Cheek to Cheek is an aural alloy of the most masterful. Elements converge in a record album of jazz standards and one-take suzies, tears and tempos, fine-tuned fibres of the greatest art form to emerge from this American soil… classical and contemporary pillars found a musical canon of the most necessary, that which maintains the known order between high art and popular culture by collaboration and hybrid creation… in its pairing of Tony Bennett and Lady Gaga, the immense everything of said reality (think about it, think harder) Cheek to Cheek is ARTPOP, Vol. II.
If, IF I were to blinkk this I’d probably say… don’t rush it, let it linger and waft along those invisible currents only the audible architects can manage to manipulate with their coursing lyrics and lifted crescendos…
For a girl who doesn’t wear pants, who dons only the holiest of stockings… and for a gentleman who watches an industry of beat-backed four-letter woes, where he once wailed infinite rhythms of legendary prose – anything goes. What’s old is new, and what’s new is never lost, just hidden beneath the aura of pop culture:
Honeymoon isn’t even the furthest stretch of one’s falsified imagination when it comes to the Video Music Awards since 2010 #generous This year, I …. okay, I don’t actually know half of the nominees, and I might not have heard of 75% of the songs, but I can pick up a pattern from a mile away #universallaw #fortherecord
No one can predict the future, but we can recognize the present – and that’s good enough for me. Four butterflies to keep an eye on when watching the monarchy tonight… #theeverythingelse
1.) “[T]he renaissance of Pop Art and a Warholian world of blurred lines between reality and fantasy”
[T]angent. Point is: Edie said of herself something that resonates so deeply with GaGa tonight, “if you just listened to what I had to say it was sane, but if you just looked at me you wouldn’t bother to listen. And none of them did. God it was a nightmare.” There isn’t that futility with GaGa, but the nightmare is quite apparent. Performance artists live their art — completely. The world is their canvas — truly. Where the art succeeds, the artist suffers, but it is for the sake of art — even if only for art’s sake.
2.) Jimmy Timberlake
I live for the applause, applause, applause – I live for the applause-plause, live for the applause #paws
What I loved about Alejandro…
This is the drop after the first waves and floods: I’m not here to talk about her facial features, or how to convert atheists into believers; I’m just saying that somewhere in the midst of a[n] indie short film, and a scene-by-scene homage to immaculate conceptions – and collections – lies a near perfect Pop music video period. Is pastiche supposed to be coherent? It is now – let’s delve.
What was lambasted in Born This Way
I don’t know where to begin or end with this one… and I suppose that’s the best way to be – as there is no beginning or end to the perpetual renaissance … What artists do wrong is they lie, what critics do wrong is they try; I’m not going to try and pretend I know every conceptual reference here, nor analyze from a detached place of fault-and-fact finding – this isn’t about Pop cheat sheets and checklists… I’m just going to riff on what I know for me, and what I see
What lingered along the fringes of Scheiße…
Lady Gaga broke her notoriously extended hiatus, premiering her first mastered piece of “new music” … Those two years of antagonizing anticipation culminated into the club-pulsing climax … Forget the fact that this may or may not be what you wanted to hear from someone about whom you may or may not give a scheiße – ether that; from start to finish, career and current track, no one – no one female Pop body – can produce: produce, what Gaga can. Line after line, time after time: perfection – the wait is always worth it.
There’s the flawlessly deft production we’ve come to expect from the Haus mother … stratospheric synth, deep bass, smooth distortion, uncannily human reverb pulsing the cacophony. Gaga lends her voice as an added layer, as much a part of the score as the bevy of inanimate instruments behind her
Lady Gaga has solidified her sonic aesthetic and social impact – and they are one in the same. If the backbeat pulses harder than my own heartbeat, why not dance together? This is cold technology and hot harmonies, sheer energy, factory fashion, raw humanity, grime, graffiti, and glitterbombs; this is stream-of-consciousness that doesn’t make sense now, but will before the rest of the globe makes sense of itself: this is 31st Century schizo world – welcome Haume.
Is what lays the foundation for “Applause:” The pulse as nothing more, and never anything less, than the traverse between polarity
– once you know the system’s rhythm, all that’s left to do is choreograph the rendevous #multiversallyspeaking
Nouveau riche in thé vintage frame. The forever first lady and the one time flame. The brunette bombshell and the trap star, lost and found in the endless hyperreel… Because the spectacle said so – when the young culture is American culture, and Lana’s lyrics drown out Key’s ode to Lady Liberty… Where standing wealth disappears beneath the facade of runaway riches. Where race fades in the place of the envy, the currency, the one, the only, the greenface. Where Cognac and Cuban cigars line the seersuckered pockets of star-spangled bangers… Here in this place in time, suspended in the gilded gift of the omnipresent: the market is the new monarchy, fame is the new family, pledge allegiance to the powers that be: Marilana Yolonassis and A$AP “Call Me More Like Dom” F. Kennedy
Quick little playlist to pulse the summer pavement… like when Blow Pops met the blacktop, or Hov met Hannah Montana #andajayzsongwason
Cowboy boots on the Sunset Strip, drop the roof off the German whip… fringe element patriots don’t need you or your brand new Benz, or your bourgie friends… numb to love, blinded by diamonds… from Parisian royalty to glitterbombed PWT, these stars’ scars stay shining… plummeting to new depths of depravity, fame is the new america… classless, priceless, from the brink of Bed Stuy to the belly of the map, a playlist fit for Plymouth Roc, a bacchanalian beat for Benedict Arnold #whentheunitedwentcrack
I hopped off the plane at L.A.X.
With a dream and my cardigan…
Some folks are born made to wave the flag
Ooh, they’re red, white and blue
And when the band plays “Hail to the chief”
Ooh, they point the cannon at you
Lord, it ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no senator’s son
Son, it ain’t me, it ain’t me; I ain’t no fortunate one, no
This Saturday’s passing of Barbara Billingslea was the death of June Cleaver, America’s touted Matriarchal Eve; a picture tells a thousand words – and for Post-Pleasantville America’s fairy tale ending, well, I just leave that to Beave
The Face of American Values
#mytwocents In Generation Cleaver’s wake, we stand in the midst of super sweet sexting and teen moms, baby baby baby booms and backseat proms. Cleaver represented an ideal that was far from real, but an American lie made truth. The perfect family, the white picket fence, and white pearls. That sterility, that cult of domesticity, upheld a facade that played to the patriarchs of our “better nation.” As we look back on the iconography of patriotic perfection, we must also look at where we are now. What did The Fifties give us except a delusion of grandeur to throw in the gutter? A reflection of everything that wasn’t? The Cleavers were a semblance of American impossibility, not opportunity. For all of the pristine bedrooms within June’s humble abode, there were that many more walk-in closets with skeletons falling over themselves to stumble out. Beaver represents the child of that era – he’s the Hollywood Kid that grew up but never grew out of the pigeonhole. Looking at him, I can’t help but see the milieu of iCarlys, Zacks, Codys, Lindsays, Hilarys, JoBros, and Disney Heaux following his lead. I don’t really know what it means exactly, maybe it’s just a reminder of what happens to deferred dreams.
Watch this space: the more things change, the more they stay the same… you better Belieb it
2007 climaxed the greatest American tale since The Civil War, and Britney Spears’ Blackout was our living soundtrack. Just as Spears was our brown-eyed girl of misfortune, Blackout is the requiem of our American Dream. Britney was an ideal created in our own image. Our image, our perception of our self worth, in the past decade was dependent upon fame and projected status. Then, more than ever, our identities were aligned with iconographies: Britney was our Miss American Dream, and in 2007 we saw her strip away her white gown.
At our darkest hour, our brightest supernova wanted nothing more than to go that extra mile for us. We created a monster mistress, a pop iconography reflecting our wildest and greatest desires – embodying our most visceral conquests. She was the broken kingdom, and on behalf of her mortal peers she sacrificed herself for our entertainment. She was our gladiator and our samurai on a kamikaze mission to kill the very same system which produced her. Even with her back against the wall she was our central focus, how something so perfect could be so not – and how such reckless power could destroy our most divine wind. We watched her spiral through insanity, as cameras flashed her dancing deliriously to music only she could hear. Even though we led her to this position of mania, she gave us permission to send her on a suicide mission: before the flashing lights, she was to touch the sky and nosedive in a sacrificial spectacle fit for a fallen empire. She gave more when she had nothing to give, because we asked for it – because the same guys who told us that she was the most valuable dream, told her that her value relied on our affirmation; she Merrill Lynched our Pop selves. Her punishment was her penance, and as much hers as it is ours. The opening is the standing reminder that even after she fades, the irremovable, unstoppable, perpetuating danja remains.
Some artists defy the nature of the here today, gone in thirty seconds nature of pop culture, and especially that of the Internet’s role in that cultural development. “Thinkpieces” is a way to get you, the reader to stop, pause and reflect on moments of not just cultural brilliance, and even more so, cultural significance.
“I would like to turn the world on, just for a moment … just for a moment,” so spoke Andy Warhol’s brightest burning – and arguably quickest dimming – Superstar, the girl on fire, the Poor Little Rich Girl, Edie Sedgwick.
As much as April 20th is the unofficial holiday celebrating the blurred, covert cool, touted taboo identity of this Lost Generation; Edie Sedgwick, born on this very day in 1943, is the unofficial harbinger of the Hipster – “It’s not that I’m rebelling. It’s that I’m just trying to find another way.” Everything about Edie was cool, everything about Edie was “now,” everything about Edie was so beautifully disastrous. Her significance is insignificant, if only because it was so superlative, but so temporally isolated; and if only because of that fact: her obituary is our biography – those dying to live, and forever living under the shadow of that spectacular demise.
History is said to be written by the victors (read: 1. America always wins – even when we lose – because we said so, and 2. we don’t have time to read up on “world history” because we are the world, and we don’t care about his story because our story is the only one that matters). That said, Texas has decided to chop-and-screw said history because, well, they felt like it. The Texas State Board of Education (other than the state sanctioned “disciplinary tool” – a large piece of plywood with an “edjewkashun” inscription) voted 10-5 to
“inject conservative ideals into social studies, history and economics lessons that will be taught to millions of students for the next decade,” requiring teachers “to cover the Judeo-Christian influences of the nation’s Founding Fathers, but not highlight the philosophical rationale for the separation of church and state. Curriculum standards also will describe the U.S. government as a ‘constitutional republic,’ rather than ‘democratic.'”
So here’s ten things I didn’t know about US History until Texas told me so (read: 10 things that will replace Pluto’s existence in your kids’ curriculum/ 10 more things other than Twitter, Justin Bieber, and Texts from Last Night that you won’t be able to talk about with your kids at the dinner table).
Oh the brilliant BRIT Awards (says the Yankee). If the Brits taught us one thing: it’s to guard your crown jewels; meanwhile, Stateside the Grammys traded them off for glitter, while the AMAs cut off their nose to save face. Thank the Queen, Britain – in all its splendid isolation – provided a safe haven for our native island of creative misfits. With the veneer of the VMAs, the critical cred of the Grammys, and the je ne sais quais (read: accent) of Russell Brand – the BRITs are it… innit?
Love Mad Men. I’ll digress before I socio-politically rant off topic. The best advertisement for any show is the opening credits — Mad Men being advertisement does this brilliantly. A taste of the what before the so what …
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