Live fast, die young… #badgirlsdoitwell… Maya Arulpragasm – like the Mayans – had it right… even when wrong:

It turns out that the Mayans had it right. History is a giant alarm clock. As the bell starts to ring, we awaken from the dream, and remember who we are.

Bad Girls… from Eve and Mary (and Magdalene), to Cleopatra and Nefertiti, from Frida and Josephine, to Eleanor and Marilyn – are the backbone of wake-up calls and real talk, courtesy of rogue revelry. #doitwell

Top-to-Bottom two cents #topback: History is a giant alarm clock, and discographies are giant phonographs… as the bell starts to ring, and the needle hits the groove, we awaken from the scene, and remember who we are… This year, Maya got back into the groove: Kala style.

Simple, catchy, Child-Rebel-meets-Sri-Lankan sonic soldier lyrics; heavy, heavy, subtly overt socio-political juxtapositions layered beneath sandy cinematography, all colliding over a Bamboo bangin’ beat: guess who’s back?

“Bad Girls”… from M.I.A., is simple and straight low-fi swagger #bringitback

The run-down, on the second come-up: signature sands of the Arabian desert, ghost-ridden whips, the Bollywood choreo on a Nollywood budget with Hollywood tatted on the middle finger, wide angles, stunting horsepower #allfour from behind the steering wheel and atop a stallion, lots of smoke, fears, and fire, and the girls girls girls… set a stage reminiscent of “Haven’t I seen – nah… have I?”

Bad Girls: make Minaj’s Massive Attack seem miniscule, run the world, do it well and break rules, stay photoshoot fresh, lookin’ like wealth, get their roll on and stride in stealth, and if the ride gets too rough, they stop, drop, open up shop #andthisistheanthem

Watch This Space: Bad Girls are born free, this way, around digital bonfires.

Watch That Space: America – because we told you it would trickle down, mananah … #effectualeventualities

As much the Four Evangelists as they are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Britney, Jay-Z, Kanye, and 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…

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John… Jay, Ye, Britney, and GaGa these four testified in an entirely new way on behalf of the perceived social savior. They worship the abstract, The Throne, The Fame, The Monster, The Femme Fatale, whatever it is they boast on behalf of, and simultaneously battle against is irrelevant – as that vice and vise is always internal first… They are their own Christs and Anti-Christs… The Throne is post-colonial, it is secular, and so very sacred and religious, it bows before the masses and any true messiah, and much as it blasphemes with every waking breath… In this time of unparalleled turmoil, tumult, wealth, weariness, fatigue, fortune, unions within innumerably layered divisions, The Throne articulates body, soul, rhythm, and rhyme what it means to be alive right now. Beyond any shadow of a doubt these four human institutions embody contemporary royalty. They are the belly of the beast, they are the Good Word on the street, they are ingrained in society, and somehow detached but never removed from the lips of any prep or priest… They are the scribes which will tell the history of our generation… This former generation of red herrings has evolved a bit, traded in flippers for boots, grabbed themselves up by the straps, and stepped onto dry land… Steve Jobs sold you an Apple, and with that first gigabyte this consumer culture fell from grace, but it was okay – because we gained knowledge… we gained that carnal knowledge of ourselves… we tasted that luxury, that divine ability to know and have everything – virtually, without having anything at all in reality… we lived in this spectacular place of nothingness, we live now in a cloud… everything became so clean, so pristine, so lily white, and yet so bleakly trademarked beige… but lo and behold we were taken back to the depths… we moved Eastward again, to Chicago, to Kentwood, to Marcy, to Manhattan… we moved away from the machines… we did not want to be part of those machines, we wanted the machines to be part of we… we had no where to unplug though… and then… we decided Pop Music would Never Be Low Brow, we decided we would no longer mail it in… we decided to put a nail in the coffin of that cloud culture… Ignorance is no longer bliss – ignorance is a myth… and within that magnificent mythology lies the future – from plastic to perilous to pre-eminent… from ordinary to organic… from wired to weathered

Gorillas in Chinchillas (Slaves in Paris) by GREATeclectic

What does any of this mean? What does anything ever mean? It means what you make of it… and here we have four broken barons and baronesses… We have four apostles of the apopcalypse: Matthew the Hova – the former tax collector turned Savior’s scribe, the former dealer turned voice of the Biblical business, man; Mark the Kanye – the follower of Peter, the son of the Roc boy; Luke the Spears – a figure of sacrifice, service and strength… representing the sacrificial Passion and Crucifixion, the simultaneous deification through self-denial; John… and John the GaGa – on one hand, the youngest of them all, the metamouthpiece, the supernatural scribe, thee who writes into fruition the human capability to transcend the physical world in an unyielding move towards divinity, on the other “The gospel of GaGa, as told in Born This Way, goes something like this: Humanity will be damned by its own self-doubt until Gaga the Savior delivers us with the might of her music.” #ew It means we’re riding in on the backs of our Four Evangelists of the Apopcalypse – it means the Good Word Goon Squad never beasted so bad.

For twelve months… twelve, months – The Throne reigned supreme this year. From January through December, the sun never set on the crown #splendidisolation.

The Throne does not care about the now because this is then, and they’re on to the next one. The Throne owns Pop Cultural capital – period. They are not specialists, but polymaths of Pop.

“We’re going to stick 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. 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

We have Hov and Yeezy, both the bumrusher and the bumrushed from 2009 – back with a vengeance. We have Britney #thatstearsnotglitter Spears – forever back from 2007, off the heels of 2008‘s reign, and still… still letting you hold it against her that she allowed you to hold her down for so long. Britney, Kanye, and Jay-Z: three the “Parisian, please” way. Hailing from Los Angeles by way of Kentwood, Southside Chicago by way of Atlanta, and Manhattan by way of Marcy – these three are why you lock your doors at night, why Tipper brought Parental Advisory labels to light, and the embodiment of Naggers in Paris, chimps on the Champs, the low-brow to which you cow-tow #taxbreakandpaytribute – the American definition of fright. Hov balled so hard, he’s shocked too; Britney bald so hard, she cut the crew; Yeezy walled so hard, he throned you, all supposed to be locked up too – if you escaped what they escaped: you’d be in your house getting throwned out too. Yet… still all slaves to the throne. All three are slaves to their own power, their own success, and therein lies the throne of indentured servitude… it is the detachment, the ego, the gold, the glitz, the glam, the superhuman persona keeping the hierarchy from humanity that is their debt. Abstract theory notwithstanding, the blood of the hustler, the blood of the bayou, the blood of the college dropout is what fuels the throne… and in that reality – the lasting pantheon of social prominence is a place none of those kings or queens will ever feel at home – for everything else: there’s making lies truths.

And, naturally, Lady GaGa emerges as the sonic second-coming of the Sans-culottes – pants, politics, and pop, tears and hegemonic fears on tap: Á votre santé, Watergate.

#truthiness

What Wall Street was literally to capitalism, Paris was symbolically to the creative cultural class this year… #getoccupied #nagon They were not just art for Michelangelo to carve, he could never rewrite the aggro of their furied hearts… so, they waited on mountaintops in Paris cold … #everybloodylovesmary #workitblackjesus … and strutted into Paris Fashion Week – runway workhorses:

Lady GaGa – Government Hooker Live at Paris Fashion Week 2011 F/W 2011

Kanye West – DW S/S 2012 Collection at Paris Fashion Week 2011

Lady GaGa - Black Jesus † Amen Fashion Live at Paris Fashion Week 2011 S/S 2012

 

For The Throne, Paris was the hallowed mirrored hall to which they would see themselves infinitely reflected upon royalty, and to which they would call home – against, any, other, and all wishes.

I’m sitting here about to get my next tattoo at a popular tattoo shop in downtown Atlanta. This next tattoo is the one with the most meaning. It’s maktub. Maktub is Arabic for ‘it was written’. A strong, spiritual sentiment that eludes many to think of faith and destiny, all heavy religious concepts automatically once the denotation is learned. I picked up the phrase from one of my favorite books, The Alchemist. But I’m getting it tattooed on me. So, a religious thought is becoming a fashionable trivial decoration on my body. This trend is not rare in our society. I’m participating in seemingly the bastardization of a sacred world. Making things that are of God be also in vogue, no matter what the eventual results may be. Even when those results are most commonly breaking the sacred and holy.

The needle is drilling into my flesh, the blood drips on to my skin, running down. The pain of this tattoo is a right of passage. The more pain, the more you can later gloat about how you overcame it and got a cool piece of art on your skin. The needle drills harder, blood runs faster. The outlining is becoming almost complete. The thought that is going through my mind is a common one; when the fuck will this be over? The thought that followed isn’t as common. I thought to myself; is this how Jesus felt? His body being in pain, but his mind knowing the end result because was all-knowing. That fine balance of knowledge that it will all be okay, despite your body being put through torture by someone else’s hands.

No, I’m not Jesus but perhaps subconsciously I want to be? Of course, most Christians want to be Christ-like, but are we jealous of Jesus also? The perfect one? God’s son? The attention he gained, the magic he made, the lives he changed, the followers he garnered. Jesus was the first pop star and it seems like we’re all trying desperately to catch up in our own ways to prove that we can compete with his celebrity. Michael Jackson might have moonwalked, but Jesus walked on water. Wiz Khalifah and Kanye might have had Amber Rose. Jesus, however, was the first to turn a hoe into a megastar with Mary Magdalene.

Picture your favorite performer on stage. Her hair is flowing, the lights are glowing, and she’s probably levitating on stage like some holy angel or resurrecting from underneath the ground like some born-again holy crusader. Beyonce in her angelic, glowing silver dress singing about halos or Lady Gaga birthing a universe through her kaleidoscope of a uterus and singing about how Judas betrayed her. Are these just findings of a conspiracy theorist gone mad with too many ‘People’ magazines? Or are these ladies highlighting what’s in all of us? We all want to be closer to God, but how scary is the thought that we are actively envious of our savior, as well?

We’re a generation of bosses, superstars, leaders, and iconoclasts. We try our best to make it seem like we’re alphas of whatever endeavor we’re getting into. How many of us want to be the alpha and omega, though? How many of us won’t be satisfied with any level of success because the true control and attention we need and desire is ungodly (for a lack of better words). Jay-Z has millions of albums sold, prestige in most creative circles, and a type of fame that is almost tangible and sticks to your fingertips like dried-up glue. Is it really surprising that a man who desired to achieve that level of notoriety would refer to himself as God? Is it really surprising that our pop stars have formed religions around their brands that go beyond fans? We’re living in a world full of monsters, barbies, and love muffins. We use to live in a world full of Christians, Muslims, and Jews.

Sure, I might be crazy or do too many drugs and listen to too much Pink Floyd while reading Alice Walker books (try it!), but it’s a discussion that needs to be ignited in order to really find out the motivation behind today’s pop culture that usually reveals the motivation behind the people consuming it which is you, me, and them. Why are people falling so easily for these false idols that are ideally American? I have a theory. Hope was killed in 2010 and faith hasn’t been exciting since Ricki Lake has aired. We’re living in a society thirsty for something to believe in, something to praise, and something to pray to. But this time we’re choosing our own God. The Ancient Greeks did it. Our Gods just have catchier choruses, fake eyelashes, and expensive wigs. More important than that, our new Gods are tangible. We can see, feel, and hear them for a fee which is proving to be a better alternative than the blind faith we’ve been settling for free. It’s a scary thought, but it is a mentality that is encompassing the world like the sun above.

The blood from my drilled flesh is wiped with a stark white cloth and ‘maktub’ is being wrapped in regular, tattoo fashion to avoid infection. My tattoo is done. The pain is over and like I knew from the beginning, the end result is something beautiful. I made an appointment for my own personal crucifixion that was perfectly packaged, timed, and made for mass consumption. Nothing is holy.

Just like any other year, 2011 was a musical hodgepodge. We had our queen bees and our wanna be’s, our good, bad, ugly, uglier, and everything in between. I don’t want to give too much away, but let’s just say this year brought the tears, the pain, the Acid, and the rain. And then of course, there was “Ni**as in Paris.” On that note, I’ll leave you with the music. Ladies and Gentleman, the Soundtrack of 2011:

Like most, I had been awaiting the comeback of the Chili Peppers. Considering their anthology, the boys have set their own standards pretty high; with “The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie,” the four-some was at last resurrected with a shamelessly catchy jingle, and just like that, the boys were back. When all was said and done, the cowbell was questionable and so was Anthony Keidis’s new hair-do, but even so, we still bounced to the beat. With Flea on the bass and Keidis on the mic, no wrong could be done. Yes, the album (I’m With You) is exceptionally weak, but as far as comeback singles are concerned, “The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie” does the trick. Sane enough to be played out by middle-aged men yet youthful enough in terms of the eternally youthful Red Hot Chili Peppers, the track is contextually fitting.

For me, “Halftime” was an internal calm after the storm, an unexpected peace with the parting. Quite honestly, this track is Amy at her barest, gentlest, most vulnerable self, showcasing the rarity of her vocal virtuoso and elucidating the old soul within. With the given circumstances, the lyricism suggests a self-intervention. The enlightened Amy attempts to pause from the madness, to “consider the change” in her last chance to convalesce. Ultimately, she is left to decipher her natural vice, the music or the medicine.

Beats Antique… Nobody knows where they came from or where they’re going, but baby they’re here. And that much we know is true. In response to the inhumanly execution of their music, I’ve come to think of them as higher evolved beings from the depths of a far, far dimension, temporarily gracing the grounds of this realm. That being said, their “Siren Song” doesn’t do much better at disproving my theory. “Siren Song” is not just a track; it’s the final crescendo of a hidden tale. Listening ears sink into a portal of Arabian nights and Middle Eastern instrumental orgies. The reverberating strings entrance us with a hypnotic cry, so pungent and so convincing, until we’ve fallen victim to Persephone syndrome. The composition penetrates in a dark seductive kind of way, yet what was once our fantasy leaves us trapped within a foreign nightmare.

The Roots return with another classic in the musical epitome of their artistic intent. In “Sleep”, we meet a lonely hustler who once considered himself a man, now nothing more than a degraded soul, cold and weary, pacing the streets. Back and forth, back and forth, the metronome ticks along ever so slowly as if time has reached an equilibrial standstill. Seeking a way out of the ceaseless cycle, he keeps getting pushed back in to the game he no longer wants to play. Even in his sleep, he feels prisoner. In his black and white world, he knows his enemies will keep him restless and peace is yet unseen.

We thought it couldn’t get any worse than a couple of white kids in Amsterdam, but oh were we wrong. Once Jay & ‘Ye confiscated throne, the rest was straight history. Ni**as in Paris was a free ride to the jungle, a one way ticket to Mayhem Lane, and honey you weren’t ever coming back. Real talk, the shit is cray, and that’s that. This ain’t no track for no head bobbin’, weed smokin’, love makin’ folk. Ni**as in Paris is the platinum gold drizzle on top of the dark chocolate icing! Ni**as in Paris is Ciroc spitting in the pretty face of Cristal! Ni**as in Paris is the reason why Prince William didn’t Marry Kate and Ashley!

If Miami had a beat, Urban Noize produced it. After years of tirelessly remixing tracks by the best artists in Urban and Pop Music, the Miami-based twin producer duo has perfected their version of the Mash Up.

With their latest project Brooklyn. Chicago. London. (The Urban Noize Remixes), The duo mixes some stand out tracks by Adele, Jay-Z & Kanye West. Anybody with ears can tell the combination is a no-brainer. If this was the early 2000′s I’m sure Ye would have sped up some of Adele’s vocals and incorporated them into a hit or two by Ye or Jay–but the effortless mixes are perfect for a relaxing listen. Track highlights include the dreamy “I Won’t Go.” Listen and download Brooklyn. Chicago. London. (The Urban Noize Remixes) below.

FAMEKILL$, a conceptual mixtape presented by GREATeclectic & Swiper Bootz which, intertwines the music of Kanye West & Lady GaGa is finally available for free download now.

“For some people, fame kills their passion and becomes more powerful than the music or the performance.” -GaGa

“There is no astronaut training for this whole celebrity thing… even though this whole life is so outer space” -Kanye

They shot the lights out, hid until ’twas bright out… and though it was just another lonely night, they birthed life in the sinful sacrifice.

Leaning on the Fall, in the wake of of Pop’s crystal ball looking back, looking ahead, looking down, and looking point-blank in the face of the Post-Apopcalypse – where The Fame killed fame.

Paws, processes, cacti, credenzas… follow down the Pop path, a Monster’s memory lane where the Glitter Way meets Elm St… where Fame Kills was not a concert, but rather an immaculate conception…

… where the greatest show you couldn’t believe, became the greatest show ever conceived – and just as swiftly became the greatest show never to see the light of day – only to become the most glorious mourning, and the greatest show money could never buy. The tandem didn’t cancel the concept, they canceled convention, and soundtracked culture.

Watch This Space: Art Lives, Fame Kills, Revolution Resurrects.

just dance, to the beat with ye…

“It’s like Born This Way candyflipped – which is fatal fame’s genesis..”

- Swiper Bootz

Art Lives, Fame Kills, Revolution Resurrects.

Watch This Space

“bad POWER” is taken from the GREATeclectic & Swiper Bootz presented mixtape “FAMEKILL$” which intertwines the music of Kanye West & Lady Gaga. “FAMEKILL$” is set to be released Nov 30.

Graduation is that “October Song” masterpiece: a piece of art that needs no external interpretation because it is complete in and of itself. At the most superficial and benign level, Kanye is Alec Trebeck and Graduation is Jeopardy: a series of answers engaging you to question. It is a fact that when immersed in the surreal, people’s ability to make sense of the world around them is increased. The fragmented fantastical enhances our ability to connect themes and build structure — when given fantasy we are best equipped to perceive reality. Thus is Kanye’s Graduation. An artist of West’s caliber is beyond “this world;” his ability to connect words, ideas, art forms, the abstract and concrete is unreal. Nowhere is this more present than in his masterful encapsulation of modern life – above and below: Graduation.

This is unforgettable because it is legendary, literally. Twelve tracks from Good Morning to Homecoming — from Drunk and Hot Girls to The Glory — illustrate the tale of how Kanye “Devil wears Prada/Adam Eve wear nada/I’m in between but way more fresher” West became a pop demigod; twelve great labours from the Nemean Lion to capturing Ceberus — from slaying Hydra to stealing Hesperides’ apples — illustrate the tale of how demigod Hercules became a mythological icon: epic. Shall we?

Pretense: As this is a complete masterpiece, any review would be unraveling that perfect tapestry. West made sense of it all; inevitably, the following will likely do the opposite.

The Sound: Graduation is neo-retro-purple-electro-pop-soul – like its cover. It is a compilation of classic and contemporary, acoustic and synthetic, of hip-hop, gospel, r&b, electronic, blues, and rap. It can do this because it is Pop, it does this best because Kanye is Pop.

The Story: The story is everything – the sound and the so what – so let’s go. Just as it is not what you look at but what you see, this isn’t about what you’re listening to, but what you hear. People can listen to Graduation all day, but when one goes into subjective “listening” mode they often miss the basics. Graduation is as much about the text as it is about the subtext, what Ye gives the listener is often very different from what they get – for better and worse. That said:

Good Morning is an orientation as much as it is a Graduation. The lyrics introduce the album brilliantly. There is the hybrid sound of synth and acoustic, as someone who is fresh from the academic domain: full of book knowledge, taking on the world open to everything, no particular focus except the ever elusive “success.” “Good morning/ Look at the valedictorian scared of the future/ While I hop in the Delorean/ Scared-to-face-the-world complacent career student/ Some people graduate, but we still stupid.” This track is the young, optimistic, sophomoric, naive graduate in the midst of a reality check. Good Morning to music, good morning to the real world — and its alter ego — good morning to life, good morning to the game, good morning to the false perception that you’ve made it, and the reality that you’ve only just begun.

Ye then takes us to Champion. This is as much a mantra to the man in the mirror, hyping the momentum to seize the world, as it is the retrospective realization that he reigned supreme before the fame. He was a made man before he was man-made. That pure perception, underground legend, Kanye at the core commanding “If you gon’ do it do it just like this.” The emphasis on sight and perception against reality is so strong here: “You don’t see just how wild the crowd is, just how fly my style is,” it’s about what the public doesn’t see: the basics, the champion right before them. They didn’t give him his props when he was at his pre-fame prime. “I don’t see why I need a stylist,” even then Ye knew his own style was hotter than the Desperate Housewives flashes. What we don’t see is what he does see, and vice versa; we didn’t see him until he stepped on stage, and it was then that he became what we falsely perceived him to be. Early words of wisdom from his father, “When you see clothes, close your eyelids,” because the clothes don’t make the man, and even the emperor’s floss is false; ignore the glitter when going for the gold. Champion takes Kanye from the man to the musician, past to present. He tells us exactly why he does what he intends to do: “When it feel like living’s harder than dyin’/ For me givin’ up’s way harder than tryin’.”

Ye was a champion well before the flashing lights, but it’s all about what is seen through “their eyes.” He was at his ultimate good, the only thing left was to become great. As is said: “The pursuit of goodness leads to greatness, but the pursuit of greatness leads to ruin. Pursue goodness and you will achieve great things.” It is almost a Siddhartha like tale of this icon being in a comfortable place, but seeing that bigger purpose and knowing that his life is not complete without a taste of the bitter and sweet. Whereas the future Buddha went to the slums, Ye ventured to the ugliest side of modern humanity: the Fame – that beautiful dirty rich world. “Lauryn Hill say her heart was in Zion/ I wish her heart still was in rhymin’/ ’cause who the kids gonna listen to? Huh?/ I guess me if it isn’t you.” It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy of the upHill road ahead — that road through the trenches to true insane genius. Spoken like a Pop Martyr: “If not for the pleasure, least for the principle.” He is that sole beacon of soul for the kids to listen to. “They used to feel invisible/ Now they know they invincible:” from the transparent eye and the invisible hand to the invincible superhuman. How could this champion possibly get stronger? By defeating that which doesn’t kill him.

Strength resonates through most Pop martyrs, those artists who – like social martyrs give their lives for society’s souls – give their lives for art’s sake and society’s entertainment and what connects the strength with the martyrdom is the pursuit of ultimate strength through living every day as if it were a battle — with demons internal and external. Kanye tests his invincibility by taking on the Fame Monster, and by becoming that very beast. The sound is the story, from a hybrid acoustic/synthetic sound we veer into heavier synth, sheer industrial electronic. From acoustic to synth West is building an artificial, bionic, superhuman archetype. The champion was good, but the superhuman is stronger. The mantra: work it, make it, do it, makes us harder, better, faster, stronger. As we’ll soon learn though: when you try hard, is when you die hard. He’s not sure if people still make real shit anymore. Instead of being the realest out there, tell everybody that you know to bow in the presence of bionic greatness. Enter: life. Stronger is the first conversation with a “she.” If Graduation is nothing else it is Kanye’s homage to the lady in his life – ever transitory, but always present somehow – his greatest love and pursuit is of life itself. She gives life, and she is life. In “Stronger,” she’s the “black Kate Moss tonight”: that ideal, that unattainable, that unreal, that epitome of the other half and how they live. “Let’s get lost tonight/ You could be my black Kate Moss tonight/ Play secretary, I’m the boss tonight.”

“I Wonder… if you know what it means to find your dreams?” As this is a flipped distortion of modern reality blurred with the fantastical, Ye’s dreams are sheepskin veiling their nightmarish nature. This is the champion stepping back before stepping up to the stage. His vividly clear views of perception versus reality, the dichotomy, and true nature of both begin to blur together as he ventures deeper into this bright new world. To be great is to be misunderstood, welcome: greatness “You say I think I’m never wrong/ You know what, maybe you’re right, aight” and in the midst we lost sight of the good. “Do you even remember what the issue is?” There is the idealized life of “fame” that he’s been waiting his whole life for, but there’s the echoing second thought cautioning against where he’s headed. “You can still be who you wish you is/ It ain’t happen yet/ And that’s what the intuition is/ When you hop back in the car/ Drive back to the crib.” His intuition is to head back home, but like a fourth wise man, he listened to the psychic and pursued the lights. “And I’m back on my grind/ A psychic read my lifeline/ Told me in my lifetime/ My name would help light up the Chicago skyline.” His destiny was fame, for better or worse – and God-given, “Heaven’ll watch, God calling from the hot lines/ Why he keep giving me hot lines.” That lady returns. “How many ladies in the house/ On that independent shit/ Trade it all for a husband and some kids/ You ever wonder what it all really mean/ You ever wonder if you’ll find your dreams.” “I Wonder” has her wondering what her life would be if she didn’t settle for domesticity, and Ye takes her by the hand to venture to the bright lights beyond.

Ah the Good Life, even when Kanye T-Pain’s too much, he is brilliant. The Good Life is the good girl and she’s a state of mind, manifested in the material. It’s his break between the man and the money, the fundamentals or the flash. The battle between good and great continues: “The good life, let’s go on a living’ spree/ Shit they say the best things in life are free,” versus “50 told me go ‘head switch the style up/ And if they hate then let ‘em hate/ And watch the money pile up, the good life.” 50 would give Ye that advice, 50′s Top 10 MC status was built on his business savvy, the hustle sans flow — man-made Ye, the money vice is his kryptonite.

Can’t Tell Me Nothing: epic standout in the midst of an completely epic album. The single speaks for itself, but: from the best things in the life being free to hush money. The Golden Rule is that he who has the gold makes the rules. From the good life to the great life, money corrupts and fame kills. So the martyr speaks: “Let up the suicide doors/ This is my life homey, you decide yours/ I know that Jesus died for us,” Lambo Gallardo? Porsche Boxter? Nah, the cash got Ye the keys to his dream whip: try the Pandora Box, open up the suicide doors and step into the fast life of good, great, and evil. “So I parallel double parked that motherfucker sideways,” life is his lady, and that car fucked it. “Old folks talking about back in my day, But homey this is my day/ You know I already graduated, And you can live through anything if magic made it.” He made it, but he has miles to go before he sleeps. “Life is a, uh, depending how you dress her,” dress her up, dress her down, life is what you make of it, reality is only what you perceive it to be. “So if the devil wear Prada/ Adam Eve wear nada/ I’m in between, but way more fresher,” halfway between the devil and original man is Ye the new “way more fresher” human archetype — with way less effort, “’cause when you try hard, That’s when you die hard.” Born good from the womb, now he’s halfway to greatness: “Good like God with an extra ‘o’.”

“Life of a Don, lights keep glowin’/ Ha Ha Hum, here’s another hit, Barry Bonds,” enter: greatness, featuring the greatest rapper alive: Weezy F. “They said he’s going crazy and we seen this before/ But I’m doing pretty good as far as geniuses go.” This is Ye becoming the beast, where he began a champion making his own name; now he’s Barry Bonds, living hit to hit off that most addictive of drugs: fame.

Drunk and Hot Girls finds Ye in pursuit of a dragon, and he’s dressed his lady life in stilettos, a miniskirt, and a halter. Every line is like a red light he rides through, “Stop dancing with your girlfriend and come dance with me/ Stop talking about your boyfriend since he is not me/ Stop running up my tab cause these drinks is not free.” This track is so universal and yet so isolated. The heavy bass drops for the bridge that sounds like a requiem: “Lot of dangerous necessity that people seek without regard/ To where they are, the human heart is curious above all things/ laa the lights are low, your eyes are bright/ the music, makes it sweet delight/ It’s out inside, I’m feeling right/ your dress is tight, Oh, I want you right now,” sounds like. “You only live once do whatever you like/ I thought I’d be with you for only one night/ Now I’m with this girl for the rest of my life.” It isn’t an invitation as much as it is a negation of hedonism. Know that you can do whatever you like with your life, but whatever it is you do with her remains. Only living once, Ye’s doing what he likes, in the midst of a love lost in the flashing lights.

And I Wonder what happened to that lady who broke free from the cult of domesticity, “she don’t believe in shootin’ stars, but she believe in shoes & cars.” The blurred reality peaks as Ye’s life becomes no more than an empty indulgence in the now, where he believed in the metaphysical, now there is nothing more than the material that matters in life. This life, this fame, exists only in the “mod” and where the good champion saw immortality, the great Barry Bonds now sees mortality. He exists only for the fickle public and their flashing lights. This is the peak of his brush/battle with fame: Ye traveled the world over in search of greatness, after that trek he had nothing but a handful of glitter when all he had to do was go West, dig deep, and get the gold. “Feeling like Katrina with no FEMA/ Like Martin with no Gina,” Kanye speaks from the place of the black man, both universal and individual: all needed FEMA, and all knew Martin needed Gina. Among the most poignant lines though is “In my past, you on the other side of the glass/ Of my memory’s museum/ I’m just saying, Hey Mona Lisa/ come home you know you can’t Rome without Caesar.” Here the good life is but a memory – to be viewed from the other side of the TV, mama. His past holds his greatest masterpiece. Should that good life – the good wife – come back, she’ll return to a dictator, an icon, an emperor reigning over his dying empire. He’s the greatest, the last, the legend, the fall.

From shining Caesar to everyman, our champion returns to find that everything he’s not makes him everything he am <– I like rhyming. The rise and fall, the ebb and flow, the fame and the familiar, it is all so cyclical. What makes a champion is the ability to ride the cycle and lose without losing the lesson. This is Ye looking back, in retrospect, from six feet above ground; the sound is a stark contrast to the heavy electro-synth, stripped down like a king without a crown. All for the best, as his head is no longer heavy, he can look up and see clearly just how far he’s come, “I never could see why people’ll reach a fake-ass facade they couldn’t keep up.” Again it is the emphasis of perception versus reality, of character versus reputation, how everything he isn’t, everything he tries but still fails to be after the fame, is what makes him good. “my 15 seconds up, but I got more to say/ That’s enough Mr. West, please no more today,” he sought the fame so he wouldn’t be invisible and by the time he got the spotlight and a clear mic the fame was gone — the game is over but the player remains, more glorious than ever.

The Glory is authentic bombastic soul. The Glory is good. “While you all was in limbo I raised the bar up/ I touched on everything,” when we weren’t looking he covered the bases. When he was invisible he set the level, now invincible the haters cries fall on deaf ears as he’s on the next level. He was who they wanted before they wanted it. The Glory is Ye paying posthumous homage like everyone else. “How I suppose to stand out when everyone get dressed up/ Yeah that tuxedo might have been a little guido/ But with my ego, I can stand there with a speedo/ And still be looked at like a fucking hero,” as the champion’s father warned to close his eyelids in sight of clothes, so Ye at his most heroic is stripped of the white guido tuxedo facade to reign supreme. While the clothes may make the common man, Kanye is King. Touching back down full circle to reality, past the celebrity sphere, he reminds us: “When you meet me in person what does it feel like/ I know, I know I look better in real life.” He did it for The Glory; half-god Hercules took on the twelve great labors, halfway-being between Lucifer and original man Ye took on the Fame Monster: both got The Glory and the story to back it up. Timeless as ever, Graduation reflects a Shakespearean tale in many ways. The only difference between a Shakespearean comedy and tragedy: the former ends in a wedding while the latter ends in a funeral. “Married to the game rock a chain stead of a wedding ring,” the game is the fame so this comedy is bound to end in tragedy seeing as he has to come back home to his wife, his life.

“I met this girl when I was three years old/And what I loved most she had so much soul” so she returns – the Homecoming. Kanye loves his music, his art is his life; just as life is his canvas, his original landscape was Chicago. “Now everybody got the game figured out all wrong/ I guess you never know what you got till its gone/ I guess this is why I’m here and I can’t come back home.”

Graduation is universal. It tells a story perfectly illustrating modern life and culture. It is individual and inclusive. It is literal and abstract. It is fantasy and reality. It is celebrity and citizen. It is mental and physical. It is the fluff and the fundamental. It is tragedy and comedy. It is right now and it is eternally timeless. It is a foreshadow and a reminiscence. It is orientation as much as it is graduation. It is legendary and it is unforgettable.

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. 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. Take me, Paris. I am; we are Paris. Do not anger a Mugler woman; she will eat you. 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.

Sometimes you can’t… sometimes you can’t reiterate properly… sometimes you can’t summize the perfection of creation… sometimes the white shadow looms forever overhead… and in the midst of blissful suspension… you let go of assumed need and purpose… you relinquish any and all allegiance to divine creation… the assumed necessity of highlighting significance… the reflexive response… the need to convey your own rediscovered sense of self and space… time and place… to your fellow dimmed vessels… sometimes you simply fall to your knees… and bask in the glory in the gruesome… and from those depths… your lids open… your eyes focus from just beneath the brow… your crown no longer bows… your porcelain grin clenches from beneath your pursed lips… your buck no longer a front… the slain… the slave… the savior… the self… the dame… the stranger… all the same in the face of danger… Monsieur Mugler’s lone name uttered six times… the greed, the pride – I am, I am, I am, fashion… the insatiable lust – take me, Parisian passion… the subdued sloth – quiet, I am… the predatory glutton, the resting wrath – don’t anger the strong, she will feast before long… greed, pride, lust, sloth, gluttony, wrath… sometimes the heart… it feels so black… sometimes Jesus resides in that… Mugler, Mugler, Mugler, Mugler, Mugler, Mugler… Welcome to Paris. It’s Fashion Week. GaGa: envy she. Amen.

DOWNLOAD: Lady GaGa – Black Jesus † Amen Fashion (Mugler PFW S/S 2012 Remix)

Watch This Space: #blackjesus #inparis

While we sit here watching the throne… leaving our nation in Paris… “sitting back, shutting up, relaxing, and enjoying” others’ seemingly unsubstantiated victorious beauty in the face of the more-gutter-than-gilded atrocity that is our own modern America; in merry old Engerlond they have chosen to go pre-post-modern – not to be confused with modern – back to the snake pit that brought us to this place… back to the Eighties… lead by the beat and brigade of a one Slick Rick… and as we gazed upon the blazes of Britain in turmoil, we couldn’t help but see the early chapters of this new culture’s very own children’s story… Yeezy and Hov agree it’s a new day… but while they would have you sit back and watch the throne bask in the glory of a new sun… masked lads and ladies relive Rick the Ruler’s reign, and sieze the opportunity to grab adventures by the gold tooth and nail while they can – #livepastdefyyoung

You can watch the system subjugate you… divide and conquer… leave you stranded on the split screen… or you can tap out of Mac, break through the Windows, and – as Britney so eloquently said – do something:

I’ve seen Turkish boys, I’ve seen Asian boys, I’ve seen grown white men,” he said. “They’re all out there taking part.” He recognised an element of opportunism in the mass looting but said an underlying cause was that many young people felt “trapped in the system”. “They’re disconnected from the community and they just don’t care,” he said. In some senses the rioting has been unifying a cross-section of deprived young men who identify with each other, he added.

That paradoxical digitally divided global village is crumbling, and in its wake there is an undoubted connection within the chaos.

Here: we watch the throne drift further and further away, while it remains forever present in our shrinking homes, while it remains forever factored into our shrinking wallets, while the media enhances the detachment factor that “you cannot, nor will ever be that which is prominently displayed to you” #nonewrevenueinthewild #thealmightydollhair Over there, they find an attachment within the mediated ambiguity… I’m a nobody, he’s a masked anybody, put those together and we’ve got an everybody of somebodys… “Now they can go wherever they want. They’re recognising themselves from the people they see on the TV [rioting]. This is bringing them together.”

Yes, it is partially misguided – and at some point every David becomes a Goliath… it seems no matter how humble the beginnings, somehow modern revolutionaries lose sight of the cause in light of the crown…

A middle-aged African-Caribbean man explained that some young people were targeting Asian and Afghan shops, the result of petty local disagreements. And there’s no denying that a small minority are simply out to hurt people. A Chinese student, the same man said, had been set upon by a gang and beaten quite badly, simply for taking a picture.

… but for now… at least there’s a sense of something…

Here we go,
Once upon a time not long ago,
when people wore pajamas and lived life slow,
When laws were stern and justice stood,
and people were behavin’ like they ought ta good,
There lived a lil’ boy who was misled,
by anotha lil’ boy and this is what he said:
“Me, Ya, Ty, we gonna make sum cash,
robbin’ old folks and makin’ tha dash”,
They did the job, money came with ease,
but one couldn’t stop, it’s like he had a disease,

Hov can grant the middle finger to his old life, for the rest of those whose old is new… there’s always the trigger finger for a one-way ticket to that Dynasty Blue… greed – much like fame: #kills

He robbed another and another and a sista and her brotha,
tried to rob a man who was a D.T. undercover,
The cop grabbed his arm, he started acting erratic,
he said “Keep still, boy, no need for static”,
Punched him in his belly and he gave him a slap,
but little did he know the lil’ boy was strapped,
The kid pulled out a gun, he said “Why did ya hit me?”,
the barrel was set straight for the cop’s kidney,
The cop got scared, the kid, he starts to figure,
“I’ll do years if I pull this trigga”,

Knocked an old man down and swore he killed him,
then he made his move to an abandoned building,
Ran up the stairs up to the top floor,
opened up the door there, guess who he saw?,
Dave the dope fiend shootin’ dope,
who don’t know the meaning of water nor soap,
He said “I need bullets, hurry up, run!”
the dope fiend brought back a spanking shotgun,

When in doubt, times of economic drought, don’t worry about new-new (or revenue) – race to the bottom and have the underclass do it for you… because no matter how bad the situation, there’s always someone worse – and they have less to lose than you – it’s a win-win!

He went outside but there was cops all over,
then he dipped into a car, a stolen Nova [?],
Raced up the block doing 83,
crashed into a tree near university,
Escaped alive though the car was battered,
rat-a-tat-tatted and all the cops scattered,
Ran out of bullets and still had static,
grabbed a pregnant lady and out the automatic,
Pointed at her head and he said the gun was full o’ lead,
he told the cops “Back off or honey here’s dead”,
Deep in his heart he knew he was wrong,
so he let the lady go and he starts to run on,

Ridin’ dirty tryna get filthy: Pablo Picassos, Rothkos, Rilkes – graduated to the MoMA, and I did all of this without a diploma … the eighties-produced throne ghost rode the stars, crashed the academy, and with their back against the wall grabbed the first hostage they could find… needless to say, as always, it was she who could bear life again, erase that which produced this ill merely by creating something new – yes, hard as it may seem, something outside of revenue: humanity.

“When another group finished ransacking a pawnbroker’s and started cleaning out a local fashion boutique, an angry young black woman berated one of them. ‘You’re taking the piss, man. That woman hand-stitches everything, she’s built that shop up from nothing. It’s like stealing from your mum.’”

Sirens sounded, he seemed astounded,
before long the lil’ boy got surrounded,
He dropped the gun, so went the glory,
and this is the way I must end this story,
He was only seventeen, in a madman’s dream,
the cops shot the kid, I still hear him scream,
This ain’t funny so don’t ya dare laugh,
just another case ’bout the wrong path,
Straight ‘n narrow or yo’ soul gets cast.

Good Night

Early ramblings and riffings… a few one-offs about the pseudo-authority granted in the ability to watch a throne versus the active – though a bit askewed – authority in making those adventures your own…

Are we on the brink of something bigger; are we on the crest of the cyber-disconnect; if hip-hop is the reigning social soundtrack – is Slick Rick the ruler… when Slick Willy charmed his way from the snake pit to a place of subjective prominence, did that leave our own young deviance stalemated in the cerebral scape… is eRioting, @truancy, taking a cyber-stand – on Facebook #ohilikethat – on the decline? Is this the catalyst for the baby cake-eater? … I guess it depends on what your definition of “is” is.

Welcome to VMA 2011: no host, west coast, teenage dreams, saccharin-infused schemes – welcome to the odd future #bonjournaggers

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 stick 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.

We have Hov and Yeezy, both the bumrusher and the bumrushed from 2009 – back with a vengeance. We have Britney #thatstearsnotglitter Spears – forever back from 2007, off the heels of 2008‘s reign, and still… still letting you hold it against her that she allowed you to hold her down for so long. Britney, Kanye, and Jay-Z: three the “Parisian, please” way. Hailing from Los Angeles by way of Kentwood, Southside Chicago by way of Atlanta, and Manhattan by way of Marcy – these three are why you lock your doors at night, why Tipper brought Parental Advisory labels to light, and the embodiment of Naggers in Paris, chimps on the Champs, the low-brow to which you cow-tow #taxbreakandpaytribute – the American definition of fright. Hov balled so hard, he’s shocked too; Britney bald so hard, she cut the crew; Yeezy walled so hard, he throned you, all supposed to be locked up too – if you escaped what they escaped: you’d be in your house getting throwned out too. Yet… still all slaves to the throne. All three are slaves to their own power, their own success, and therein lies the throne of indentured servitude… it is the detachment, the ego, the gold, the glitz, the glam, the superhuman persona keeping the hierarchy from humanity that is their debt. Abstract theory notwithstanding, the blood of the hustler, the blood of the bayou, the blood of the college dropout is what fuels the throne… and in that reality – the lasting pantheon of social prominence is a place none of those kings or queens will ever feel at home – for everything else: there’s making lies truths.

#truthiness

Who run the world? Girls – or a man #duh: Beyonce’s “Run the World” was the red-deaded stepchild of the Beyonce single discography. It was danceable, fun, bombastic, hard, highly-anticipated #withinsomecapacity – but overall it was a bit… not. Yes, she runs the world; yes, she will continue to run said world rhythmically through twice warmed over Major Lazer beats; does that mean she is not the female version of a hustler – no. Does that mean you weren’t dancing when the beat dropped – no; if so: “Bourgie girl, grab her hand, f-ck that, she don’t want to dance; excuse my French, but I’m in France… I’m just sayin’…” #yeezytaughtme #stoptelenaggingshe

Adele is a musician; she sings, she has tone, timbre, a certain soul, a slightly nonchalant coolly refined air, she’s a Grammy kind of girl, she is proof that you don’t have to be Hollywood to make it in America – she’s the Anti-VMA. She’s rolling in mob bloody deep naggers, knickers, chairs, and cheerios in tow.

Then… we have Katy Perry dominating the field with ten nominations, instant laurel-riding her record-tying fifth number one single from a solo album, Kitty Purry sets the standard for conventional success and industry prominence. Substituting musicianship for marketing, authenticity for ear candy, and garage glamorous for genericana – she sits atop the billboard throne (“Oh, I absolutely love what you’ve done with the place – the queen of spades was a great choice for drywall, and is that foundation made of jokers? This card castle is truly a home.”) #gameofthrones #houseofcards #myswaggernaggerisfromparis

Last Friday night: yeah we maxed our credit cards, and got kicked out of the bar – so we hit the boulevard. Last Friday night: we went streaking in the park, skinny dipping in the dark, then had a menage a trois. Last Friday night, yeah I think we broke the law – always say we’re gonna stop… This Friday night, do it all again.

One: the “Teenage Dream” realized, is functioning society’s demise, and the American scheme fantasized #letsdoitallagaintomakesurewediditwrongthefirsttime – “Guess who’s movin’ on up from the west side? Low Brow!” #goldencoastsandgruffygoats Two: Perry’s best is Michael on a BAD day #literally #youdontevengohere

Speaking of Pop… it’s True Blue’s 25th Anniversary - so: on behalf of Cyndi Lauper, Madonna, and the rest of the former-and-forever royalty, Cee-lo would like to say – forget you, time after time.

The heavyhitters came through this year a bit lackluster on the conventional tip – GaGa with three nominations here, a few noted Summer singles there, a rainbow of hair… Britney went hard in the paint #inasinglemotheroftwokindofway but despite Femme Fatale, “Hold It Against Me,” “Till The World Ends,” “I Wanna Go,” and a tour with Nicki Minaj, featuring Pauly D, and a Yeezy cameo to boot – she remains the shell of a former snake charmer. Spears’ live shows remind us of what once was; and now – we pay tribute to the past, in movement towards the future… Lucky’s latest moonman wasn’t made for launching. MTV went M.I.A. on Rihanna, like their name was, well, Rihanna on the set of “Rude Boy.”

GaGa… on the heels of eight wins last year, comes back in 2011 with three nominations: yes – three. Three is being technical, two is being realistic (back in my day, videos had messages – we didn’t need a VMA congratulating people on making a coherent video that made me go “Hm, I guess they didn’t spend their advance check at Forever 21 and the Apple Store.”). That said, GaGa is opening the show because – This:

“I can’t wait to hear You and I/Edge of Glory live!” You can and will wait because – That:

Oh, about the nominations… show up, show out, and show why “Bad Romance” means “I don’t have time, patience, reason, or room on my mantlepiece for #peasantries;” because – The Other:

Raising glasses to Rivington Rebels, bottle popping at the podium before the first trophy is awarded: Watch the Clockwork Orange County Coup #shewillstaynagging

Watch This Space: Sit at the table, get gilded, Louvre the lush life, and enjoy the evening conversation. Hold it against me: I’m about to go double trouble on this holly-baked ham; oh, and guess who’s coming to dinner? Gorillas in chinchillas #myjokeisfromparis

DOWNLOAD: Art Nouveau’s Sunset Chimps-Élysées (VMA 2011 EP)

Pop is pastiche at its finest; sometimes you need nothing more than to collect the right pieces and be the sound canvas. Half of Pop is creating the story, the other half is capturing the stars in that momentary align when the stories converge to recognize themselves

BlinkkIt: “When Yeezy met Ziggy”

It’s a god-awful small affair
To the girl with the mousy hair
But her friend is nowhere to be seen
Now she walks through her sunken dream
To the seat with the clearest view
And she’s hooked to the silver screen

But the film is a saddening bore
‘Cause she’s lived it ten times or more
She could spit in the eyes of fools
As they ask her to focus on

Sailors fighting in the dance hall
Oh man! Look at those cavemen go
It’s the freakiest show
Take a look at the Lawman
Beating up the wrong guy
Oh man! Wonder if he’ll ever know
He’s in the best selling show
Is there life on Mars?

Watch this space: If you open your ears, there’s no need to speak; just close your eyes, and blink the beat.