Tag Archives: Britney Spears

Lyrically Speaking: “Tom’s Diner” ft. Britney Spears, Giorgio Moroder

Good music speaks volumes… rather than impose analysis, step back and expose linguistic artistry… listen, look, and linger in fantastic rhythmic reality: lyrically speaking

“Tom’s Diner”Deja Vu (2015)




I am sitting
In the morning
At the diner
On the corner
I am waiting
At the counter
For the man
To pour the coffee
And he fills it
Only halfway

And before
I even argue
He is looking
Out the window
At somebody
Coming in

Could There Ever B





It is always
nice to see you
Says the man
Behind the counter
To the woman
Who has come in
She is shaking
Her umbrella


And I look
The other way

Britney Spears 2007 Umbrella On february 19 britney spears

As they are kissing
Their hellos


And I’m pretending
Not to see them


And Instead
I pour the milk






[Giorgio Moroder]

Everybody is welcome
Come on, come on in
Sit yourself down
The parties never end
Love is the drug
That makes you wanna drink
Till the morning after…

I-I-I- …
I open
Up the paper
There’s a story
Of an actor
Who had died
While he was drinking

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He was no one
I had heard of

And I’m turning
To the horoscope
And looking
For the funnies

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When I’m feeling
Someone watching me
And so I raise my head


So I raise my head


So I raise my head

Tom's Diner Close








No matter what the weather, through pain and pressure, never let them see you with your chin down – just keep swimming, just keep DOing – when you feel them watching, raise up and respect the shooter #spearsianlaw


#respecttheoneinfrontofthesun #universalorder



Never change Brit, never give a buck.

Britney Tweets 2007: Ep. 3

because if ifs and ands were pots and pans there’d be no betta work for tinker’s hands, because pink wigs birthed millennial whiplash, because it’s the rhyme behind seasonal reason, because you’re not B and will never see it her way… because Britney didn’t have Twitter in 2007, because the traphaus was birthed in the wake of Kevin, because Miss Spears will remain the bad bxxch you’ll never know, because they shouldn’t have let her blackout the ‘net #work: nouveau decided to put on a show #luckystarswipgolden


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 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


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because she’s no longer just lucky, but #blessed

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full-stop, never forget who never left, never broke, never abandoned the scene when the known world went pop, shock, and awe.

mood: “lucid so i started materializing mistaken mentalities” ft. B & Bey

mood: “lucid so i started materializing mistaken mentalities”

ft. B & Bey




Britney’s beats are so clean and malleable…

an invitation to engage and manipulate, exploit and explore, to reconfigure and craft something entirely new and collaborative, reflective of the most primal human conditions and characteristics of the time, the spirit is in the seductive magnanimity




Beyonce’s beats are ironclad illusions…

a fortress of definition, apparently open to invitation, the reality is entirely the opposite, its inherent imperfection is of a fixed form, there is no user-generated contextualization ingrained with the product, its imperfection is fixed, but those flaws are the fundamental identifier, the soul is in the spectacular separation


Britney Tweets 2007: Ep. 2

because if ifs and ands were pots and pans there’d be no betta work for tinker’s hands, because pink wigs birthed millennial whiplash, because it’s the rhyme behind seasonal reason, because you’re not B and will never see it her way… because Britney didn’t have Twitter in 2007, because the traphaus was birthed in the wake of Kevin, because Miss Spears will remain the bad bxxch you’ll never know, because they shouldn’t have let her blackout the ‘net #work: nouveau decided to put on a show #luckystarswipgolden


because there was no twitterverse then

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because once upon a time there were haircuts

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because there was nowhere else to be at 4pm every weekday

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Britney Tweets 2007, Ep. 1

if… IF I were to blinkk this I would probably say…

because if ifs and ands were pots and pans there’d be no betta work for tinker’s hands, because pink wigs birthed millennial whiplash, because it’s the rhyme behind seasonal reason, because you’re not B and will never see it her way… because Britney didn’t have Twitter in 2007, because the traphaus was birthed in the wake of Kevin, because Miss Spears will remain the bad bxxch you’ll never know, because they shouldn’t have let her blackout the ‘net #work: nouveau decided to put on a show #luckystarswipgolden

because she continues to be the original doll



What If Britney Spears Had Twitter in 2007?  #QuestionsThatNeedAnswers


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love comma britney xo ex, oh.

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TrapperKeeper: “… just beautysleeping in a trance, but never sleeping to dream: and this is The Fame.”


Pop: grab your old girl with her new tricks, if this was GaGa’s first and last album it would be just as complete as it is in context as a dynasty starter.

The Fame is nothing more and nothing less than a perfect Pop debut through and through. Visceral, catchy, panoramic, reflective, progressive, chock full of hit singles, formidable filler, and fun; foreshadowing or foreboding depending on how you look at it – and yet, so very simple. The Fame is merely a skeleton, and the beats are nothing more than an atmosphere. In Britney’s wake we saw a continued sea change: where Spears’ story was manufactured to be plot-driven – a tale of a singer at the whim of heavy production, and a girl at the whim of a weighty world – GaGa’s voice takes the Spearsian wheel as the fuel behind The Fame. She gives life to the beats, as much as she injected the joie de vivre back into Pop’s consciousness.

The sound is underground and mainstream, simultaneously past and present. “Just Dance” couldn’t be more straightforward as it rips the disco skeleton from the past, fleshes it out with simple synth layers, and slaps an electro-futuristic veneer on for 21st Century tech propulsion. The beat is a night out: airy synth, simple percussion, minimal layers, basic four-count – nothing crazy, nothing coercive, just dance music. The lyrics are universal: just dance, gonna be okay – and repete after moi. GaGa is “that girl” from the club. This is the first step of the journey through a tumultuously memorable relationship between lovers, the celebrity and the scene, the artist and the industry, the author and the audience. It all starts with “Just Dance.” You just dance to get to know their name, you just dance to get on Page Six, you just dance to get that record deal, you just dance for reassurance that it’s going to be okay – and this is The Fame.

Beyond that, at first listen, “Just Dance” is any other Pop track, a brilliantly choreographed debut. It couldn’t be more literal, and at a time where the world is a collective skeptic for good reason – the truthiness behind WMDs – that clear transparency was a trailblazing mindfreak in and of itself. Everything the track is not makes it everything it is. It is not new, it is not groundbreaking, it is not particularly deep or profound – and yet, coming from a world of life under-rug-swept it was that very transparency that broke America out of its shell. Just. Dance. No more, no less, no hidden agenda. Before auto-tune and vocoders, before ice and chains, there was lighthearted, carefree disco – the most basic, infinite, constant, life stream of music by method.

The weight of modern Pop’s heavy production reflected a population beneath the barrage of their own environment. Nicole Scherzinger and Co.’s voices were as empty as the stars they aspired to be, and this was the subtle soundtrack of our daily lives – conversing and communicating in a modified tone, rehashing dialogue gathered from the news, the Facebook, The Hills, the White House; we had no control. Everything was entirely too complex, and we gave up. We woke up waiting to see which institution had failed us now, which neighbor lost their home, or which coworker lost their job; meanwhile, GaGa woke up to see which club she had failed to name last night, which bartender found her keys, and which bouncer found her phone. It could all be so simple, and even though you made it hard, it can all be so simple again – just dance, gonna be okay.

The signature sound is as apropos a sonic aesthetic for GaGa as any you could possibly fathom. Disco: the rainbow coalition rallying cry emerging as the pulse of the marginalized and socially-oppressed communities. Disco, the uber-derivative genre that pulled its identity from soul, jazz, Calypso, funk, rock, Latin, and infused those indigenous sounds with new synth technology. Disco, the cultural anomaly with which to be reckoned, that self-contextualized subculture hidden-in-plain-view, the Anti-Red-Blooded America full of the gays, the blacks, the women, the progressive post-hippie problem. GaGa: the rainbow-haired bad romancer emerging as the pulse of the Generation Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell fringe networks. GaGa, the uber-derivative artist that pulled her identity from Lorca, Queen, Motley Crue, In Living Color, Peggy Bundy, Kardinal Offishall, Stanley Kubrick, Yoko Ono, and infused those influences with a modern Pop veneer. GaGa, the cultural anomaly with which to be reckoned, that self-contextualized subversive supernova hidden-in-plain-view, the bleeding red corpse of American celebrity hanging from the rafters. Disco and GaGa, the liberating voice, the heartbeat and pulse; when Nixon put the fringe elements away, when Bush put the freaks in the doghouse, Disco and Dance music are what the subculture whistled while they werqed.

They turned the basement into the big house, they made the freak fabulous, they Studio 54ed on the floor and Monster Balled out of control. They took the clandestine and made it social currency. That ironclad community, that bond of the oppressed, is what fueled the funk. Metal heads hated Disco, but the genre bordered Glam Rock and birthed Hair bands; rappers are notoriously homophobic, but the genre birthed hip-hop; Wale dropped out of a show because of said homophobia, but just a few months prior he was chillin’ with GaGa like his middle name was Perez. Disco – Electronic Dance music – is universal, it is liberating, it is innate, it is self-made, it is the high-hated, it can’t pay rent but it is gorgeous, and it’s never dead – just beautysleeping in a trance, but never sleeping to dream: and this is The Fame.

The Fame is Pop; Pop is as personal, as it is political, as it is a commercial vehicle. The Fame is exactly the same; each song is a scene from a story, and it means whatever you want it to mean. “LoveGame” is the classic tale of a one-night mayhaps, and so very distinctly the sample-come-surrender story of a star and her beloved Pop. “I wanna kiss you, but if I do then I might miss you babe,” considers the struggling artist as she wedges her foot in the door: I want fame; I want to taste that beautiful life, like Paris, Lindsay, Britney, but like that harrowing hat-trick I know it’s a one-kiss-to-commit sitch. Fame is a drug, like Cocaine the champagne, one line is too much and a million is never enough. So, we venture along as the Lady reminds us of the lovelorn path most stumbled: the path of Pop stardom, the little boy monster. “Hold me and love me, just wanna touch you for a minute; Maybe three seconds is enough for my heart to quit it.” It all comes down to one question: “Do you want love, or you want fame?” Art is passion, fame is vapid: vanity please, Ladies first.

Then come the Paparazzi, and with the fatal flashes come the fans, the fiends, the frenemies, the cold cruel world beneath the hot, hot lights. Fame is crumbling beneath the weight of your own ego, The Fame is making it work and faking it until then – fight flash with the facade; you don’t hustle this hard to fall harder. GaGa just danced her way into a love game with the industry, willy-nilly and aloof, but beneath the pink haired My Little Pony shell was a Trojan Horse. Poker Face was just that, a bluff and a front. Two number one singles later: we still weren’t sure whether or not Lady was a Lord, whether he/she/it was from Yonkers, Mars, Sweden, or Manhattan, whether or not her pants allergy was contagious, what her “real voice” sounded like, or how in God’s name she got the name GaGa – and no, the interviews didn’t help, they just further hindered a clear view of this character and where her Achilles’ was (we later found out it was in the back pocket of the pair of pants she wore in seventh grade, along with her keys and phone) so we could build and break her accordingly. Fame is Britney’s fate, The Fame is treating that as a cautionary tale instead of a crystal ball; as the Lady herself said: “They can’t scare me if I scare them first.” Russian Roulette isn’t the same without a gun, and baby when it gets to that: Didi Mao, cut, and run. Meanwhile, in real life, every major institution had crumbled beneath our very feet, the world was in a tailspin, running about like headless KFC chicken-products; and while we sat dumbfounded atop our collapsed house of cards, GaGa took that very same hand and made it marvelous. Pulling yourself up by the bootstraps, when you’ve only got stripper heels to pay your way through college: and this is The Fame.

“Beautiful, Dirty, Rich” is the soul of The Fame. It builds from the rich rasp of funk percussion, hard piano, wailing synth, and rock guitar riffs, reflective of the eclectic gritty sounds of a New York block or brownstone. The sound builds into a scene. It’s GaGa’s signature scene: back for the first time. “Beautiful, Dirty, Rich” was the promo-single-that-couldn’t-quite, the track that got GaGa voted off the island of Def Jam, was why she had to just dance to be okay. Where before she knocked on fame’s door with a formal request for entry into the house, she now knocks down the door; riding in on the four singles of the Pop Apocalypse, her own Haus in tow. The kids do the dance right, they have got it made like ice cream topped with honey; they’ve got the red light scope dead set on two things: the father and the fame; Daddy I’m so sorry: bang, bang.

“The Fame” is the epitome. It is a vapid title track, a decoy focal point. Just like “Telephone,” just like the meat dress, it is what is the assumed “moment,” the expected apex, the exalted “to what end” – and because of that it is the typification of perception: “Doin’ it for the Fame ‘cuz we wanna live the life of the rich and famous. Fame: doin’ it for the Fame, ‘cuz we gotta taste for champagne and endless fortune. We live for the fame fame baby, the fame fame, isn’t it a shame.” It’s the veneer, but like everything else it has as much value as you give it. It begs the question: what is fame? More importantly, does it matter what you call it? A fish trap only matters because of the fish: once you have the fish, forget the trap; words only matter because of the meaning: once you have the meaning forget the words – fame is just a title. The beautiful, dirty, rich ones want nothing more than to overthrow the entitled in a Clockwork Orange County coup: “I want to see television and hot blondes in odd positions,” Fame is hot blondes, The Fame distorts them in odd positions; “All we care about is pornographic, girls on film in body plastic,” Fame is girls on film, The Fame suffocates them in body plastic. There’s fame, and there’s the killers: Fame is Jillian, The Fame is Jack the Ripper. If New York is where stars are born, and L.A. is where they go to die, the beautiful, dirty, rich are infantile, and the famous are a beautiful lie.

Of all the scenes and teams, of all the thing that make The Fame great there are those that make it a great disaster. The Fame is a mockery of its own alter-ego, its own false perception, its own diminished reputation branded true by those who have no clue. What is the weak point in The Fame, what is the fluff and the filler? “The Fame,” “Money Honey,” “Starstruck,” “Boys Boys Boys,” ride through like a ringtone rendevous. The Fame Boys and their money, honey. The third quarter of the album is an embodiment of the expected artificial. Deep bass beneath basic heavy guitar chords and dense airy synth exude a sense of nightmarish fantasy. Yet, this is GaGa being what it means to be a pop star. The lightest tracks are the most famous, it’s what you live and die for, it’s what you fell into the LoveGame hoping to attain: bad boys, fast cars, delicious dollars, star partners, the works. It’s so ridiculously realistic, and again with the transparency, it is the called spade that knocks the cynicism out of the skeptic. The Fame is funny because it’s true, but funnier if it weren’t. GaGa wrote it into being, and if this was her first and last album she would have a famous obituary; but her inevitably legendary career will be looked back on with The Fame as the starting point – the catalyst, not the final mark of success: and this is The Fame.

“I’m shiny and I know it, don’t know why you want to blow it; you got me wondering why I like it rough,” maybe because love is a losing game. As GaGa eases out the album with “I Like It Rough,” it’s the track that reminds us there is no end; we always want what we can’t have, and once we have it we’re on to the next, and after it leaves we’re standing missing it only because it’s gone… and so it goes. Christians are born-again if only to sin, celebrities sober up if only to get that much closer to the dragon, lovers part if only to makeup, and the industry kills stars if only to resurrect them for a comeback tour. As always, from the night can arrive the sweet dawn but “don’t be sad when the sun goes down, you’ll wake up and I’m not around.” “What time is it?” Fifteen minutes, and a lifetime, later we hit “Summerboy,” the sweet sendoff as GaGa heads to meet with the wild things. As she says “we’ll still have the summer after all,” you can’t help but miss June. Aside from you, or anyone else, this is GaGa looking in the mirror and saluting goodbye to her summer self; while the world was riding her disco stick, she made her way to the bath haus to get clean with the beautiful, dirty, rich.

So here we find ourselves looking back on 2008. The institutions had crumbled, the celebrities had collapsed, the grand old party had ended, Hamptonite billionaires became slumdog millionaires: the top dropped. Yet with their last ounce of influence, they gave the false American ideal to us: that their reality check was our dream deferred, that we had failed – but when the everyman had nothing, it was nothing new, and for those who had nothing again we had nothing to lose.

The Fame is as stylishly substantial as you want it to be. It gauges only against itself, and so does Lady GaGa. The Fame is a skeleton, the album is GaGa’s face; but her story is a tale of how to go carve out your own space:

I did this the way you are supposed to. I played every club in New York City and I bombed in every club and then killed it in every club and I found myself as an artist. I learned how to survive as an artist, get real, and how to fail and then figure out who I was as singer and performer. And, I worked hard.

It’s the hedonistic Apocalyptic sendoff, an ode to the past life that built this live and die fast life, and 2008 was the post-party dawn. It was over, we were done, fame was dead, but in its wake a child was born unto us: The Fame. The Fame is everything fame is not; The Fame takes time, fame isn’t worth it. Fame is what killed the country, The Fame is here to bring it back. Fame is the artifice, The Fame is the artist. When the history books are burnt beneath the rubble, you write your own tale. Britney fell, up for grabs goes Pop; Bush was gone, oh hai politics: meet Barack. What the famous lost was our gain – and this is The Fame. It is timeless, and senseless, with no direction, just vamp; here today, gone tomorrow, if you want it: just dance.

Money Needs Me

celebrity, human currency, neon trafficking flashing lights, in god we trust, monarchy, illuminate me, free market new slaves, live your cash, kill the cow..

necessity sees me, desire feeds me, schadenfreude bleeds freely … the fame monster … the framed rockstar … it’s just entertainment … and the economy stupid

140 characters …

courtesy is the currency


USD Grade: Created Capitol … May the Odds Be Ever in Your Favor


$1 // Britney Spears (George Washington)



$2 // Beyonce (Thomas Jefferson)
– Sally Hemmings

yeezymoney2$5 // Kanye West (Abraham Lincoln)
– Free the new slaves // Gettysburg Address / Devil in a New Dress // Emancipation Proclamation / Late Registration // Graduation / Emancipation // Assassinated / John Wilkes Booth / Ford’s Theatre / Dead Spectator / Dead Spectacle / Dead off-stage / Booth/Booth/Studio // Stovetop Hat/Pleated Kilt // Civil War



$10 // Lady GaGa (Alexander Hamilton – DOB September 11, 1789)
– Founding Father / Mother Monster // Chief of Staff to Washington (Spearsian / Watch the Calderone / Vanguard) – Federalist Party Founder // Fame Monster Ball Mistress: Black and White ; Marry the Night / policies called for a national bank, tariffs, and good relations with Britain as expressed in the Jay Treaty negotiated in 1794. / Good relations with Bey as expressed in the JAY Treaty // Built with the support of bankers and businessmen in order to support Hamilton’s fiscal policies. / Built with social tech startups and creative capitalists in order to support the GaGa’s factory fashion policies // These supporters grew into the Federalist Party committed to a fiscally sound and nationalistic government. / These supporters grew into the Haus // Monsters Inc. … Fans and the free market … blind love and the usurpation of adoration … little monsters … commercial interest and youth culture cannibalism … don’t be part of the machine, make the machine a part of thee … let my blood flow through the press … to publicized privacy, frame the line and print me



$50 // Jay-Z (Ulysses S. Grant)
– Yankee General, Drunk in Love



$100 // Madonna + Michael Jackson (Benjamin Franklin)

BlinkkMedia: “… Girls Will Be Hounded by The Media”

Making money is easy as pie: Just turn people into profitable products for the press, the predatory paparazzi, and the perusing public. It’s almost too easy. The only rule is they can’t die; you just have to make them crazy enough to make them wish they were dead — it makes for good viewing.

Martyrdom is a funny thing — another one that politics and pop share. There are those political martyrs that go down for the sake of society’s souls, and there are those pop martyrs that go down for the sake of society’s entertainment — or just go down … ladies first.


When Owen Wilson was hospitalized in August after an apparent suicide attempt, his plight was the subject of a single US Weekly cover story. Not so Britney Spears, recently confined in a psychiatric ward, who has inspired six cover stories for the magazine during the same time span.

“There may be a tendency toward comparing Bieber’s downward spiral to Britney Spears from a few years…”

There may be a tendency toward comparing Bieber’s downward spiral to Britney Spears from a few years ago, but that would be a mistake. Yes, Britney lost her shit but Bieber’s acting like an asshole. And there’s a huge difference.

The media coverage was comparable, of course, and certainly Spears acted out by partying too much in public, but let’s put her 2007 breakdown into perspective. In November 2006, she filed for divorce from K-Fed. In January her aunt, whom she was close with, died of cancer. In February she briefly checked into rehab, then fled and infamously shaved her head. She entered other treatment centres over the next month or so. Later that year, she lost custody of her children. And then the following January she had a breakdown as they were being taken away and she was hospitalized on a 5150 involuntary psychiatric hold and diagnosed as bipolar.

During all this she was being followed by a paparazzi operating under an unprecedented intensity — which nearly led to a “Britney Law” restricting their activities — and was allegedly being drugged by manager-slash-svengali Sam Lufti, who was later hit with a restraining order in Feb 2008, just when her life got back on track.

Oh, and in the middle of all this, Spears also released her best album, Blackout and arguably her best song, “Piece of Me.”

So Brit had real grown-up problems and real bad influences that led to her downward spiral. Bieber, well, broke up with Selena and turned 19, I guess.
– Joshua Ostroff

#WatchThisSpace and #DoRemember


#girlsbestfreeze … diamond tears … chillin’ with you … #notaboutathing

“I laughed so much that I cried.



I danced so much til I was tired. I drank some red wine, and now I’m walking on the sky…


I had the time of my life.”


“I sang so loud that I smiled, I made it worth my while. I crossed the white line, and now I’m walking on the sky… I had the time of my life.”

#girlsbestfreeze … diamond tears … chillin’ with you … #notaboutathing

Dance For World Peace #forewordstory

Because, no matter how broke, bullied, or abandoned: you can always dance.


“Tonight I’m gonna dance for you”


“You can dance, for inspiration”


Dance the night away
Live your life, and stay young on the floor…”


“Just dance, gonna be okay”


“Back on the dance floor better not to take me home”


“Move your body, move baby, dance all night”


“Keep on dancing, till the world ends.”

#POPCANONS The Anatomy of Sonic Iconography, Est. 2013

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…

King and Queen

Monstrous Mavens (Fame Killers): Kanye West, Lady GaGa

Fame Killers

The Court

Pop Pillars: Jay Z, Madonna

Pop Pillars

Bandstand Breakouts: Justin Timberlake, Beyonce

Bandstand Breakouts

Southern Phoenix: T.I., Britney Spears

Southern Phoenix

… four more from several years ago

The Inkwell: Lil’ Wayne, Amy Winehouse

Foreign Firestarters: Radiohead, M.I.A.

Honorable Mention

The Standards: Coldplay, Christina Aguilera

Needless to say, here we are four years later and that make believe story has manifested itself into an acting baseline for all things Pop #whoknew So, I figure why not revisit 2013 from the retrospective of a kid who called the post-apocalypse way back when we were nestled comfortably in the handbasket (where am I going, and why is she next to me in this handbasket?)

If 2013 has taught us nothing (which it hasn’t) it’s that good gracious the gods can do anything if and when they put their money, minds, and blurred lines to the marketplace.

That said, this year, I am acknowledging this once-in-life-beyond-the-lifetime year where the Pop canons shot for the stars and collectively crafted the constellation, the anatomical structure, for the new age’s iconographic Pop body #welcometoRADIOactive

Anatomy of ...

Secret Project RevolutionThe Brain

Cerebral, the nervous command central – never shook, always shaking, lightyears ahead, if only for the sake of abandoning all things reductive… esoteric projections in liberation from former convention, art for freedom – or something to that effect… brainstorms and bittorrents, the tsunami, the mother spinster, still going and going – detached from the masses, pensively penetrating from the ivory tower….

Magna Carta Holy GrailThe Suit

Businessman, business, man… legal eagles and corporate partnerships, not so much music as an audio-based app, crooning for capital, daddy dearest whose road to redemption has shone most clearest… not show friends, but show business, music is the medium but the monarchy remains monetized… not the human beneath, but the threads that keep the soul or void hidden and chic for the Brooklynized sheik.

The 20/20 ExperienceThe Tie

Stranglehold on the formal, teflon dons and well-tailored maintenance of the white-collar standard… a bow here, a bollo there… a cherry on top to manufacture the anti-flop. Necessary symbols of male convention, ladies love it – in theory and private practice – but effectually nothing more than the lingering neck brace of Southern Hospitality #oldtimestherearenotforgotten

“ft. T.I.” – The Adrenals

Flow steady, take two and pulse it in the morning… jewels and drugs, dynamite and blurred lines – tip the scales for a rush to the head

ARTPOPThe Epidermis

ARTPOP wore itself on a birthday sleeve. For a woman who is not known for wearing pants, choosing meat instead, ARTPOP follows suit by existing as its own. Some say it’s spread too thin, others say it lacks depth; either way it covers the bases: it contains the necessary elements within, it maintains its longevity by practice of routine destruction and regeneration so constant it becomes the standard. The decay of the pop star is nothing more than the fallen veil of mortality in motion toward immortal transcendence – and evolutions involve apparent descent.

BeyonceThe Flesh

The meat, the carnal, the barrier bridge between skin and bone… nothing more, nothing less, just the lauded mask that is the flesh

YEEZUSThe Viscera

The most visceral, innate, core … the organs that pulse those deepest functions … the gut feeling, the intuition, the cardiac rhythm, the intestinal fortitude, the constant circulation, the digestion and regurgitation, the depths of grotesque that bear the burden of consumption and expulsion – so necessary the central cavity, so human that darkness… no one quite understands it beyond their insatiable need for the unknown vital … the pulsing purge … the cyclical surge … that liquid adherence of the human viscera

Britney JeanThe Skeleton

The hard-white. The future fossil fuel. The support system. The first and last element. When the emperor loses his suit and tie; when the skin is scalped; when fire sears the flesh to cleanse all sins; when the innards give out, and the viscera vaporizes; when the brain shuts down for salvation before shortage: all that remains is the skeleton. Bone to remind us of our blueprint, marrow to manifest the next when necessary. Outside the closet, inside every human creature. America: meet your archetype – the Mitochondrial Eve you’ll never know, the embedded code they’ll never show. Beyond the Achilles tendon see, and best when clean broken – watch for the fracture, and reveal the evolutionary flow.

… unfinished symphonies play-on endlessly…

Vinyl Cut Prose: “Britney Jean”

I’ve spent the past two years since Femme Fatale mastering the art and science of global media and communication with Britney as my canon… I don’t really need to prove anything, and apparently neither does she… because Britney Jean founds and finds itself in that, it breathes … I appreciate Britney Jean.


Holding the thread close to a dream, while intelligence becomes the steal
For what if gold, showed token sold, while manners abright and rightfully bold
Make a wish, a princess dream, unfold the map, a small lil bean
To vanish the air and trace out the new, so scared to love, so soon who knew
Beautiful voice creeps in my head, only one person person can wear this red
Traces behavior, young and small; I see land, I must fall

 – Britney Jean

Linger in the legacy… intelligence as the steal is Britney Jean – no, she is not GaGa, nor Madonna, nor is hers the aspired claim on their cerebral domain, that knowledge which detaches one from visceral humanity… that spark to light the first morning star. Yet, only one can wear the red, the Scarlet Letter Britney dons instead… And so seeing land, she must fall… that ground rooting the human and iconic plight – from dust we came and to dust we return, no matter how high the peak flight.



This is the record of someone who’s already been where you want her to stay, but that’s the point – you can’t evolve, and still return to that place unchanged. But you’ll never see it that way, because you’re not thee.

Revealing itself much like a sunset over the Hollywood Hills… we have an aural venture through lightly hued layers of majestic technicolor faded, ascending as a systematic rise within the naturally spectacular, muted neon chromatic escalating to the heavens, forever rooted in the Canyon, steady upon the capitalized moniker of America’s finest institution – studio stardom.

The Original Doll… picking up where the unreleased sonic utopia of Britney fandom left off, from Mona Lisa’s declaration of icon status amidst the coming wave of mass reproduced clone basics:

She’s the original, she’s unforgettable / She wants you to know: she’s been cloned
It’s kind of incredible, she’s so unpredictable / She wants you to know, that she’s home

to Alien’s declaration of self-awareness amidst the present wave of mass reproduced clone basics…

There was a time I was one of a kind / lost in a world, doubted me myself and I … was lonely then … like an alien
I tried but I never figured it out / why I always felt like a stranger in a crowd … but that was then … like an alien

Cross through the universe to get where you are / travel the night riding on a shooting star … was lonely then … like an alien
Had to get used to the world I was on, while yet still unsure if I knew where I belong … but that was then … like an alien


Stellar evolution… and evolutions involve apparent descent. No longer Britney the supernova, Britney Jean collapses into herself as the white dwarf amidst a pitch black expanse… even in its subdued glow, still and always the brightest morning star – because the stars in the sky look like home.

Chaos so tightly controlled that it becomes the constant, the standard, the quietest storm… Complexity bundled creates static, but if you listen closely it’s incredibly layered and quite beautiful in its systematic rise and fall… Always the elemental interplay between terrestrial percussion… rasp the hi-hat, snap the snare… cosmic synths, respiratory natural vocals, lightning vocoder effects, electric strings, coiled bass, atmospheric elemental convergence… and the digital landscape becomes increasingly present, and yet Britney welcomes it as a part of her being, because that’s what it means to be a rockstar – be a comet, a meteor, an asteroid, be the living convergence of spectacle and substance, light and heavy, fire and rock, it’s … I can’t … it’s Britney, she’s Planet Hollywood – the big bang.

Riding a shooting star through the night, she rode through the darkness on her own assassination attempt… Never flop, never forget… “I’ll never tell, I hide it well… the bad bxxch you’ll never know…” the most exposed and least revealed… every she, he, and we will always have the scent of Britney … on our sinuses, forever lingering when we inhale the new, now, fresh batch of pop tarts… and there’s always three… and that most unholy matrimony… since the forever summertime, blood on the leaves, the taste of strange fruit from the deep Delta Poplar Trees… red wine flowing while globetrotting across the sky, the intoxicating Spearit, consecrated on the breeze.

More than an album, a record of the epic living Elusinian mystery… nothing left to prove except that I told you so, that I am the bad bxxch, the bxxch that you’ll never know… because you’re dwelling on the high noon, as I ride into my planetary Hollywood sunset… Don’t cry when the lone ranger waves goodbye along silver lines…

If Britney retires after Vegas, she will have completed what no other artist could – because her character never broke. Seamless emergence, rise, fall, renaissance, retirement – before 35, to live, to tell… show… at the very least: exist as proof that you can #intelligenceisthesteal

Digital Collage by GODTIDOTE.tumblr.com
Digital Collage by GODTIDOTE.tumblr.com


Hm, so … this one is tricky. I guess, in short, Britney Jean, to me, says one thing, and one thing very definitively: This is Planet Hollywood, I Am Planet Hollywood.

Half planet, half Hollywood, this album peaks and valleys, stratospheric heights and terrestrial depths. It’s a mood piece, and as such, did not make sense until I was in vehicular motion.

I always say, if you want to feel fame – pilot up Mulholland Drive. As you coast and careen along the Hollywood Hills in a journey equally breathtaking in its aesthetic splendor and constant proximal fatality, you have to marvel at how something so juxtaposed and magnificent could ever exist within the capital of manufactured artifice. And right beside the splendor is the perpetual threat: that should you look over the vertiginous drop a split second too long, should you get lost for a spell in the Canyon’s star trail, should a wrong twist of fate trigger the Achilles fall for no clear reason at all … your silent demise still reigns above the masses who never heard the autumn call – and that’s fame. And that’s what Britney Jean gives you in ten tracks.

Whether or not you can go to those Hills – Britney did: because she put in work, you got the soundtrack and a shotgun seat for fifteen years of fame – sonic fuel for the vehicular ones. This is for those who must move by natural compulsion – the troupers, the cosmic dancers, the runaways, the goers. Spears will always give the stagnant a catalyst glimpse, and forever will the critics judge from the pit, and a decade and a half later it is glaringly clear those who knew what to do with it – those who danced to the music of mysterious mentality, and the deaf who called it juvenile insanity. So now, she hands over the keys and we see who can play pilot.

Passenger” reminds any Angeleno that this was the one who did traverse Mulholland, Doheny, and Laurel Canyon not six years ago at 100 mph – the one whose white CLK defined modern Hollywood mobility. Now, she eases down Sunset with you at the wheel… and it kind of feels alright.

One of Britney’s greatest capacities has been her ability to maintain control of the culture by pulsating the pneuma. It’s not the lyrics, or the production, or the context, or the sonic choreography and aural interplay alone – it is all of these elements coming together to project an atmosphere that goes deep into the individual psyche as it spans across the collective consciousness.

So here we have the alien, here we have the brightest morning star, here we have the most exposed, least revealed, most mysterious baby, baby … and she’s back for the first time. It’s like she never left, but it’s more like we never met – which is exactly how a princess is supposed to get it.

Prove It

It’s subtle, but it is clear and present to those who open their ears and ride with the music. The delayed bassline, the boogie, evokes significance in negative space, the patience of a princess before taking the crown. The eight-count pinpointed kick drum on the second chorus of “Tik Tik Boom” hits your heart, and it hits you hard. The bubblegum riffs on the back of the palette to follow T.I.’s flow remind the listener who was first born to make you happy.

I love, the precision of this album, delayed basslines beautiful and simple. The rhythmic orbit between distant vocal undertones and wispy ambient synths croon to the cosmos. It’s familiar in its introspective solitude, and it is that odd foundation that leads the way for the 35 minute trip down memory lane.

Let’s backtrack a taste though, and follow the breadcrumbs that led us to this place. This album, akin to every other, is as much a review of the media as it is of the music. And from the once zoned brave new girl, where she defined independence as resistance against the music for the sake of the beat of the drum and the maintained bass, here she delves deeper into the sonic in civil resistance to the hype-heavy media marketplace.

The thing about this album is that it’s exactly what we wanted, and now that we’ve got it it’s like – what, this is what we wanted? Yes, it’s what I wanted. In the two years since Femme Fatale came out, I have mastered the art and science of global media and communication at LSE and USC with Britney as my canon – literally. This album, feels like the exhale. This album feels like a respiratory exodus after tracking, watching, waiting in the midst of something you don’t know is going to happen. It’s waiting for the approval you’ve had all along. It is a past due license to exist for the sake of yourself, finally, after engaging with your projection for the sake of the every other.

She has nothing to prove really, and it sounds like the anthem of a kid who redefined what it meant to be young royalty at the turn of the millennium. Lasers, arcade fires, beat drops, synth pitches, vocoders on parade, ambient climates beneath driven declarations.

This is an album about a breakup, for the fans. This album is Pop’s Yeezus from the lips of the holy grail. Everyone has to let go at some point. If you want the “crazy,” go back to Blackout – the beauty with Britney is that you can. You can always go back to the iteration you loved best because she gave you pure scene every era. This is the album from a 32 year-old woman who wants you to dance. This is the soundtrack of the rockstar, the post-princess, Hollywood embodied – neon, former fast life, now spectacular in its ability to still capture the world within its glow no matter how subdued.

Close your eyes, roll down the windows, feel the wind on your face as you escalate the tiers of spectacular fame. Know not a single person in the room, and be the most known of; know not an utterance of the local language, and be the first and last word on each tongue: be the native alien.


So ask yourself, do you want her truth? Did you want the ugly truth of a single mother by way of child stardom at the peak of publicized privacy, or would you prefer the beautiful symphony of the spectacular blackout she projected. Did you want the bombastic resistance to stagnant security of second-hand access to excess, or would you rather the subtle precision of an introspective glance at the post-pop princesses’ confessional music box? Did you want Blackout 2.0 or do you need Britney Jean?

Screen shot 2013-12-08 at 4.54.20 PM


Watch This Space

The most personal will always be flawed out of natural necessity. Britney Jean: because little red riding hood’s scarlett never pulsed the sunset.

Lyrically Speaking: Hey BRITNEY – Happy Birthday Bad Bxxch

Rarely one to be considered a lyricist, Ms. Britney Jean Spears never considered your considerations – so it’s a moot point. That said, on this the anniversary of her thirty-second year of a most spectacular presence on this our fair planet, we at Art Nouveau put together  a list (in no particular order) of thirty-two Britney bars worth reading #learnabook We, like Britney, love more URB – and by URB we mean UnReleased Britney – so below, words of proper and underground wisdom, wit, and cracked bullwhips from the General, the guvunah, Lucky, Mona, Miss American Freakin’ Dream Since 17, the post-princess of Pop, the legendary Miss Britney Spears. #howcanyoureadthistheresnopictures


1. “I’m not ashamed of the things that I dream
I find myself flirting with the verge of obscene”
– Touch of My Hand (2003)

2. “Lately, people got me all tied up
There’s a countdown waitin’ for me to erupt
Time to blow out
I’ve been told what I should do it with, to keep both my hands above the blank-blanket when the light’s out”
– I Wanna Go (2011)

3. “Shame on me, to need release, uncontrollably”
– I Wanna Go (2011)

4. “Loving the extreme
Now are you game?”
– 3 (2009)

5. “Love me hate me
Say what you want about me
But all of the boys and all of the girls are
Begging to If U Seek Amy
– If U Seek Amy (2008)

6. “You got my heart beating like an 808”
– Break The Ice (2007)

7. “Hold on to your release”
– Don’t Hang Up (2003)

8. “You sit there say I’m filthy when you’re the one who made me guilty”
– Guilty

9. “You don’t like me
I don’t like you, It don’t matter
Only difference
You still listen, I don’t have to”
– Kill The Lights (2008)

10. “Because I’m a good girl, but I can be bad
You’re not quite there, you’re not on my level
Trust me for you, I’m trouble”
– Trouble (2008)

11. “Exchanged my vows
And said it all
Woman, let’s prepare to fall”
– Why Should I Be Sad? (2007)

12. ” I could be anything you dream of, but I gotta feel free”
– What You See Is What You Get (2000)

13. “I tell ’em what I like
What I want, and what I don’t
But everytime I do
I stand corrected
Things that I’ve been told
I can’t believe
What I hear about the world, I realize
I’m overprotected”
– Overprotected (2001)

14. “Hit me one more time
And trust me I’ll be okay”
– Sugarfall (2007)

15. “Now they don’t believe ya’, but they gonna need ya'”
– Work Bitch (2013)

16. “There’s only two types of people in the world
The ones that entertain, and the ones that observe”
– Circus (2008)

17. “It’s written everywhere, I’ve even read it in my script / But when I thought it wasn’t fair, I felt it on my lips to let go…”
– To Love, Let Go (2008)

18. “Watching me, you’re crawling at my feet / I’ve seen it all, and now it’s on repeat”
– Dangerous (2011)

19. “And it hit my heart, and it hit you hard. And I lose control, and I hit the floor.
Time will be not the same, the same – now you got a price to pay.”
– Get It

20. “Do you lick your lips just to stand alone?
You ain’t got no X-Ray vision staring through my clothes.”
– Sugarfall (2007)

21. “She was taken under, drowning in her scene
Running like an angel, she was crying and she could not see
Now see everyone’s watching, as she starts to fall
They want her to break down,
And be a legend of her fall…”
– Mona Lisa (2003)

22. “I’m Miss bad media karma
Another day another drama
Guess I can’t see the harm
In working and being a mama
And with a kid on my arm
I’m still an exceptional earner
And you want a piece of me”
– Piece of Me (2007)

23. “I’m wanted more than ever now,
I realized that they ain’t listening,
Like a princess supposed to get it
That’s why I’m dusting off my fitted,

Now I hold them at attention,
‘Cause new Britney’s on a mission”
– Toy Soldier (2007)

24. “Here is a little story that I made up, so let’s make believe”
– I’ve Just Begun (Having My Fun)

25. “If they wanna know
Tell ’em mind their own
But if they wanna look
We can give em a encore”
– Freakshow (2007)

26. “I don’t speak the language, but they know my name here”
– Abroad (2011)

27. “Some day when you see my face
You will think that you have won
And some day when it’s all away
I will have just begun

So if you preferred the other one
She won’t bring you the son”
– Baby Boy (2008)

28. “Lost in an image, in a dream
But there’s no one there to wake her up
And the world is spinning, and she keeps on winning
But tell me what happens when it stops?
They go…”
– Lucky (2000)

29. “You see my problem is this
I’m dreaming away
Wishing that heroes, they truly exist”
– Oops… I Did It Again (2000)

30. “You call every minute of the day, every second of the hour cause you’re trying to come back but it’s way too late
How’s it feel all alone on your throne and the crowd is gone?”
– Rockstar (2007)

31. “I made the guvunah, call me the guvunah.

I am the bad bitch, the bitch that you’ll never know.”
– Work Bitch (2013)

32. “Mona Lisa’s got to fly. Nobody really dies.”
– Mona Lisa (2003)


BONUS CANDLE: Oh baby, baby… the verdict is nothing, he needs me  – guilty. #doublereference