Tag Archives: Lady GaGa

Grooves You Can Use: #APOD :: Crevette, Ep. 1

happy one year and three day anniversary, day I unironically bought artpop on vinyl – you’ve been some kind of sufficiently something


#artpopmeanskanyecaps #kanyeshrugsandpoplove

so… – i riffed on a random burst of audio production creativity i had to kendrick daye for the duration of a google drive invite: this is the verbatim transcription

so… i noticed i mixed every track of artpop at some point so… i decided to make a 2 1/2 anniversary ep set … based roughly around the quote: “That’s the thing that poisoned me…. That was the poisonous thing. ‘We just want you to look beautiful’ over and over and over in my head until I just wanted to look ugly all the time.” … so just mixing, mashing, vibing, crashing… it’s … sounds… just the groove for record’s sake…

#kanyeshrugs #whatevenisanartpop #loveandart


The Prophiles: Lady GaGa

March 28, 2010

March 28: 1,771 years ago today De Pascha Computus commemorated the Nativity, birth of a man – son of God – who brought mankind from the darkness of sin; today, we commemorate the birth of a woman – deity of Pop – who brought a generation from the dark ages of social oblivion. On this day, ancient Romans celebrated the production of the Sun and the Moon; today we celebrate the personification of The Fame and The Monster. In the midst of a generation described as Godless, artificial, celebrity-obsessed, and lost, emerges a renaissance artist who gave you freedom in the music – found your Jesus, and your Cupid. Happy Birthday, Lady GaGa.


Lady GaGa the thinkpiece, the evolutionary, the first true renaissance artist of our generation; beyond music, she is the iconography of an era: completely. GaGa is the product of every great artist, ideal, movement, fashion, and fad before her; she is the pulse generating contemporary culture’s aesthetic and identity; and at 24, she has propelled herself to the top of Pop’s pantheon as the matriarchal monarch against which all those who come after her will be gauged – future notwithstanding she has become the barometer against which her own predecessors assess themselves: beg to differ? Mhmm Honey B – thought not.

What GaGa did in her first 18 months was incomprehensible – to truly think about it would tear any human mind to pieces. Four number one singles from a debut album, six number one singles from six single releases, over 10 million albums sold, and over one billion YouTube views worldwide; numbers don’t lie, but men and women do – at GaGa’s feet. Diddy says “Pick a car which one I ain’t been in, pick an actress which one I ain’t swim in;” GaGa’s track record says, “Pick a fiend which one I ain’t fixin’” – she delivers more hits than Frank Lucas; whether she’s writing for Britney, PCD, or NKOTB, sidekicking Wale, Beyonce, or Trina, sharing samples with Kanye, Common, and Cudi, or she is feeding the dead industry back to life and diversifying her bonds like WuTang Clan – this free bxxch ain’t nothin’ to fxxk with. The only thing more diverse than her portfolio is her persona – she is a cultural phenomenon because she is a panoramic projection of everything “now.”

More than any other generation, we have access to innumerable volumes of information and influences; we are the entitled products of everything that came before us, and though we may ignore it, GaGa embraces it. GaGa epitomizes originality as the art of concealing one’s sources – in plain view. She creates music using The Beatles methodology of subtle time signature and key changes veiled under a superficially simple sonic surface, beats that range from Bowie and Mercury Glam Rock riffs, to Darkchild and RedOne club-bangers, to Minogue and Madonna disco diamonds-in-the-rough. Her videos are brilliant melanges of visual themes touching in on the Stonewall Riots and Michael Jackson’s “Bad” a la “LoveGame,” to the faulting of Princess Diana’s death on the “killers behind the cameras” in the “Paparazzi” video – subtly inserting the sound of stabbing knives below the snap of camera lenses as the voyeurs film GaGa’s own demise. “Bad Romance” calls upon Alexander McQueen’s Plato’s Atlantis fashion platform to set the stage for a masterful video paralleling the music industry with human trafficking – the method of payment and purchase: “Beats by Dre” laptops. Her live shows are touted as only described in relation to the magnanimity of Madonna’s Confessions and Sticky & Sweet, and U2’s 360 Tours. She admittedly is what she wears – rather doesn’t wear – and even then is reflective of a grand cacophony of Pop past, present, and future. It’s her Ranier Maria Rilke tattoo branding the iconic German poet’s devotion to the literary catharses, and the Chola “Little Monsters” gang tat directly below. It’s her clothes designed by everyone from Jim Henson to Giorgio Armani, and inspired by everything from strippers to Queen Elizabeth I. It’s her famed “Pop Music Will Never Be Low Brow” video glasses – designed by her in-Haus NASA engineers, capable of syncing up to any Apple computer to play movies, tv shows, etc. Just as The Living Dress resurrected art from the vapid facade of artifice, she is a living cultural convergence.

Past the paparazzi flashes, beyond the bubble dresses, and beneath the bloody lingerie lies the true essence of Lady GaGa: “an artist through and through.” However, artists have much in common with their comrades in cultural renascence: scientists; both describe their work as experiments – part of a series of efforts designed to explore a common concern or to establish a viewpoint. GaGa is that rare hybrid of both an astute artisan and a masterfully mad scientist. She has pervaded every aspect of the public arena by publicizing and personifying hidden-in-plain-view taboos in order to establish a general perspective – her life’s work is to make the clandestine commonplace, because the status quo is skewed. As much a revolutionary as she is a renaissance artist, Lady GaGa treats culture as her canvas, and the social landscape as her science lab. Yet even as she acts as a perpetual fusion of such overarching dichotomies, she does so from behind the veil of the familiar face of a twenty-something New York doll; and thus is why she is the paramount regenerator of a lost generation – even in spite of the blind hatred,

“In the wake of that shock overdose came Lady Gaga. She gave us the spectacle of degradation. She showed us videos of herself vomiting. She chained herself to a pole by her hair. She wore a dress made of bubbles. Now she’s been stripped in prison and committed mass homicide. The images no longer even make sense; the more incomprehensible they are, the more they feed into viewers’ hunger for the grotesque.

cynics can’t help but to bow and equate her with greatness

Past eras have been defined by their art. Greece had Sophocles and Plato. The Renaissance had da Vinci and Michelangelo. Will the 21st century be remembered as the Age of Gaga?”

TP - LGc

“There is no competition too, it feels good to wake up, look in the mirror and the only competition’s you; and even that one ain’t seein’ me…” GaGa’s reflection must have a hard time being she.

Stream Fifteen: The Hills Are Alive… with the sound of muses

I riffed on The Sound of Music tribute at The 87th Annual Academy Awards Ceremony into a recording device for ten minutes and twenty-eight seconds: this is the verbatim transcription…

So it would seem the hills are alive with the sound of music… the Hollywood Hills to be exact. This night, this beautiful night, Oscar Sunday, and amidst all of the flashing lights, Mother Monster, the pop mistress, the matriarch of music – on behalf of a flailing industry thought to be dead, thought to be gone, thought to be sold out – rose to the occasion, only to prove that all the charlatans were dead wrong.

Music is that which cements the experience of any moment, that auditory moment where those aural architects, as I said before, are able to manipulate the invisible… to be able to tap into those currents and those frequencies that you cannot see, but that you can feel stronger than any other sensory experience you’ve ever felt before… when you close your eyes, and you can feel your heart beat. When you close your eyes, and you can feel the goosebumps rising; when you can feel that ugly duckling becoming that beautiful swan, rising above it all because it found the rhythm, and it could never fall – it would falter – but never off that cliff never to never be seen again…

And even if you are blind to it, truly that sound will ascend and create some of the most beautiful artwork we have ever never seen. That artwork that cements the scene. That artwork that travels on those currents on those airwaves… with those shared denizens of that domain, those who dwell in that common assumed misery but they dance so blissfully but you cannot see it because it’s hidden…

It’s something you cannot see, as in cinema, it’s something you can only hear, and yet it’s not dialogue, it’s that beautiful rhythmic dance. It’s the choreography of conversation… the choreography of existence, it’s the motion to those the airwaves, those places you tap into beyond the profits.

That intangible space that belongs only to the prophets, those who were wrong in this place and time because they tapped only into the eternal sublime, because they did not hit the charts the way you wanted them to… because they created only art because they needed to, because that’s what the culture was missing in the midst of a marketplace: is that when you worry about the bottom line, you forgot your higher calling… and that’s what she’s here to remind us, and that’s what they’re here to remind us… the commoners, the legends, the baptists, the evangelists, they’re all here to elevate you.

No matter the fact that we’re blind to the sound of the underground, still they emerge. And in the midst of ARTPOP, in the midst of Cheek to Cheek, in the midst of artRAVE, in the midst of “ARTFLOP,” – in the midst of everything that was lost – we have gold gained. In the midst of humanity, in the midst of lost celebrity, we have alchemy. We have a star who becomes a celebrity, who fell beneath the isolation of true artistry, and who emerged a divine human.

We have that with every artist, and yet we have that on this stage. We have a 28-year-old girl who, less than a year ago was turning on a spit, bathing in neon vomit… for the sake of art at the expense of empty pop. We saw her journey. We laughed, we scoffed, we wondered – why Tony? We laid off… and slowly but surely, she popped up in Dubai, she popped up in Tel Aviv, like… why? She showed up with a dog who hearkened to the East, that beautiful, black, wonky-eyed beast, and yet – that dog hit the cover of Bazaar: how strange. And yet she mosied, just dancing around the world, cheek-to-cheek, Heaven, Rocket Number 9, Lady by day, fxxking GaGa by night, who the, what the … so we just stayed and got right – left out on the right side of history, in my case.

And yet everyone else… it would appear to be a disgrace that we forgot about that New York doll. We forget about the little Stefani Germanotta who would sing Whitney from the top of her staircase, who would play the piano at 4get into Julliard at 11, write her first song at 13 – and yet at that stage was still not good enough for pop music. The one who would start singing jazz, the one who was “too theatrical for music,” the one who got tossed in trash cans in high school, the one who left NYU, the one who was too good for Tisch – the one who would eat dirt to prove it. The one who Def Jam turned a tone deaf ear to, the one who time and time again could never prove herself to be “quite pop enough,” in the midst of defining what it meant to be post-pop, definitively.

its stefs day

In the midst of her own shadow she emerged greater than her former self, time and time and time again… and it’s not about GaGa, it is not. It is about all of the GaGas, it’s about the cliches. It’s about the “GaGas in all of us,” it’s about the freak flags. It’s about finding that spark inside you that has no eyes. It has only a soul, and that soul hears these invisible currents. That soul lives in these Hills, and it does not throw rocks when it knows it will end up in the Canyons sooner or later, because it lives in that glass house we like to call fame, because it decided: i will take a chance on this love game, because i don’t know from where i came, but i know i will find myself… and at that point i will have no shame, and there’s no one to blame.

because this rhythm is the only thing i know, and in this frequency i will forever flow, and eternally move, eternally create, and never wait to express, and to cultivate that love supreme – and that is the realized dream of music, and that is what is alive in these hills… – and that’s artpop. hate to say it, but sometimes it’s hard to see the beautiful truth in something we once found shame in, and sometimes it’s hard to find the meaning when we place a name.

artpop is music: plain and simple. artpop is the elevation of the artists amidst all of the artifice. artpop is the knife under the hood that we deliver to hollywood. artpop is what killed that false corpse and left it in a trunk on highway 10 – artpop is the reason it rained today. artpop is because she made it reign, and she was born this way. artpop is Sam Smith at the grammys two weeks ago. artpop is monster balling outta control. artpop is that unspoken… and the Oscars are so lauded, so held in high esteem.

The Oscars are the pillars upon which we posture ourselves as royalty, as American royalty: we lie better than you, we’re show business – because we said so, it’s true. There was no Botox in those hills tonight. There was only the breath in that lung. When she hit that stage, everyone in that room remembered what it was like to be creative and young. To see and to feel and to hear and to experience… nothing but limitless possibilities as to what you could conjure, what you could manifest reality, in this beautiful world of ours. Whether it be a character or a role, an emotion, a feeling, a moment, a story.

That ego is what blinds us so many times, that ego is hidden somewhere in that lens, but never forget that love supreme, never forget what it’s like before you hit that screen. Never forget what you saw in the mirror, never forget what you saw in the reflection of that other’s eyes, and never forget because that’s when you realize the greatness of who you are. The greatness of the collapse and the rise of the star. The hills are alive tonight, and every night, so long as music survives.

freedom in the music – stay jazzed, kids.


Serving With Slaysia, Ep. 3

Asia… Asia, Asia: Asia. Is a very real thing. And reality will deal. In increasing measure. Well into the forseeable future. Asia is a Hollywood Renaissance. Black, Female, French, Bulldog. Serving for the stars. Slaying for life. Sitting sideways. Shading moonlight. Asia didn’t sign up for this, but — as a wise man once said: you don’t sign up for what you’re born into. Asia was born to slay for life and serve the light. Werk. It. Black. Sheesus. #amen

Olga’s back for Round 2, Ep. 3


Two for Tuesday, Quick and Dirty… #alldogswannalivefancy #bettawork

SWS LookAtChu

SWS Brat


covering all time zones and generational gaps #kenneltotherave #whodat






The LowFiRe: au revoir artRAVE

The LowFiRe – the Low Fidelity Reverberation… a vantage from the ground floor, amplification of the static noise, echoes and bellows from below.

It’s always Paris with Pop stars…

words just don’t anymore with this one… so i dug a bit through the crates and dusted off an hd deep tech haus disco diamond in the cuff to fill said otherwise silent void…


love art dance fashion cosmic sublime suspended in time… still travelin’ just dancin’ round the world… suit up, get down, paws pilot – enjoi.

that, beat, though. #morethanthemusic

It took ARTPOP beacause: what is an artRAVE, right? What is an artRAVE, outside of a neon-blitzed speakeasy?



if – IF I were to blinkk this, though… I’d probably say…

artRAVE was a coup de monde. It was a coup de monde. Um, it was bright. It was an experience. I – you lose yourself in it. There’s so many times when you fear. You fear the possibility that this could be real – any of this – and it’s not even yours, but it could be. And there’s nothing really holding you back.

More than just any show, it was artRAVE. It was the show that shouldn’t have. It was the show that celebrated the nothing more and nothing less than ARTFLOP, right? Because that’s what it was, right? It was ARTFLOP.

It was Body-Revolution-she-actually-just-had-a case-of-the-munchies. It was Do What U Won’t: give ‘em a video. It was “Venus” Part I and II, live from Tokyo. (Which, by the way: amazing videos. They got robbed. VMAs. They got robbed. Academy. #majorcinema)

It was the VMA blacklist it was … “G.U.Y.” and “Applause,” two of the best videos to come out of their respective years. As far as technical precision, production quality, concept, I mean I – it’s so hard to give objective praise to things now, because everybody has their opinion, and those marketplace opinions become facts, right?

But, period-point blank-period, ARTPOP was a great visual, visual album. It was a great visual album. It was entertaining – and more over: it was a good piece of music. It was a good piece of music.

It was an experience. I – you lose yourself in it. And it’s not even yours, but it could be. And there’s nothing really holding you back.

rocket number nine, blast off kids. #apod

#kanyeshrug #welcometoletraphaus

Serving With Slaysia: Ep. 2

Asia… Asia, Asia: Asia. Is a very real thing. And reality will deal. In increasing measure. Well into the forseeable future. Asia is a Hollywood Renaissance. Black, Female, French, Bulldog. Serving for the stars. Slaying for life. Sitting sideways. Shading moonlight. Asia didn’t sign up for this, but — as a wise man once said: you don’t sign up for what you’re born into. Asia was born to slay for life and serve the light. Werk. It. Black. Sheesus. #amen

Asia: redefining rules of reduction one ‘gram at a time



‘Grams to ounces, ounces to pounds #racks





Asia playing with her older bf. 😩 she's growing up so fast 💞

A video posted by Lady Gaga (@ladygaga) on


/gamemode #sweaterweather keep your head up




#fileunder: Olga didn’t sign up for this, Asia doesn’t sign anything without a lawyer present. #collectively

Lyrically Speaking: Lady GaGa – “Electric Kiss”

We are a generation twisted by our myth
Confused and ludicrous
Holding on to love
Consumed by all the pleasures in our midst
A life without the lips
We’ve kissed and losing all control

We’re gonna start a resistance
so we want independence
we’re going to give the world some of this

Electric kiss

I’m gonna change the world with my lips
One voice forever
We’ll live together
Peace love solitude and happiness

Electric kiss

Fame is our felony
We’re so in love with it
Some superstars and masochists
Who don’t know where to go

But the poets and the fighters of our time
Put down their weapons in their arms
And know what they must do

Theye’re gonna start a resistance
so they want independence
They’re going to give the world some of this

Electric kiss

I’m gonna change the world with my lips
One voice forever,
We’ll live together
In peace love solitude and happiness

Electric kiss

I’m gonna change the world with my lips
One voice for ever
We’ll live together
Peace love solitude and happiness

Electric kiss

Stream Fifteen: Cheek to Cheek – Lady GaGa, Tony Bennett

This is not a blinkk… I cannot contain the breadth of this “beat.” So, I tried something new… I riffed for a few… fifteen to be generally exact… because, well, this is The Fame...: Part Forever and Always.


I riffed about Cheek to Cheek for fourteen minutes and fifteen seconds into a recording device. This is the verbatim transcription:

Y’know… It’s not fair, to review an album, I guess, from the perspective of a cultural biography until it’s established its origin story, which – in an America that is fundamentally a free market, and a democracy within that capacity – is, a week after its release; when it’s made its mark on the Billboard charts: which, right now, is the founding gauge for relevance, reach, proximity to the consumer and the marketplace in terms of significance.

That being said, now Cheek to Cheek has made its starting point. It’s off on the good foot, it’s Number One in the country: which is fundamentally what all of this was ever about.

That to enter the national consciousness from a place of pop stardom, means that you’re either popular, or you’re populist; and at this point, we see the convergence of the two. We’ve got Tony Bennett who rode alongside King in the Sixties, who was an Italian with a stage name that wasn’t entirely accurate based on his birth certificate. Then you’ve got Lady GaGa who rides alongside any, and everyone for that matter, in her crusade – in her defiant plea and purpose right now – in this moment, in this eternal moment, that pop music will never be low brow.

That the popular is not a debased, faceless mass, but rather that the population is a group of divine commoners, divine denizens; that when brought together, can transcend any limitations we have since placed on humanity – and the first step to that, is cultural awareness of the greatness of the human form … and the ability of the human to create that which is better than itself and its material existence … and music is that eternal fiber, music is that fundamental identifier that manipulates the invisible. It is the imagination passport that is able to connect you to the time and space void of twain: which right now, is The Haus.

And so to bring it all back: we have this apparently “antiquated” art form – and this idea of “time” holds no bearing on Cheek to Cheek – it’s the idea that you have two contained elements, human forms contained within the epidermis, brought together and these two glorious edges are brought together to move, to touch, to dance in this space that no one can quite see, but that when we hear it so clearly: it becomes real. And when we connect to the cheeks of others, it becomes the zeitgeist. When enough cheeks touch… creation occurs.

And here it is not chaotic, it is very calm… but within this calm there is a sense that it could be fleeting. But it’s like the Titanic, where as you’re on this ship: you can jump, you can scream, you can kick your fellow passenger – or you can recognize your place as a performer, as someone with a gift and with a sense of awareness, and you can play as this ship goes below. After cold logic has sunken this beautiful vessel, this seemingly unsinkable vehicle, there is this idea that nothing else – even if it is futile – will attempt to create something so warm, something so engaging, endearing, transcendental, musical, rhythmic, beautiful. That to sink below these icy waters doesn’t’ seem so bad: because you’re not even in this material place anymore. You’re in the metaphysical space, or that shared aural experience, and so you live in that bubble dream.

And so here we have this sense that there’s this awareness: that, yes the world is burning down around us; yes, there’s the sense that, yes in the midst of ISIS you had artRAVE Dubai; and that yes, you did have two Italians descending upon Israel in the midst of everything that is the Gaza Strip. And once that earth is no more – you still have the Mesopotamian womb somewhere beneath. You have those fossils. And they remind us that there is civilization. And that beyond all the hatred, there are humans. There is humanity. And there is that undying need to connect and recreate and continue and progress – and it takes destruction.

So, where ARTPOP and The Fame glitter-bombed this Earth, we have this sense of stripped down – stark naked: no pants, no auto-tune, one-take Suzeeys (which is Yeezus backward) and we do it until we get it right. And right isn’t what’s “right” for the charts. Right isn’t whats already been written: right is how you create that new language, and make it real now.

So all of that is to say that yes: this album anything goes… with this album yes: we are cheek to cheek, and yes – we are dancing with each other… and yes, it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing: from ratchet to regal.


I mean yes, this is an art form that did emerge from the African-American community. Black Americans who knew institutionalized servitude. And yet create this beautiful music, because from the birth of tragedy comes the spirit of music. And here we have a new group of slaves. Those new slaves. Those celebrities, the ones who are constantly surveilled, constantly vilified, the collateral damage of this American culture, creating for that same hand that holds them down every day. Those same chains that bind them, are the same chains that create that beautiful sound: that percussion. And so in the midst of it all, we have the emergence of a new renaissance. We have this emergence of something eternal, something lasting: what’s old is new.

So I guess all of this is to say that beyond the lyrics and the lines and the uncanny knack for human expression … we just have an absolutely masterful piece of work. As we always have from these two figures, and it is quite beautiful… and the beautiful part of it is: is that just like ARTPOP, this was a successful attempt. This was a triumph for the elevation of the populist masses. This is not the perfect song structure: this is the American songbook, which is created from innovation out of necessity to be better than that which you already are. To elevate above your current environment: whether it is the music industry, whether it’s the manufacturing industry, Detroit and Chicago, whether it is New Orleans – birthplace of jazz that has sunk, and is now succeeding in its own right within this same entertainment industry. Whether it is these fallen angels that adorn the streets of Hollywood; whether it is these sad Gothamites finding haven in Lady Manhattan. Harlem, Paris. No matter where you are is the idea that this jazz music is culture, and it’s because it was individually created.

We’re taking something that already existed, in this Great American Songboook, we are taking the canon and recreating it in the current form… and that is true and that is authentic and that is something that Industry cannot stop – but it took four years.

It took The Fame, it took The Fame Monster, it took being reborn this way: it took ARTPOP.

It took ARTPOP beacause: what is an artRAVE, right? What is an artRAVE, outside of a neon-blitzed speakeasy? When’s the last time you saw anyone cheek-to-cheek, sweating over this divine sound? For me it was artRAVE Los Angeles. And so you’ve got to understand that this is “Volume Two;” and Volume Two is the same as Volume Twenty-Two is the same as Volume Two Thousand Fourteen. It is this eternal move towards greatness – toward the divine – and it is this linking, linking these two people who now have a shared space and time.

So here I see Clarence Clemons, again on that edge of glory, and it’s a beautiful sight. And I feel like everybody says what everybody said about the album, in terms of the artistry (which is undeniable) and the tone, the sheer control that GaGa exercises. And yet it’s something we’ve always seen, is this idea of control: she had to control her career to the point where you have to compromise to get to this point – not everything was perfect or preplanned.

To get to Cheek to Cheek, ARTPOP had to be “ARTFLOP.” The same way Britney Jean flopped for your sins, and Blackout kamikazed for your sins: Cheek to Cheek exists to save you. It is that saving grace that lets a post-millennial-post-9/11-ADHD culture of Crystal children caught in a media marketplace, hyperreel, hyperdrive, intangible, disposable culture; and lets them know that you can indeed read the Times but write and live for the eternities.

Bang bang: she shot the sound of the underground and pasted all over town and here and now we recognize who currently wears the cultural crown.

Freedom in the music: stay jazzed kids.


Black and white, oft-tred and well-read. Speak easy, swing hard. Record this life in absolute truth, to mine the media and peak the press, to establish mint, you beautiful bard.

If… IF I were to blinkk this I’d probably say … Fame Kills … like chewing on pearlsoysters and aphrodisies, flights of fancy and fights of fantasy … drunk in love on cake cake cake … love made edible incredible Anna Mae … the chosen one selecting apparent wanderlust servitude … will and desire … grace to transpire … mental gender on Parade … bonfire of the Vanity Fair … Parisian blazes … Harlem faces … eternal embers … Pompeii … knockout …

Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun, and baby when it’s love if it’s not rough you’ll never come … masculine … feminine … rocket number nine blast off to the Martian … Hephaestus in the bath haus … Aphrodite perched upon the partition …

It’s chaos you might think, the tumult and toil … the endless exchange upon anatomical soil … don’t lay a hand, just leave the crust … seal it with a kiss, and bite the dust … what Venus fashions, Gaia founds … that most amorous sight, and most resilient of grounds … the seed of civilization resides in the womb, a void only made niche by mysterious creation within the penetrated tomb.

Resistance is futile, the battle is beautiful. Not a girl, not yet a woman; not yet a man, he’s just a boy13 elements and so on said year, the metamorphosis completes, the separation collapses, in the midst of mirrored self, so spirit and ego consummate to eclipse all fear.

“I can’t … give you … anything but the miracle of life in word made bond, the melody of limitless eternal in dream manifest song … I can’t give you anything more than what I own, and in this plane, this material mirage, love transcendent is the only claim and forever haume.”



Eau, yoü and I … so incredibly beyond anything relegated to only meet the eye.


Lyrically Speaking: Beautiful, Dirty, Rich

Happy Birthday #sosorrynotsorry


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

“Beautiful, Dirty, Rich” – The Fame (2008)

Beautiful, dirty dirty rich rich dirty dirty beautiful: dirty, rich.
Dirty dirty rich dirty dirty rich beautiful

Beautiful and dirty dirty rich rich
We’ve got a red-light, pornographic dance fight
Systematic, honey: but we go no money

Our hair is perfect, while were all getting shit wrecked
It’s automatic, honey: but we got no money

Daddy I’m so sorry, I’m so s-s-sorry yea:
we just like to party, like to p-p-party yea,

Bang Bang, we’re beautiful and dirty rich
Bang Bang, we’re beautiful and dirty rich

We live a cute life, soundfanatic,
Pants tighter than plastic, honey
but we got no money

We do the dance right
We have go it made like, ice cream topped with honey
But we got no money

Daddy I’m so sorry, I’m so s-s-sorry yea:
we just like to party, like to p-p-party yea,

Bang Bang, we’re beautiful and dirty rich
Bang Bang, we’re beautiful and dirty rich

A bang bang bang, bang bang bang,
beautiful, dirty rich.
A bang bang bang, bang bang bang,
beautiful, dirty rich.

Bang Bang,
We’re beautiful and dirty rich
Bang Bang,
We’re beautiful and dirty rich

Bang bang

Bang bang

Serving with Slaysia, Ep. 1

If… IF I were to blinkk this, I’d probably say

Asia… Asia, Asia: Asia. Is a very real thing. And reality will deal. In increasing measure. Well into the forseeable future. Asia is a Hollywood Renaissance. Black, Female, French, Bulldog. Serving for the stars. Slaying for life. Sitting sideways. Shading moonlight. Asia didn’t sign up for this, but — as a wise man once said: you don’t sign up for what you’re born into. Asia was born to slay for life and serve the light. Werk. It. Black. Sheesus. #amen

Asia: serving for the stars, honoring for thy selfie







/gamemode #realtraphauswives



Asia: approaching protection for the gorgeousness of her face, serving up Aura realness.

GaGa Wearing Pants, Ep. 2

Sometimes, Lady GaGa wears pants. Sometimes, Lady GaGa does not wear pants. Sometimes, Lady GaGa wears No! pants. Most every time, regardless of immediate proximity to said pants, Lady GaGa wears The pants. The “The” is silent.


Lady GaGa wearing pants, パンツ, pantsu; serving more Hello Lisa Frank realness than your 1994 TrapperKeeper could dream to fold.</p>
<p>Untitled, &ldquo;Tokyo No. 2;&rdquo; August, 2014</p>
<p>Also featured: #slaybaebaesia<br />
File Under: When windmills swept the Wonkas #DONKIHOTEqueen<br />
See also: #themakersofmusic #thedreamersofdreams #candyflipsareforkids


Lady GaGa wearing pants, パンツ, pantsu; serving more Hello Lisa Frank realness than a 1996 TrapperKeeper could dream to fold.

Untitled, “Tokyo No. 2;” August, 2014

Also pictured: #slaybaebaesia #andstuff

File Under: When windmills swept the Wonkas #DomoArigatoDONKIHOTEqueen

See also: #themakersofmusic #thedreamersofdreams #candyflipsareforkids

GaGa Wearing Pants, Ep. 1

Sometimes, Lady GaGa wears pants. Sometimes, Lady GaGa does not wear pants. Sometimes, Lady GaGa wears No! pants. Most every time, regardless of immediate proximity to said pants, Lady GaGa wears The pants. The “The” is silent.


Lady GaGa wearing all The pants, serving all the reals, beyonding all the feels.


File Under: Lady by day


Fxxking GaGa by night

Delayed Reaction: Lady Gaga’s The Fame Monster

It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these.  I’ve been toying around with a few ideas as of late on how to continue this series, but it was just the other day that I realized the answer was staring me right in the face.

As many of you might know already, our very own Swiper Bootz is basically an honorary member of the fabled Haus of Gaga, and it was she who turned me on to Lady Gaga in the first place, so it felt right to begin this exploration with a well-deserved nod in her direction (xoxox).

Lady Gaga’s Fame Monster EP was actually the first Lady Gaga piece I ever heard.  I remember the day well: I was in Costa Rica at the time (back in November 2011), and Swiper had cordially invited me – via Facebook message – to attend Lady Gaga’s “Monster Ball” at Radio City Music Hall the following January, just days before I was set to move from New York City—my home for five years—to New Orleans.  I of course was aware of the then-enigmatic pop songstress at the time, yet I had only been subjected to mere glimpses of her catalog, namely the singles from her debut album The Fame,  namely “Poker Face” and “Just Dance.”

People don’t like to call The Fame Monster Gaga’s second “album,” because they are purist weirdos and apparently anything less than ten tracks does not constitute an album.  I suppose her second LP, technically, was Born This Way, yet I like to think of The Fame Monster as her second album.  I also consider it to be her masterpiece.


My first encounter with Lady Gaga was similar to those experienced by many New Yorkers.  Before The Fame properly dropped, the cover image for the album – Gaga’s face obscured by overstated black sunglasses, curtained by platinum blond hair – was plastered on 60% of those walls in New York City pleading people to refrain from posting those pesky ‘bills.’  That girl’s face was everywhere.  When I read that she was doing a Terminal 5 gig, my curiosity was piqued, but not quite enough to buy a ticket (Terminal 5 is a notoriously awful venue in NYC, don’t go there unless absolutely necessary).

Actually, come to think of it, my first encounter with Lady Gaga was before she was known as Lady Gaga.  During my brief tenure at the New School, I would frequent a downtown music club called The Bottom Line.  I learned of this hole-in-the-wall club by way of my mother’s somewhat unhealthy obsession with Tim Curry (the woman had everything Tim Curry had ever done.  And I mean everything).  She had in her possession a live album that Tim Curry had made of himself performing songs at The Bottom Line, back when he was trying to be a rock star (actually, some of his songs were pretty good, but nothing to gush about).  I sought out the Bottom Line when I first moved to downtown Manhattan, and I would go there a few times each month to catch some local talent.  One of the first times I ever went there, I remember seeing this plucky Italian girl named Stefani, shrouded in long black hair, singing songs about photographers, fame, and gay boys.  I can’t be absolutely certain, but I’m pretty sure it was Stefani Germanotta, a.k.a., Lady Gaga.

Nevertheless, I accepted Swiper’s invitation to the “Monster Ball,” and sought out to do some homework.  The first album I came upon was the recently released Fame Monster EP.

As I said, I had heard a handful of Lady Gaga songs before, almost exclusively from her debut LP The Fame.  I decided to download The Fame Monster, as it was her most recent release, to gain a little more perspective on the enigma that was Lady Gaga.

One listen.  Eight songs.  I was hooked.

Since then I have listened to basically everything Gaga has put out.  After Fame Monster I visited The Fame, and when Born This Way came out I listened whole-heartedly, despite a disappointing flurry of singles that preceded the release of the album (actually, my review of that album was the first thing I ever wrote for this magazine).  I even gave ARTPOP a go, and while there are a few songs I enjoy on ARTPOP, I found most of it to be rather trite.  Also, it was absolute swill compared to Fame Monster.

Brevity is something that modern musical culture seems to be embracing these days.  You’d be hard-pressed to find an album being released these days that has more than twelve tracks.  I think with the resurgence of vinyl sales in recent years artists have been more willing to release mini albums and EPs; they love selling those artful 12” records consisting of six or seven tracks.

I find that in general, EPs tend to be more cohesive than their longer counterparts.  Maybe it’s because EPs carry with them an atmospheric necessity to be both flavorful and concise, and thus a general idea does not have to be stretched as widely to encompass all of its parts.  This of course is not true of all EPs, though many of my favorite “albums” are EPs (Nine Inch Nails’ Broken and HAERTS’ Hemiplegia come to mind).   The Fame Monster is somewhat of an anomaly, however.

Let’s start with the opening track, “Bad Romance.”  What an opening!  Gaga’s metronomic medley of RA RA RAs are the perfect intro to the EP, building a stalwart foundation on which the entirety of the EP is built upon.  “Bad Romance” unfolds as a perfectly constructed pop single should unfold, with cut and dry verse-chorus structure that spearheads the song—and the album—into flurry of macabre requiem; ferociously shoving the listener into a dark and rhythmic tranquility that echoes throughout the rest of the EP.  Gaga’s frantic, idiosyncratic sound bludgeons our eardrums with sincere urgency, hiding next to nothing behind calculated metaphors or flowery imagery.  Right off the bat we get that the subject of her twisted lament is perhaps unwilling, yet, regardless, we still are on Gaga’s side.  She has the ability to evoke powerful feelings of desire even if it is undeserved.

“Bad Romance” seeps slyly into the tango-tinged strings that introduce the second track “Alejandro,” and once again her necessity to be understood overpowers any concern for the wellbeing of her target.  Gaga’s later work—in my opinion—gets way too caught up in its own production, thus the empathy she is trying to convey is completely lost.  “Alejandro” is understated and powerful, telling tales of star-crossed lovers tangled in a web of disapproval and disparate yearning.  The repetitive nature of the refrain simulates mindful obsession, yet is tinged with mild decrescendo, emulating a sense of guilt that is demonstrably inescapable.

“Monster,” the third track, is where things start getting noticeably metaphysical.  On this track, Gaga personifies the carnivorous appetite often attributed to the corruption of a fabulous lifestyle as an actual physical beast, one that is so ravenous that it targets the very core of human existence (‘he ate my heart and then he ate my brain’).  Gaga’s lyricism borders on the grotesque, conjuring images of a wolf-like being devouring everything, from physical flesh and blood to the more intangible notions of pride, humility, and self-respect.  The (fame) monster reacts basely on instinct, and will obliterate anything that comes in its path.  I’m not sure if this is supposed to be a prophecy of sorts, or if it is a cautionary tale, but either way, the imagery is effective.

Following “Monster,” Gaga abruptly shifts gears and drives right into the endearingly abrasive piano ballad “Speechless.”  I have heard many theories as to what the is true meaning behind this song, but the one that has always stuck in my head—and seems to make the most sense—is that this is a song about Gaga’s own father.  Part of me hopes this isn’t true, because this song leaves very little to the imagination.  It tells a tale of undying loyalty and unmatched affection from the perspective of a young woman, one who seems to be completely apathetic in regards to the treatment she receives from such an apparently uncaring and unapologetic counterpart…that is, until we reach the end, wherein Gaga sheds her cloak of lamb-like regard and replaces it with a prickly shell of spiny intolerance.  “Speechless” more or less plays out like a ballad sung from a rather self-indulgent, blindly devoted point of view, yet with the last few lines (‘Some men may follow me/But you choose death and company!’) she is able to flip the entire scenario on its head, gleefuly pointing a finger at the crumpled mass that lay before her, and she does so with unpredictable dexterity and poignancy.  The song is gorgeous, and as it builds to the bridge, she seems almost apologetic in having felt anything towards this disheveled heap of a man.  She regularly undermines her own poetic devices, as if in one last effort to coax any shred of honesty out of this person she hates to love.  The end of the song mimics the end of her vigorously unraveling rope, as she abandons saccharine-laced eloquence for a more straightforward approach: put up or shut up.

The second half of the album glides along much more smoothly than the first.  With the first side of Fame Monster, the listener is bombarded with a cornucopia of rhythms, sounds, and intentions.  I feel like Gaga felt inspired to build to some sort of fever pitch, but went about doing so in an altogether haphazard manner.  The first half deals with painful surrender…to an undeserving lover, to a troublesome friend, to an abusive relationship.  The second half seems to be all about taking control.

The second half begins with the heartbreaking track “Dance in the Dark,” which also happens to be my favorite Lady Gaga song.  The songs tells the story of a woman who feels so ugly that she can only be intimate under the cover of darkness, out of fear that she might frighten her beloved away with the very sight of her unsightliness (he’s very vocal about his disdain for her appearance apparently).  Gaga’s excellent use of metaphor on this track meshes very well with the club-like instrumentation that rises up around her vocals.  Evoking the image of a woman dancing in dark room as a metaphor for low self-esteem is incredibly powerful and saddening, not only because it tragically personifies the despair many people experience as the result of their diminished self-image, but also because it empowers those on the outside to enforce unfair standards of beauty upon those who do not necessarily want such standards enforced upon them.  As sad and poignant this piece is, it is also tragically beautiful, not because of the person shackled to the darkness surrounding their own view of themself, but instead due to a tenacity to dance, even in complete darkness.  Yes, the subject of this track feels terribly unattractive, and thus mercilessly punishes herself by hiding in the dark, but there is an admirable quality within this person that glimmers through the black, like a mirrorball; one that drives that person to persevere, dancing in the shadows, despite the ugliness forced upon them by the outside world.

The last two tracks of the album are ideal for wrapping up such an album.  The first, “So Happy I Could Die,” is an empowering club anthem romanticizing casual sex, one that boosts self-awareness without ever being obnoxious or preachy.  The final track, “Teeth,” is a dirty, gritty exploration of sexuality that harbors no apologies, as it celebrates the physics and the chemistry that exists between two (or more) people.  “Teeth” scrappily binds the sexual tension exhibited throughout The Fame Monster into a giant knot, and then blissfully untangles it amongst stonewall percussion and sexy, paraffin vocals.

The one track that doesn’t quite fit for me is “Telephone,” the track shared between Lady Gaga and Beyoncé.  It’s good and all, and the video is great, but it just doesn’t quite fit with the rest of the piece.  The majority of the album deals with heavily metaphysical concepts: fleeting self-image, corruption, ill-fated lovers, the power of denial…”Telephone” is just about a girl who doesn’t want to talk to her man because she’s having fun at the club.  I just don’t see how it fits.  Then again, everyone’s a critic…

It saddens me that Lady Gaga will never top this album.  It is, by far, the best thing she has ever done, and its longevity will be one for the record books.  This EP is a product of the thoughtful, perceptive Gaga that seems to have been lost to the ages.  I still respect her and all that she does (well, most of what she does), but there will probably never be an album to come from Lady Gaga that will be as true or as honest as this one.  I’m sad to say it, but it looks like she peaked with her second album.  Let’s hope that I am wrong.

PARTYNAUSEOUS… because they really shouldn’t have let her Blackout ARTPOP

Good music speaks volumes… listen, look, and linger in fantastic rhythmic reality: lyrically speaking

Hi, I want to come and make peace with you
but they won’t let me, no, they won’t let me through
I don’t mind if they a-arrest me
’cause I’m wearing my Versace

Why can’t we just put on a smile
and a buzz buzz buzz buzz? We all might be sick
Whether it’s at first or after a few
drinks; we’re gonna unite, don’t they?

We’re currently set from the East
I’m from Jakarta-a-a
seem to ‘ve some problem with ya
We’re currently set from the West
My name is Lady Gaga
seem to ‘ve some problem with ya

Screen Shot 2014-05-05 at 7.49.18 PM

Fly, if you wanna be high with the enemy
It’s a test, are you [proud] enough, do your best
Nod, if you wanna make love with the enemy
On and off, fingers [on the wrong town] tonight
Now Jump!

In a way exhausting
we’re problem solving
Drink ’til she’s attractive
Talking ’bout diplomatic [a-a-alastic]
Making that peace attractive


watch this space

… they really shouldn’t have let her make ARTPOP… #buttheydid #andshewillcontinue


If I were to blinkk this #IF … I would mind vomit, wax and wane mental poetics about how this is the manifesto… about how this is the anthem of the new age… post-kali, post-pop… how this is the daun of true ARTPOP, as the masses assumed it to have been on eleven eleven… this is removing the incumbent industry model from the creative connection between high art and pop culture… this is Blackout 2.0 – mistress muses and the new media… launching a highly anticipated, (intended collaborative project in conjunction with the other modern K-Slay #kendrickvisaviskanye ) not through the label, not within the confines of mishandling management, rather directly to the masses, the monsters, the projected 42.3 million prophet-non-profits… the engaged audience… mother’s wifeys and sires… and beyond that, to know that these devoted kings and queens of the kingdom would proudly record the record of their own eternal jester… waiting patiently for the low-fidelity rave reels to make their way to the digital channels… and like clockwork, the Lady rips audio back from the pitted video star, uploads pirated fan footage to her very own VEVO channel for the world to hear – not to radio, not to the studio, not to MTV or Dateline NBC #NOTTHATTHERESANYTHINGINHERENTLYWRONGWITHTHESEMODESOFDISTRIBUTIONthat said – they have no place in this living moment, this shared experience manifest indivisible – this is PARTYNAUSEOUS… this is removing the industry from the model, trouble is her business: take it or leave it, TMZ is hiring. ARTPOP

Watch This Space:

Beware the Ides of March… #roselandfuneral

In the wake of G.U.Y.’s media blitz d’etat let’s look at what might be lingering behind the if 27 is the new black, 28 stays golden: now look who’s back collective funeral of roses #roselandfuneral

I don’t know what ARTPOP means for anything but I can’t shake the feeling that whatever it will inevitably become started long ago, is in continuous present perpetuation, and is simultaneously happening in increasing measure well into the future… that being said: it could be an ongoing Shakespearean three act play #industriatragedy #byanyotherfame

Act First: #entitledanothertimeiwasangry that time when GaGa kicked off a seven-show residency to close out Manhattan’s legendary Roseland Ballroom. Basically, she memorialized her golden birthday with a 10-day funeral … at practically the one place where you couldn’t land a gig on the come-up the famed Manhattan concert venue… #andthisisthefamed


I’m not sure what ARTPOP means for incumbent entertainment venue institutions but – whatever.



The rose is the flower of the goddess Venus but also the blood of Adonis and of Christ. It is a symbol of transmutation – that of taking food from the earth and transmuting it into the beautiful fragrant rose. The rose garden is a symbol of Paradise. It is the place of the mystic marriage. In ancient Rome, roses were grown in the funerary gardens to symbolize resurrection. The thorns have represented suffering and sacrifice as well as the sins of the Fall from Paradise.

When the trigger is the pre-fame scoff… how quickly the isle of roses turns to paradise lost… #kanyeshrug #justdance

#byanyotherfame #literacyisdangerouslikethat #someofusjustliketoread


Act Next: Letterman. Fundamentally, what happened was #whathadhappenedwas – we walked into The Late Show like any other night, some chatter was had, some songs were sung, a G.U.Y. popped out the ground like Roseland daisies to close the show, everything was cool – and then this happened:


So… I’m not sure what ARTPOP means for incumbent entertainment media institutions but – whatever.

Act Then: Seacrest central: American Top 40 radio. Thrice round: in a nutshell, she took a slice of time to perform an overt satire of commercial mass media by way of Clear Channel programming eclipse the remaining thirty-nine artists on the countdown establish a two-hour de facto dictatorship over American pop music by holding sole vocal proprietorship of the industry’s pre-eminent terrestrial radio program to connect directly with the fans, sans corporate media representative direction the middle-men. So, while Ryan #blondofallmedia Seacrest took five to keep up with the Kardashians count racks lay back, Lady #goddessoflove GaGa let happiness usurp the dark horse #eternalskateboardp


So… I’m not sure what ARTPOP means for incumbent entertainment conglomerate institutions but – whatever.

I guess a golden birthday party to-do list boils down to something like this…

1.) Retire practically the one place where you couldn’t land a gig on the come-up Roseland Ballroom

2.) Be the last Late Show performance before Letterman announces retirement

3.) Replace Seacrest as Top 40 America host #dontrubitsonlytemporary

… one, two, three – slowly but surely, established entertainment media architecture of old crumbles beneath whatever ARTPOP means – but then again, I never know what any of this means #medianmode

Coup d’Ga #questionmark

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.

G.U.Y. – An ARTPOP Film :: Genesis 27: Electric World Life, Pt. 2

We are the music-makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams… four years ago, we pulled a stunt that went and turned into a scene

#kanyeshrugsandpoplove #electricworldlife


G.U.Y. – An ARTPOP Film:


I know. But I can’t stay up here on my hill forever.

#queenedknight #kingdomed

ARTPOP ... facing glamorous cruelty in Spears subtext and fantasy
ARTPOP … facing glamorous cruelty in Spears subtext and fantasy

I didn’t get to this place in my life by doing the smart thing every time. How ’bout you, frank farmer? Out there on the edge… did you ever do something that didn’t make too much sense, except maybe inside you? In your stomach somewhere? Something that wasn’t smart? I’ll bet you have plenty. I’ll bet you do. Nobody gets really good without it. And you’re good. I know that. – Ms. Marron

#neverforget #girlunderguardian


I suppose the only way to take this one sonically is through the sounds of an autobiography… at this point in my pop literary career with a one said Lady, certain signatures will emerge at some point within each piece – namely: each release being #theanthem, each release “solidifying this time and space voice of twain,” and autobiographical points of reference expounding on the sheer cosmic Pop of said beat drops. #postoculus #postpop This time, will be no different #letsdelve


… and on the sixth day GaGa unearthed the feast, saw everything that she had gamed… and behold: it was very good

The scene opens and I feel the last four movies I watched on Netflix (America The Beautiful, Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room, Boogie Man: The Lee Atwater Story, and Outfoxed: Rupert Murdoch’s War on Journalism ) “How do you tell a twelve year old they’re being manufactured for disposal?” echoes beneath sounds of the digital stock market, laser arcades and electronic abacuses blend with footsteps over barren plantations of the The Deep South’s perpetual state of reconstruction.

FOX News anchors divulge contents of executive morning gag-ordering memorandum for daily broadcasts, Former California Governor Gray Davis recalls the Summer of 2001 when Arnold Schwarzenegger took his position on the wings of George Bush and Ken Layforever the manufactured blackout, roll tide.

The rise of the South, crimson syndication – Carolinian Lee Atwater’s landmark Reagan / Bush campaign victories premised upon political theater at the expense of a misinformed public, Enron’s ascent from Texas prestige to global market dominance at the expense of $38B from California – the swelter of the Swine lingering ever-so-close by; the deserted landscape of our spectacular marketplace, entertainment and speculation, valuation on manufactured ideologies … and in the midst is the artifact, beneath the data-driven logistical bottom line: art as fact is buried.

ARTPOP Title Card


It is no longer enough to be good, to be well-made, of inspired design, of impeccable craftsmanship, to be one of a kind – to transcend scalable. In fact, it is a loss; time spent maturing is a liability – “either die or don’t die, just let me know if it’s the first one so I can get a grip and camera guy.

I see #sxswine heading up the hill. GaGa face down – in clothes not incredibly dissimilar from her Swinecore attire – money scattered, archaeological dig in disarray, Mitochondrial Eve rests in Mesopoptamian ruins… and the scene begins where Austin faded

In case you were wondering what’s behind the swine … existence of the living gold mine … the reality that human traffic runs through vinyl, video, and grapevine … that spectacular misery is of industrial design … that the vomit you spew, pre-emptive anesthetic to the polity coup: our very own blood red, sterilized white, and royal blue … the surrender in silence, the deafening void, the sadness… the sadness… the lament and suffocating isolation of that human capital demise … that behind the lids are empty exes where once haused Tiresian eyes.



VENUS Interlude

The scene shifts, I feel the movie I was in the middle of watching on Netflix when a majestic eclectic heralded G.U.Y.’s arrival: Disney’s Hercules #ayverse

Vinyl Mind Flow #prosewego

Even when you doubt, you cannot deny the truth. In the beginning, was the word, and the word was good; in the end, all that remains is that seminal word to rebuild from the ruins of slander… the only four-letter word from where life springs …. ishq to mark the mortal compass, eros to transform, love to transcend.

The electric world life: owning nothing in the Haus, all is had in electric word; all is manifest from mental creations given wings within tangled webs … beneath the static, found frequencies connect and channel perceived truths as canons of a new world. Bound not by domains, built instead upon the orbits of psychopomp relays.

It’s not real, it’s theatre; because reality is the illusion of essential materiality … the delusion of juvenile insanity washed away by the beauty in mysterious mentality … the rhythmic word, the love game’s dans … the choreography across this dimension’s canvas …

Magdalene ascends from the realm of lower mystery: Rilke’s triumphant female returns for the first time. The caterpillar sheds its biological echo chamber, claiming imperial divine on behalf of the natural, where fabrics of the regal are indeed invisible in design.

The sin is not the fall, salvation is not in calendar spring; the sin is to see in shame, to bear false witness against the love made manifest in anything: to posture on the production of mortal death, to profit from false life … to fragment, displace, and deny the father his liberated child of light and she, who cultivates endlessly those creations of which never die at night – forever beautysleeping in a trance, but never sleeping to dream, the perceived pain in work, and the beautiful bond of shared experiences yet to be unscene.

That G.U.Y. … makes me want to be a doper person; that G.U.Y., made GaGa cry tears and tempos of cosmic civilization’s arising reign – those G.U.Y.s stepped foot on the shores of a celestial sandbar four years ago: baptized by the stellar, bound to the state, burdened by paradoxes that make us great… silently rolling, navigating while blind, guided only by the music and faith that in time, the walls would crumble and the streets would main, Valhalla would rejoice at The Angels’ true frame, the disparate light would emerge from the dim; and The South would walk through antiquated resentment, to bathe in capital h.i.m.

… four years ago: a maker was met, as moonwalkers first stepped onto the currents beyond wires; houses of song where once wrested lyres …


ARTPOP could mean anything, ARTPOP means what you make of the muse; ARTPOP means mastering the verse, chorus, choreography, bridge, breakdown and sample of life’s cyclical soundtrack. ARTPOP is crafting an atmosphere in the perfection of your mind, from truth of the spirit, the pulse of your heart, and absolute certainty in the mysterious divine. Four years ago a king said, “This is it;” here that G.U.Y. says: “Now, it’s time.”


The secret language of G.U.Y.’s destiny is transcendence through empowered innocence of love eternal

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)

In case you were wondering what’s behind the Swine …


I love my fans so much… I love my fans, because they always let me be myself… they don’t care what anybody says… and the reason that that’s important… is because, something you probably don’t know, is that when you’re not yourself, it’s so much harder… it’s so much easier to be yourself, than it is to be someone else… because when you have to pretend to be someone else… like things you don’t like… do things you don’t want to do… it eats your soul inside, and makes you do stupid shit… so I wrote this song about all the things I’m sorry for… and I’m mostly sorry to myself and I’m so sorry to myself that I, I don’t always be myself … – The Mockingjay Lady Known As GaGa

In case you were wondering what’s behind the swine … existence of the living gold mine … the reality that human traffic runs through vinyl, video, and grapevine … that spectacular misery is of industrial design … that the vomit you spew, pre-emptive anesthetic to the polity coup: our very own blood red, sterilized white, and royal blue … the surrender in silence, the deafening void, the sadness… the sadness… the lament and suffocating isolation of that human capital demise … that behind the lids are empty exes where once haused Tiresian eyes. #pawsforfoundprophetsinlostprofits #southbye