mood: lifted and gifted, stealth serenades with star-crossed silhouettes and soul-flame renegades c/o @hijackart
mood: lifted and gifted, stealth serenades with star-crossed silhouettes and soul-flame renegades c/o @hijackart
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.
Pretense: I never really got around to developing this one (thus the “[Work Tape]”), but for the sake of the record… 160-second snap reaction from the day they emptied this clip on the digisphere
So, it is, and here we are #againagain Hollywood corpses, technicolor torches, muscle cars, and glorified blaze-bound stars: Lady Gaga’s back with another sonicscape of cinematic audiobiographical bombast – kiddies, let’s get high #scenethespace
Fair pretense: Every track on Joanne is entirely autobiographical (full-stop got it, full-stop great) that said –
So it is, and here we are … again, again. Another release, another write to go left… I still can’t help it, it just happens; I still love my life, I still love this record, and yet, I still don’t like pretense, that said —
So, since Joanne “is like, you know, Lady Gaga if you erase all the fame,” which is all well and good and full-stop brilliant, and since we know for sure the album is an entirely autobiographical work from the lady behind the fame, you might ask:
“What’s the point in delving into a work which said lady has already placed meaning and quite fully explained?”
(Likely in not so many syllables, but you’re not me elaborating on what you, an imaginary reader, might or might not say or do, so, alas, I digress, proceeding…)
I like conversations and dialogues #shockofallshocks There’s always an alternate perspective, an element which has not been brought to light, that other manner in which something can be read, regardless of if at the genesis it was “right.”
So, here, I didn’t go into “Million Reasons” with any rhyme or reason to wax or wane poetic, and it would be disgraceful to critique or analyze an autobiographical work as such (I mean, how, can you possibly judge someone else’s expression of their perspective on their own life). I didn’t intend to write about it, it just… happened. I was making breakfast, pouring over coffee, and a verse into the tune, it hit me: Rilke.
Perfect Illusion, as its own release is a mirror, an aural gaze inside the disco boulder of sonic self-realization. Building scene from a grain of salt, mother of pearl emerging from this her world oyster, three lifetimes later emerges the post-pressurized diamond, setting sail from Shangri-La, steady rolling along the PCH with a rhythmic detour down Laurel Canyon, from rebel hippie rock through the Sunset Strip’s Electric Ladyland until we settle in the gapless gallivance of Xanadu’s disco wonderland – that living pantheon for all Angeles-bound-and-stellar-bred cosmic artists.
That boulder, that diamond, that crystal gem here finds its sonic identity in the literal pop; that cataclysmic synthesis of hard rock and disco inferno – that blast to birth the boulder’s mirrored glass.
So here, as its own entity, Perfect Illusion is the synergy of Golden Coast tones maximalized and harmonized with that most signature human chord, to the point of genre eradication in the face of just well-crafted tribal opus soundtracking. Rock, Folk, Disco, R&B (check the background vocals, kids, some kind of rhythmic blue), together, in a manner most-threatening to the sonic status quo… any time we merge those most marginalized Canyon dwellers, city slickers, urban denizens, soulmen, cosmic dancers, punk rockers, jazz cats, and funk grooveallegiant together in that secret space of aural invisible, we usurp the very system that gentrifies through genre and “mainstreaming.” Welp, with Mark Ronson, Kevin Parker, BloodPop, and Josh Homme (get it, Queens of the Stone Age… get it, Radio… Gaga… Queen… of the… never mind) on soundboard as the latest four Gospel Unicornmen of the Apopcalypse squad: buckle up buttercup, bricks-and-string are back on the airwaves #catchthebeat
Perfect Illusion, as the lead single of a comprehensive record album, is the first law of universal dynamics; the Law of Mentalism: the all is mind, the universe is mental.
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…
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 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…
I’m an audiophilic 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.
Pledge allegiance. The dawn, the genesis. Born stellar.
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.
Black and white, oft-tread and well-read. Speak easy, swing hard. Record this life in absolute truth, to mine the media and peak the press, to establish mint, you brilliant bard.
If… IF I were to blinkk this I’d probably say … Fame Kills … like chewing on pearls … oysters and aphrodisies, flights of fancy and fights of fantasy … drunk in love on cake cake cake … love made edible incredible Anna Mae … the chosen one selecting apparent wanderlust servitude … will and desire … grace to transpire … mental gender on Parade … bonfire of the Vanity Fair … Parisian blazes … Harlem faces … eternal embers … Pompeii … knockout …
Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun, and baby when it’s love if it’s not rough you’ll never come … masculine … feminine … rocket number nine blast off to the Martian … Hephaestus in the bath haus … Aphrodite perched upon the partition …
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:
Good music speaks volumes… listen, look, and linger in fantastic rhythmic reality: lyrically speaking
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:
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
MockingjayLady 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…
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…
Everything was worth it. Everything is worth it. Everything will be exponentially more worth it in increasing measure as the cycles continue – if, you, work bxxch #BRITNEYTAUGHTUSALL
Please believe this could be a dissertation #ohwait #hadbeendonethat #twice #becauseitsjustthatnice
Brass tacks: It’s fun. Remixable. Killer hooks. Understandable fodder. Strong focus on the beat, pulse, and bombast – Britney claims her role as integrated pneuma, as opposed to overt lyrical / verbal navigator.
I make the governor / Call me the governor
… supports said dissertation #busherayouthsubculturecelebrityicon, and thesis #welcometopostpopmusicentertainmentculture quite nicely. I approve and appreciate.
SIDENOTE: ( I’m not a youth subculture celebrity icon of an era ushered in by an incumbent governor president-elect – but if I were, I would probably hook it with: “I make the governor call me the governor” – I approve, I appreciate, I acknowledge that if ifs and ands were pots and pans there’d be no #WORK for tinkers’ hands… #luckyguesses #Y2Kforeveryall)
If, you, want, that life – the glass house, the fame balls, the applause, the roar, the 20/20 experience, the carte blanche to go rogue, the holy grail, the crucifixion, the revolutionary rebirth, the ability to make them go berzerk in a breath, that ticket to kiss land – you, betta, werk.
I am—Stefani is—a perpetually tortured artist. That’s why I changed my name. I can’t be her in public. She would be a mess…
– ELLE, October 2013
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
[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
The pulse, DJ White Shadow delivers Detroit – and so goes the nation. As far as I’m concerned, they laced the instrumentation with something not-entirely-approved by the FDA. Whether it’s the sonic robot-slap-to-the-face first spin, the morning-after pulled muscles result of a dolo dance party, or the realization that the method is in the systematic mania of said robot slap track – there is something unnatural about this rhythm: unnaturally human. It hollows and speaks at you in sophomoric platitudes, then it eases off while your guard remains staid, eventually you feel the tone thaw as the beat rises… it’s like Motown overtaking the machine, SoundScan beneath the Supremes… when you sing along, you’re fed the applause (whether or not you clap – the roar is the backing track): live to create, die to protect.
“We’re living in a joke time, metaphorical coke time
Commerce and guru men, run the whole world man
Broke world and debauchery, old world brutality
Cold world kills softly
Whole world works savagely
Greedy men and pride fiends program TV screens
Quick-scam and drag queens
Real life blast fiends
Think twice this past dream
This year has been quite a year… Diesel like 90s WWF Denim – needless to say the VMA have been millions of miles away from my spectral proximity: that said, it’s in my blood… no matter how few nominees I know, no matter how irrelevant the proceedings, no matter how cruxed upon pop cultural cannibalism – a festival of juggernauted feasting upon the legends and legacy of old – I will always have an opinion, and the VMA will always have a story and a place in contemporary culture. Though I know a record low number of nominees this year – and hold an even more subterranean affinity, or regard at all, for the nominees of which I do have some cognizance – this year is epic and masterful for so many subtle reasons: the first and last, the alpha and omega of which revolve around this year’s pulse player – The Bajan Queen of Body Parts: Rihanna.
VMA are obviously critical this year though… I’d wager to guess the biggest point is the revisitation of 2007. #neverforget
Fame… and it goes a little something like this
… and it smells a little something like cette
Tears of Belladonna: One part government hooker #tearsontap, one part femme fatale #looselytranslated, one part Donna sans the Ma #bellathemonsterball, consummated in a nocturnal matrimony #nightshade and equally beautiful death #jumpingoutthewindow, wrapped in the skin of the most Luciferian fruit #suchaholyfood
Atropa belladonna or Atropa bella-donna, commonly known as Belladonna, Devil’s Berries, Death Cherries or Deadly Nightshade, is a perennialherbaceous plant in the family Solanaceae, native to Europe, North Africa, and Western Asia. The foliage and berries are extremely toxic, containing tropane alkaloids. These toxins include scopolamine and hyoscyamine which cause a bizarre delirium and hallucinations, and are also used as pharmaceutical anticholinergics. The drug atropine is derived from the plant.
Oh that Madge… I can’t help it, I’ve got the biggest Cheshire grin plastered above my chin right now…
See the thing about it is, I wanted to not like this video – hear me out: I wanted to not like this video because after the hoopla and hype, after the media blitzes and reductionism, this era was gearing up to be the bark of Confessions with the bite of Hard Candy #notgreat then, there’s the distractions and the white noise pulling attention from the product at hand and towards the peripheral gossip… in a nutshell: I was ready to not like this video for the same reason I was gearing up to not like Born This Way – because people were going Gaga over Madonna; but lo and behold… Pop never lets you down.
Pretense: This one never really sorted its scope, or structure for that matter, never quite got around to cementing its fundamental triumph beyond the blasphemous battleground, thus released as a work-in-progress (thus, the current “[Work Tape]” nomination), but for the sake of since-it-was-released… the first-take-suzeey riff
As much the Four Evangelists as they are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Jay-Z, Kanye West, Britney Spears and Lady Gaga – our proud and prestigious pillars of Pop – stood tall and held rapturous court this year as the cause and cure for our ailing culture…
Oh, hai “that time of year again,” didn’t hear you come in – well, have a seat and make yourself comfortable. I’m not spectacular at year-end reviews… I prefer life like I prefer my albums: gapless. That said, I hat-tipped five artists, songs, and albums that made me pause and take time to jot the time and place – year included – over the last 300-someodd days; and five creations that embodied and encapsulated sonic aesthetic for 2011. To the five I take, to have and to hold; forever like a TrapperKeeper, Pop safe in the fold. #enjoi
“The Edge of Glory,” “Judas” – Born This Way – Lady Gaga
But, first, a word from our sponsor…
… and now back to our regularly scheduled Popgramming
You can reproduce your past, you can rewrite your present, you can dictate your future… beneath the metronomic hum of the running film reel Gaga brings the monster from the hub of the city to the heart and soul of her own fatally fame-laden tale…
If you knight it then you should’ve put a ring on it…
BlinkkIt: #bam Manhattan’s Pop monarch came back after three betrayals to bring Brooklyn’s Finest’s line to fruition… closing out Born This Way with a single that slays the sanctimony of matrimony and raises a glass to the twice-kissed sinners… “Birthdays was the worst days, now we sip champagne when we thirstay;” here’s to all of your future pain being champagne. #cheerstotearsontap
Sometimes… my heart, sometimes, feels so black…in the dunes of sand… and other days, my heart feels like rainbows. Mugler. Mugler. Amen. Jesus is the new black. I am Mugler woman. I am quiet; I am strong. Amen. Planet Mugler. Mugler. Gaga. I am Mugler Woman. Don’t f*ck with me. Don’t f*ck with Mugler. Don’t f… f… Don’t f*ck with Mugler woman. Mugler. Scheiße. Say a prayer… Take me, Paris. I am Paris; we are Paris. Do not anger a Mugler woman; she will eat you. Planet Mugler. I will eat you. I will eat you… Mugler, Mugler… Jesus is the new black. I am Mugler woman. I am quiet; I am strong. Amen. Welcome to Paris. It’s Fashion Week. We are Paris.
At this juncture it’s safe to say we’re all slaves to the throne… some of us, say it better than others #namelythus That said, it’s safer to say we’re all slaves to a throne of indentured servants, who may or may not even belong at said royal table… #kanyeshrugsandotherthugs Who says you can’t ball out when the bottom falls out? Not America – because these colors don’t run; but if not these colors running the world – then who? #girls That said, every court needs a jester, or Jordan #jacksontyson #takeyourpick #six so for this year’s VMAs – the world is a soundstage, the stars are in the building, and amidst the bevy of deafeningly adamant ambiguity we have a soundtrack to keep the beat right on par with said backdrop: VMA 2011 EP – Welcome to the Beautiful Dark Twisted Sunset Boulevard of Golden Schemes and Silver Screens…
Blinkkit: “We’re going to skate to one song, and one song only.” This year the throne came home – and by home I mean industry royalty reflected “those ones.” You know… the ones who shouldn’t have been here at all – The Help that helped themselves to a seat at the table. When banks are broke, the broke make bank #namely.
“The Edge of Glory:” It’s an edge, and it’s glorious – and that’s all we need to say about that.
I love this video. When I saw this video, some less fatigued part of me wanted to run across the Brooklyn Bridge and upload footage of said jog to YouTube #literally – some more juvenile, bad tomboyish part of me #justcheesin #cake Gaga’s videos are like Matcha Green Tea ice cream – good, good for you, invigorating, a little unconventional, a lil’ left of west, undeniably delicious, but digest it too fast and you’ll get a brain freeze. There’s so much all the time, and it’s all so good, but there’s just not enough time in the day, week, month, or decade to digest any of it properly; which doesn’t stop you from eating it again, and again – and only intensifies her need to dish it out again, and again – until we’ve got a roadside diner full of dead bodies. That said, I couldn’t face the iceberg this time… I’m just a kid – even this bouncing baby brain needs a break #haveyouhadyourhappymealtoday – even still, I bowed to Atlas, and anticipated said final cerebral demise when watching said glorious film.
“I don’t want to be part of the machine – I want the machine to be part of me.“
Born This Way is a perfect record. It is uncomfortably euphoric. First spins are ideally experienced with a few close friends, or those who have spun before; likely obtained through contraband means however – the first spin is usually experienced in the wee hours of the night or morning… where the rush of the synesthetic synthetic splendor triggering peaks and valleys – previously unfathomed – comes with a conscious uncertainty: as to whether you like it or hate it, whether or not said rush is result of the product itself, or the hype surrounding and building up to the first taste, and whether or not this is in actuality real life, some surreal fantasy – or just the delirious drunkenness of well-deserved fatigue… It’s personal, political, public, and cultural; it’s the social catalyst, sedative, signpost and staple; it’s the universal shared experience, and the pre-eminent polarizing sign of the times – like blood flowing through the veins of a buncha bad kids: Born This Way is a trip down Alice’s glitter way – and one hell of a drug. #rhythmicrapture
If nothing else, a new GaGa release means new blood #literally… check out my friend, fellow music writer, and connoisseur of #prettykewl things, Corey Bell’s “At First Listen” of Lady GaGa’s Born This Way…
We all know that Lady GaGa has a pretty wild and vivid imagination. This is quite obvious when it comes to her sense of fashion and her elaborate music videos and stage sets. It is also very prevalent in her music, as we, her adoring and yet often puzzled fans, hang on her every lyric and note. So it should come as no surprise that her new album, the heavily awaited and almost excessively promoted Born This Way, does not yield boring results in terms of being imaginative.
In my opinion, it borders on the bizarre.
The modern music industry’s Mitochondrial Eve returns with a fervor to prove – once again – that despite all patriarchal restrictions and destruction: she who bears the womb… the forever battlefield, and said burden… is she who is best equipped to commandeer the cultural revolution. Who rev the world? Girls.
The revolution will be feminized. She who betrayed Jesus, she who betrayed Adam, she who bears the weight of said world on her naturally sinful shoulders, in her superseding of submission, will ascend to prominence; born to blossom, bloom to perish, just as man destroyed that which he cannot create, so in the wake of destruction and suspension in social smolder, here woman returns to bear life again… Strong enough to bear the children, then get back to business
Who run the world? Girls. Girls, women, females have the unparalleled capacity to create life. Despite all social constructs, religious constraints, and artificial inferiorities women are able to create something lasting, something outside of themselves, and from their sin comes the succession – well, that, or a dance nation… my persuasion can build a nation #literally
#inanutshell Self-reference and atmospheric concept #letsbeyhonest #independentringonit
Three days later… minds are made for swiping, and that’s just what they’ll do, and one of these days – or three – Swipe’s mind vomits all over you #inthemostbiblicalsense
In the cultural sense: Gaga smited her own spoken futuristic pretense; in the most biblical sense – her lips behave beyond repentance: a miss’ single kiss birthing culture from the crucifix – by all means, sir, take offense.
From “Beautiful, Dirty, Rich” to “Born This Way”… Two years, over two hundred shows later… The Lady Incubating closes the casket on the monster rendezvous, and welcomes a rhythmically routed rebirth… Still just dancin’ with Judas… she loves her life, she loves this record and…
The song that I sing to you it’s my ev-ery-thing; treat my first like my last, and my last like my first, and my thirst is the same as – when I came…
The monster hit-and-miss… and the Monster Hidden Miss…
Aside from being an absolutely masterful piece of work – completely; Judas is an immaculate conception of the most divine du jour…
Betrayal runs through the track like bad romances through the veins of the Haus madam. There is a betrayal of comfortable pop song structure, the assault on the eardrums, the screams and distortion, the chord progression into further confusion… This song runs train on conductors… this sounds like Bad Romance’s bigger, badder, biblical older sister who just got back from Barnard – educated and disinfatuated – that older sister. Betrayal runs through the very being of Judas. Ju-da Ju-da-ah-ah… There’s a deep ingrained cohesion to every thread and theme of Judas. It opens with just vocals, flips to just instrumentation, then tandems to a crucifixtious climax – and that’s just the first three signatures #betrayals The verses go HAM on Sunday brunch…Thematically, from Mary Magdalene to Peter, from Judas to Jesus, channeling to Gaga – iconographies illustrating betrayals of biblical proportions… Anatomically, the inevitable unironic fist pumps betraying any sense of social decency… and yet being a product of the preeminent voice of a generation – the anthem of the slanderer becomes the cultural signature…
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…
… you already know what it is kids
Off the heels of the “What Would Gaga Do?” panel, the Lady herself drops a country rendition of her most successful nursery rhyme to date. “Born This Way (The Country Road Version):” because if SxSW taught us nothing else #whichitdidnt it’s that one thing hipsters, cowboys, Californians, and Texans can agree on is fashion #putitallonme – bienvenidos a la flannel panel #pawsup
But seriously: The country road version of “Born This Way” is masterful… a stripped-down settled score that takes the down-home Good Ol’ Boy twang global… blending Bible Belt sounds with multicultural lyricism, making the seemingly Patriotic polarized suddenly pluralist… free hugs courtesy of the first world as Red and Blue States unite under the Rainbow Coalition Hands-Across-the-Atlas anthem
I’ve hit the point where Pop music is so good right now – so perfect – that I can’t even make sense of it because it makes too much sense in and of itself #senseless To be fair, that point started swinging as soon as the beast beat beneath Perry’s Dark Teenage Twisted Fantasy dropped, and it officially hit when Rozay held Brit against me; Pop: because I’ll take you everywhere – call me MC Hammer #imaboutscene. GreatEclectic isn’t a moniker, it isn’t a motto, or even a mantra – it is a melodic manifesto: #thus
And here we are again… Gaga previewed yet another track from Born This Way – at yet another Thierry Mugler Fashion Week show – as she debuted the exclusive Mugler remix to the brilliant “Government Hooker.” #greatestgroundhogsdayever
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 that is Born This Way.
On G.O.A.T, a Government Owned Alien Territory in space, a birth of magnificent and magical proportions took place; but the birth was not finite – it was infinite. As the wombs numbered and the mitosis of the future began, it was perceived that this infamous moment in life is not temporal, it is eternal. And thus began the beginning of the new race, a race within the race of humanity, a race which bears no prejudice, no judgment but boundless freedom. But on that same day, as the eternal mother hovered in the multiverse, another more terrifying birth took place, the birth of evil. And as she herself split into two, rotating in agony between two ultimate forces, the pendulum of choice began its dance. It seems easy, you imagine, to gravitate instantly and unwaveringly towards good; but she wondered, “How can I protect something so perfect without evil?”
That… is the truth.
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 when I watch that which the world will be.
I see George Clinton. I see One Nation Under a Groove, I see One Race Under the Hooves. I see Atomic Dogs reborn as Spearheaded Stallions. I feel what I felt when I lived in the eternal Funk of George Clinton’s 25th Anniversary show at the Apollo in 2005. I feel like a freshman again, caught in the unknown precipice that is Harlem’s heart with hippies and hipsters and blipsters and soulmen dancing together under the translucent kaleidoscopic gaze that is the pre-eminent Funkmaster’s view. Then, I witnessed the vintage funk future as George unearthed the mothership; here, I live the future as Gaga births the mother monstership.
Said it before, I’ll say it again #whawhawhawhatdidyousay #yourebreakinuponme in case you’re worried about Pop in 2011: #dontbe
The Grammys, if nothing else, were a top notch Pop production – a beautiful stage show presenting what will be the subsequent year in industry music #whatelseisthere This year was a collaboration of the most notable in recent years – good or bad #thegrammysarenotacheesesandwich – the event brought together a realm of musicians from heavyweights to new bloods and Country crooners to West Coast crypt-walkers… all for the love of Pop #orsomethingtothateffect The performances gave a splendid snapshot of the industry’s landscape, and reflected perfectly the identity of the respective artist on stage – Justin Bieber included… so without further ado, let’s delve into GrammyView
GaGa… oh GaGa #andAGAIN A performance stripped down, stark, and raw as a newborn; explosive, soulful, and synthesized like the new human condition; and with a pure concerted energy to fuel the next era in Pop. #bornthisway: Smoke-and-mirrors stripped – abs ripped #luccarlsdrunkdietworksforshe GaGa: because Pop just got an organ donor… because the misconception is that it was an egg, because the assumption is that – like Post-Reagan urban culture, like premature emergence – crack kills… but this isn’t an egg – it’s an incubator… and in this space the artist and era remain unbreakable.
So.. it’s Grammy night – again. Thus…
inanutshell: I’m excited for a surprise this year. While I haven’t been keeping as up-to-speed with all things Grammy-related this year, apparently GaGa is doing something, and if that’s not enough something, she’s doing something in a coffin (incubator… death/birth… monster/madam… #kanyeshrug) so… that’s something – and if nothing else it’s a heads up that yes: something is going to get kilt like a Scotsman. Moving forward… Eminem has many-a-nods this year, as does Katy Perry, the Wayward Baby, Bruno Mars, Mr. Sean, and Lady Antebellum. I mean… it’s the Grammys; so – you already know. No pretense this year – let’s get to predictin’!
Arcade Fire – The Suburbs
Eminem – Recovery
Lady Antebellum – Need You Now
Lady Gaga – The Fame Monster
Katy Perry – Teenage Dream
BlinkkIt: Eminem released his most authentic album to date since The Marshall Mathers LP, but from a place of noted maturity. He had a massive year with two key Super Bowl spots highlighting the soul and scene of America – Brisk as the creative claymation “this is why I don’t do commercials!” commercial, and Chrysler for the theatric homage to the lost Motor City of Motown. Lady Antebellum brings the down-home mainstream twang that is not to be overlooked in Grammy-town Nashville. The Arcade Fire’s The Suburbs captures the Pitchfork-friendly sonic aesthetic; which, historically, is triumphant in its place as a nominee – not as a victor. Katy Perry’s Teenage Dream … still not settled with this nomination by technical standards, or any standards outside of radio play really… but it’s nice to have that aspirational everygirl Pop presence within the category. Inevitably: Lady GaGa for the win, for the cause – and if nothing else, for the paws. #up
SnappIt: Well look who just got a job at the electric company… bringin’ the sweatglam-seventies-borderline-aerosol-eighties club scene back with more flamboyant fervor than the lil’ tranny train that could work a runway:
girl paws yes please.
#inanutshell: Just as big as before, but a more detailed, well-composed, worldly, optimistic “Bad Romance.” Very “After getting best undressed senior in high school, I went to Cal Berkeley, hung out in the Haight and now I’ve expanded my rainbow horizons.” *That* big sister. … *that* Dennis the Menace to Madonna’s Mr. Wilson “I love you and all but, the what are you doing on my lawn – all the tick-tock time?!”
Two Snapps A Whirl A Twirl and Circle Around
It’s a wrap; somewhere, Ronald Reagan is crying on Basquiat’s shoulder #postpostdiscodemonic #allsmileshere This is what some would call a “Game Changer,” this is what lil’ monsters would refer to as a “GagameChanger” – before underwriting “AND IT WAS BORN THIS WAY, BABY!” for
a quick fix good measure – either way, this matters. She’s been saying it all year, but it’s a bit different when it happens.
“Ugh swiper… but how does it soundddddd – what does it all meannnnn?”
Grammy Noms: the sweetest thing this side of Nana’s cookie jar #popnom. A nibble is all you need, so let’s blinkk the besties #getitgramms
Grammys 2011 Best Dance Recording: because cosmic dancers flow dolo
And then amidst the Age of Ophiuchus… just before the break of dawn… just beneath the disco ball… feet gallivanting just so above the dancefloor… voices calling out ever so viscerally, reaching over and beyond the electronic loop… five neo-disco beatknocked ballerinas found freedom in the music… dancing beyond sanity to a tune only they could hear… recreating the sense of inclusion through isolation…
Grammy Noms: the sweetest thing this side of Nana’s cookie jar #popnom. A nibble is all you need, so let’s blinkk the besties #getitgramms
The Fame Monster – Lady Gaga
This year’s nominees for Best Pop Vocal Album are a nice cross-section of the general populous… we’ve got androgynous sixteen-year-old Canadians, Middle-Aged British women, guitar-plucking playboys, fruity pin-up California gurls, and a monster whose own greatest demon is disinterest.
Best Pop Vocal Album 2011: because welcome to the Bad Girls Club Season 7 #spoiler #dontyouwishyoucouldrollwithus
428 days later… Lady Gaga broke her notoriously extended hiatus, premiering her first mastered piece of “new music” since 2009’s The Fame Monster. Those two years of antagonizing anticipation culminated into the club-pulsing climax: the exclusive Thierry Mugler “Scheiße” remix – in a hashtag #discodemonic, in seven words: THIS is why my paws stay pilot. While this may just be a remix, be well aware it is the Wemix 2011 anthem for monsters-turned-zombies: ignite the living dead
Step back from the fact that this is “just a remix,” 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.
Yep… just… yep… Two weeks into 2011 and we’ve already got new Yeezy, Hov, and Britney, plus Andre 3000 on a Ke$ha remix – in case you were worried about Pop #dontbe. Just in time for the weekend, Gaga rounds out the cavalry with the drum-laden Darkchild-produced “Animal” demo – so kick up your feet, put up those paws, and get wild.
Classic Darkchild: stop-and-go staccato, deep bass and synth strobes, effortlessly paralleled instrumental and lyrical dialogue – unconventional, but highly communicable viral beats. Classic Gaga: simple lyrics, systematic delivery, monotone repetition, subtle steady escalations with increased definition, elemental and enveloping everything, omnipresent voyeur/exhibitionist vantage:
I can see the way that you’re looking at me, like you’re hungry and I am the only thing that you see; won’t tame you, love the way you’re watching me.
Together, the tandem create a black panther track prowling through the aural Amazon. This song is modern jungle fever – it’s basic, it builds, it breathes, it swelters, it designates and dominates tricks; in a nutshell: call it what you want, but call it – because it’s never too busy to get busy. #pawsupheaddown
Last year at CES, Polaroid unveiled Lady Gaga as their new creative director – which was all well and good, until the collective question became: “Alright, outside of having a business card – and a Papa Germanotta-approved ‘real job’ – what does she actually do?”
This year at CES, Polaroid unveiled the answer… in a word: this.
Meet the Grey Label GL20s: the call-them-sunglasses-for-lack-of-a-better-word-because-only-Gaga-can-design-something-adequate-enough-to-properly-shineblock-herself.
These glasses are not only fly and functional – they are the future. GL20s are fully operational as UV-protecting eyewear, but also capture digital images and video – which are then saved to the detachable USB earpiece; they’re photosolarbifocals.
Of course the glasses are very exciting because they’re bridging fashion and technology together – we’re creating something that’s innovative and also cultural – but this is the product that kind of really made everyone angry when we were in the conference room
#mytwocents: We live in a world of #picsoritdidnthappen – where you don’t live unless it’s on film, where you are what you wear, where the USB is your aorta… when your scape and soul solely exist in the seen scene, your point-of-view has evolved into the “Polaroid You.” Grey Label: see yourself living in GL20 … while the blind shall perish.