere on sandbar 45… soulboxing with the luminaries… serving with edie and mcqueen, plato’s atlantis persephone’s renaissance, pandora’s fanmade scene… hemlines and basslines, well-tailored tempos… this is artpop as much as it is the fame as much as it is the electric kiss manifest boogie elastic…
The Siren: Victoria “Little Boots” Hesketh
The Sound: Synthpop, nu-disco, deep house, electro house… mercurial melange of old and new
The Scene: East Angelean echoes, deep bass, dark clothes, dim lighting, disco flying, summer swelter, low-key shelter, electronic dance shows, less wubba wubba, more water cooler… minimalist staging, maximalist sound, in a way that pulls facade from the corporate tower and floods the underground… america is all show business, and we cosmic dancers are all working girls…
Asia… Asia, Asia: Asia. Is a very real thing. And reality will deal. In increasing measure. Well into the forseeable future. Asia is a Hollywood Renaissance. Black, Female, French, Bulldog. Serving for the stars. Slaying for life. Sitting sideways. Shading moonlight. Asia didn’t sign up for this, but — as a wise man once said: you don’t sign up for what you’re born into. Asia was born to slay for life and serve the light. Werk. It. Black. Sheesus. #amen
I stole Mommy’s cellphone and will be posting photos all day long. I HAVE A BIG ANNOUNCEMENT!” – @MissAsiaKinney 💗
Act 1: Serving “I’ll Worry About My Opposable Thumbs – You Worry About Your Data Plan” Realness
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I love to eat while I sketch my ideas for the fashionable puppy line I’m starting! 🎀
Act 2: Serving “Let Them Eat Couture” Realness
The soul is a Geppetto.
The soul is a character, crafted at the hands of a Disney – to portray and display navigation. Precise design, guidance, vision, supposed to nurture and cultivate. Educate, inform, to build the context, the mental escape of this world for the inanimate – it has the power; and channel energy and light by way of inspired design, craftsmanship, workmanship, inspiration, execution, perspective, that creative spark
– and yet: it’s quiet, it’s sure. stoic. astute. precise and so articulate, in so few words, not that it doesn’t know them, but rather that it chooses to explore… the endless possibility in the world of language, in all its beautiful forms, and manifestations. it reaches beyond convention, and creates entirely new points of articulation. highlights them… paths, new roads to explore and ways to get from point a to point b and back again…
because education was the motivation, because she blogged before it was cool, because she was an independent publisher in the midst of corporate media, because stellar evolution involves apparent collapse, because she may not have spoken the King’s English but still scribed the siren’s hymn, because well-before she dropped the scheiße en route to new Britney’s mission she bathed in capital H.I.M., because we voted her to be nouveau royalty in the midst of gop patriarchy, because she faced the fire for her fans while the Administration placed firearms and debt in their electorate’s hands…
because she wants you people to know she’s not perfect, she’s divine #godspeed
I’m an interesting one, like many. I love and live my music. Music is the score of said life. So, a playlist sonic biography of the slightly younger, significantly wiser self. Mood music … immune muses … Just a spin in the soundtrack of swipe’s life… Enjoi.
I see in sounds: my selfie is a soundtrack.
The (S)tar Spangled Banner – Whitney Houston 
Pledge allegiance. The dawn, the genesis. Born stellar.
(W)ho Do You Think You Are – Spice Girls 
When this launched, who did I think I was… who did I perceive myself to be… well, I was a bouncing Baltimore baby, the charmed second, bite-sized cerebral stellar body in orbital training, traversing the globe from within the four walls of my elementary boudoir. Reach up, maintain soul, get down, claim control… move, swing, shake, for life, for lyric, for rhyme, or reason (whichever’s in season): a la mode, a la monarchy, nine years young, forever the groovy one… cheers.
It’s dead, right? That’s the tone. “Music is dead wrong right now.” No. Never. Not, ever. Somewhere in the midst, art lingers, latent but everlasting. Immortality rests in the rhythm. No matter how broke, bullied, abandoned, starved, outcast, paralyzed, apparently descended… you can always muse. The language of the gods from the stars exudes. Those lyrics and harmonies will sustain the seemingly los culture. From the mouths of babes, from the medley of blues, from the birth of tragedy, sagas continue.
twenty-seven with an infinite lineage manifest through song… every note, every melody an immaculate conception with composers i’ve never known. but that is the value, and that is the threat: that in this world made manufacture, in this culture industry, rogue rhythmic pregnancies prevail.
I love my fans so much… I love my fans, because they always let me be myself… they don’t care what anybody says… and the reason that that’s important… is because, something you probably don’t know, is that when you’re not yourself, it’s so much harder… it’s so much easier to be yourself, than it is to be someone else… because when you have to pretend to be someone else… like things you don’t like… do things you don’t want to do… it eats your soul inside, and makes you do stupid sxxt… so I wrote this song about all the things I’m sorry for… and I’m mostly sorry to myself and I’m so sorry to myself that I, I don’t always be myself … – The
Mockingjay Lady Known As Gaga
In case you were wondering what’s behind the swine … existence of the living gold mine … the reality that human traffic runs through vinyl, video, and grapevine … that spectacular misery is of industrial design … that the vomit you spew, pre-emptive anesthetic to the polity coup, our very own blood red, sterilized white, and royal blue … the surrender in silence, the deafening void, the sadness… the sadness… the lament and suffocating isolation of that human capital demise … that behind the lids are empty exes where once haused Tiresian eyes.
British tones. Angeles tempos. That’s the point. That you can come to the light amidst darkness, create an echo in the silence. Basilisk beats, She wanders. Homeward-bound, London found in lost Angeles.
Visceral. The vocals emerge from serpent strings, Valkyries returned on ravens wings, crooning tales to be told of once-lived dreams. Jess sings the blues of a sapient soul found in barren canyons of scarred star-trails. The lyrical lens navigates mood and melody, the narrative unfolds within spliced vignettes – into the Pacific Channel on angels we arrive, through the lostlands and Sunset, emerged from neon aquatic.
Tone and timbre, tears and tempos; bricks and mortar for the rhythms we inhabit as our own. Letting go of what you didn’t know you had, that is what this finds with home.
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This record speaks volumes. #staytuned
in so many ways…
Night Surgeon’s Gondola Crimewave EP is slated for a March 2014 release, but I was given an early appointment to sample the latest from Portland’s sonic doctors. Needless to say, if the ailment is color-by-numbers iPop – today’s prescription is two GCs and a midnight call.