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, scalp 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…
Brit and The Bic spark the firework as Good Friday brings 2011’s crucifixition of culture courtesy of Pop – for those who think young *ding*
When the dust settles at the feet of Rihanna’s brothel, and Madam Spears breaks away from the feature… it becomes glaringly clear that when placed in the company of her peers and those whom she preceded – Britney is best as the ringmaster, swag over doccious – all eyes on the three-ring-circus… in a beautiful demise upon Neo-Roman American eyes… the products of Pop’s most prominent puppeted puppeteer… Nicki Minaj… Ke$ha… sounding off as pop donatellas from the shoulders of their predecessor Spears, and simultaneously protecting the legacy of that very same ill-fated musing godmother…
Daddy I’m so sorry, I’m so s-s-sorry yeah… Pop just likes to party – with the shadows in the lair #bangbang
3am – do you know where your Pop is? Chances are, if you are a fiend – like so many of us are #dontjudgemepopsconflictfree – your good ol’ grand wonderful Pop was sharing a campfire tale of epic curfew-breaking proportions to the digital world. Three is a powerful number, and this morning when the clock struck thine: Britney dropped a bomb, while GaGa posted on CP time…
Forty. Minutes. #days Later. #punctuality #lentensacrifice
The 2011 Pop Apocalypse continues with Ke$ha‘s latest video for her upcoming single “Blow,” as James Van Der Beek drifts down Dawson’s River Styx to join the Southern Strumpette and her social herd of mythological mares.
Go insane, go insane; throw some glitter – make it rain
So… busy on my front these days… but never fear, for when in doubt with all things cultural – especially Pop musical – I simply direct my attention across the pond.
Today’s piece of ear candy is courtesy of our pre-eminent purveying friends at Popjustice (because justice is blind – which means it has superhuman hearing #lookireaditontheinternetokay… #inothernews haven’t seen that many ps around pop since the pokerface set – that’s union work in action)
Trifectastic third track off of Ke$ha’s 2010 sophomore album, Cannibal. “Blow” is so low dolo, underground glitter filth funk for the miniature miscreant masses:
Drink that Kool-Aid, follow my lead; now you’re one of us – you’re coming with me. It’s time to kill the lights and shut the DJ down.
Cults, clandestine camaraderie, and Diplo killers unite under the day-glo sonic graffiti-splattered black light. #eselfuturoahora
2011 keeps getting better with each passing play… off the heels of Ophiuchus comes the tale of two outkasts, as Andre 3000 joins Ke$ha on her bombastic “Sleazy” remix. Sit back and listen to the sounds of Southern scorch – nom: sonic Jambalaya.
“Sleazy” was a Cannibal standout, coming in after “We R Who We R,” the title track, and “Blow” as the Apopcalyptic album’s fourth horseman track. Bangladesh brought a true urban feel to “Sleazy,” blending Cannibal‘s Drum N Bass sound with his signature bonafide street tone. Ke$ha enlists on Daddy Fat Stacks himself for the remix to harness that tone and bless her throne. The duo bring a Rhett and Scarlett back-and-forth to the track, with their tangy smooth Southern flow over cold 808 drums and dense jungle bass. It’s a remix, not for the sake of a quick hit, but because this New South needs a pop anthem. The “Sleazy” remix perfectly blends Ke$ha’s Nashville twang with Andre 3000’s Sweet Georgia Brown timbre – these stars drop bars.
This crazy lady named Kesha is guessing my Mercedes
Would be all new and through through, but its the 1980′s
But now that we are cool cool, she sippin’ Irish Baileys
She say “Stacks, you’re true blue?”
I said “Nah, I’m Navy”
I call her Kesha, she like it, because it’s hood to her
She call me Andre 6000 cause I’m good to her
Turn up the lights in here, baby / extra bright, I want y’all to see this / turn up the lights in here, baby / you know what I need, want you to see everything / want you to see all of the lights – Kanye West, “All of the Lights”
Amidst the darkened sky of endless pop, visibly void of any specific stars; Ke$ha and Eminem emerged as groundskeepers sparking the scene from the floor – lighters up. This year we saw a party animal, a rehabilitated recovery, and a cultural cannibal unleashed; and behind the music we saw kindred kindling ignited, revealing both sides of the Bic: the disposable house-party-fueling flicker, and the timeless stadium torch.
This year Ke$ha served the purpose of the former, sparking the fire that fueled the gutter-grime-glitter sound lingering across basements and American airwaves like a tobacco smoky haze over the backseat of a golden Trans-Am. She opened the year with “Tik-Tok” and, by default of its January 1 release date, started the proverbial pop party with her entrance. Ke$ha was that frathouse staple – ready to spark the camel, willing to blaze the j, and able to pop the top off a Pabst at a seconds notice. She was the music that set the mood, the tunes that kept the backyard bacchanals alive, and – much like that flick-happy Bic with a flame as disposable as the fueled fun – she was out by the dawn, right before your parents get home. The Southern truckette raised Hell with tales of rogue revelry at rich kids’ parties, and was the exalted embodiment of too-drunk-to-function-but-lit-enough-to-keep-gunnin’.