Live from the Calvary that is Coachella, welcome to this Pop Communion that is The Cure …
Feels, on, reals.
So it is and, again, here we are… and #againagain I don’t really know where to begin or end with this one as again again again there is no beginning or end to the perpetual Pascha that is “The Cure.” I still haven’t figured it out yet, but I enjoy musing in the meantime… #fortherecord #noneofthisisbinding #itsalljustmakebelieve #dontciteme
On the seventh day, Gaga had finished this work of creation, so she put to rest this Famous curse…
So, “The Cure.” I guess, broadly, briefly, it feels like… surrendering into the unknown abyss after a forty-day desert trek, only to find… that the hard-fought rock bottom was but a bridge, all along, before that luminous cloud rocket number nine.
I riffed on The Sound of Music tribute at The 87th Annual Academy Awards Ceremony for ten minutes and twenty-eight seconds: this is the verbatim transcription…
So it would seem the hills are alive with the sound of music… the Hollywood Hills to be exact, this night, this beautiful night, Oscar Sunday… and amidst all of the flashing lights, Mother Monster, the pop mistress, the matriarch of music on behalf of a flailing industry – thought to be dead thought to be gone, thought to be sold out – rose to the occasion only to prove that all the charlatans were dead wrong.
Music is that which cements the experience of any moment, that auditory moment where those aural architects, as I said before, are able to manipulate the invisible… to be able to tap into those currents and those frequencies that you cannot see, but that you can feel stronger than any other sensory experience you’ve ever felt before… when you close your eyes, and you can feel your heart beat. When you close your eyes, and you can feel the goosebumps rising; when you can feel that ugly duckling becoming that beautiful swan, rising above it all because it found the rhythm, and it could never fall – it would falter – but never off that cliff never to never be seen again…
Good music speaks volumes… listen, look, and linger in fantastic rhythmic reality: lyrically speaking
“PARTYNAUSEOUS,” artRAVE (2014)
Hi, I want to come and make peace with you
but they won’t let me, no, they won’t let me through
I don’t mind if they a-arrest me
’cause I’m wearing my Versace
Why can’t we just put on a smile
and a buzz buzz buzz buzz? We all might be sick
Whether it’s at first or after a few
drinks; we’re gonna unite, don’t they?
In the wake of G.U.Y.’s media blitz d’etat let’s look at what might be lingering behind the if 27 is the new black, 28 stays golden: now look who’s back
collective funeral of roses #roselandfuneral
I don’t know what ARTPOP means for anything but I can’t shake the feeling that whatever it will inevitably become started long ago, is in continuous present perpetuation, and will be simultaneously happening in increasing measure well into the future… that being said: it could be an ongoing Shakespearean three act play #byanyotherfame
#entitledanothertimeiwasangry that time when Gaga kicked off a seven-show residency to close out Manhattan’s legendary Roseland Ballroom. Basically, she memorialized her golden birthday with a 10-day funeral … at practically the one place where you couldn’t land a gig on the come-up: the famed Manhattan concert venue… #andthisisthefamed
I’m not sure what ARTPOP means for incumbent entertainment venue institutions but – whatever.
We are the music-makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams… four years ago we pulled a stunt that went and turned into a scene
G.U.Y – An ARTPOP Film:
“I know. But I can’t stay up here on my hill forever.“
ARTPOP … facing glamorous cruelty in Spears subtext and fantasy
I didn’t get to this place in my life by doing the smart thing every time. How ’bout you, frank farmer? Out there on the edge… did you ever do something that didn’t make too much sense, except maybe inside you? In your stomach somewhere? Something that wasn’t smart? I’ll bet you have plenty. I’ll bet you do. Nobody gets really good without it. And you’re good. I know that. – Ms. Marron
I suppose the only way to take this one sonically is through the sounds of an autobiography… at this point in my pop literary career with a one said Lady, certain signatures will emerge at some point within each piece – namely: each release being #theanthem, each release “solidifying this time and space voice of twain,” and autobiographical points of reference expounding on the sheer cosmic Pop of said beat drops. #postoculus #postpop This time, will be no different #letsdelve
… and on the sixth day Gaga unearthed the feast, saw everything that she had gamed… and behold: it was very good
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.
Here’s a little story that I made up, so let’s make believe: four years ago I had a party that was too much fun for me…
– “I’ve Just Begun (Having My Fun)”
Back in 2009, I had a little fun drafting up my list of the top twelve Pop artists from the first decade of the millennium (I get bored, it happens). I made up a little narrative of the icons that lived the blueprint for a global lifestyle – more than a genre, an ongoing epic poem defining the general public of that elusive scene, scape, soundtrack we like to call Pop. I was fresh out of undergrad; but forever a 90s kid caught in the nostalgia of homecoming kings, queens, and courts, naturally I paired off the lords and ladies of the said vanity fair, in a fitting hommage to the heralded pantheon of celebrity (which is effectually no more than a glamorized high school) #youcantsitwithus Five coupled jesters of the court, a pair of regal deities, and a pair of honorable mentions (because it’s America – so as long as you’re the best loser, there’s space for you on the podium – but don’t get crazy).
The list went a little something like this…
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
“You know when a famous person dies, and there’s those kids who say the celebrities didn’t die – they just post on a remote island somewhere… welcome to Sandbar 45.” Amidst the scattered debris of yachts and planes lost at sea, there lies an island where lost celebrity lives. It’s a pristine parallel universe nestled in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle. I’m sitting with Brittany Murphy; getting acquainted with the soft-spoken, but effervescent, starlet in a string of those gone-too-soon, chatting about how she’s nestling into her new paradisaical digs. “It’s amazing. Everyone’s here. It’s an island fit for only the most marvelous of misfits.”
It’s the weekend of the Art Nouveau magazine launch. Every inaugural issue of a magazine deserves a party – Art Nouveau is no different – and after the party is the after party – in that respect we veer a bit to the left. We got an invitation to have the event on Sandbar 45, because Le Deux is a Le Don’t, Bungalo is never a go, and we can’t afford either anyway. I have an interview scheduled with the host of our After (Life) Party, but until then I get to sit in on dress rehearsals. While I was backstage I got the chance to talk with a few islanders who have not themselves passed on – so much as the known world did on them. First up: Brittany Murphy.