Life is but a dream to me, I don’t wanna wake up
Thirty odd years without having my cake up
So I’m about my paper: 24/7, 365,366 in a leap year
I don’t know why we here, since we gotta be here
Life is but a beach chair
Went from having shabby clothes, crossing over Abbey Roads
Hear my angels singing to me: “Are you happy HOV?”
I just hope I’m hearing right, Karma’s got me fearing life
Colleek are you praying for me

See I got demons in my past, so I got daughters on the way
If the prophecy’s correct, then the child should have to pay
for the sins of a father; so I barter my tomorrows against my yesterdays
In hopes that she’ll be OK
And when I’m no longer here, to shade her face from the glare
I’ll give her my share of Carol’s Daughter and a new beach chair…

Life is but a beach chair, this song is like a Hallmark card
Until you read each here, so till she’s here
And she declared the heir, I will prepare
A blueprint for you to print, a map for you to get back
A guide for your eyes, and so you won’t lose scent
I’ll make a stink for you to think

The most amazing feeling I feel
Words can’t describe the feeling, for real
Maybe I paint the sky blue
My greatest creation was you: Glory

The most beautifulest thing in this world, daddy’s little girl – you
But you was made in Paris, and mama woke up the next day and shot her album
Last time the miscarriage was so tragic, we was afraid you disappeared
But nah, baby you magic

Glory! Glory! Glory! Sorry…

Watch This Space

“You’ve got to know the rules to break them. That’s what I’m here for, to demolish the rules but to keep the tradition.” – Alexander McQueen

It’s not that I don’t like you, I’m just tryna pass the time… going through my closets finding clothes that poets rhyme…

One of the reasons why McQueen’s collections often were so hard to watch is that they often channeled our cultural anxieties and uncertainties, and that was very much part of his raison d’être.

I think one of the reasons why he loved nature so much was because it was so unpredictable, it was so spontaneous, and it was something that one could never control.

You were always not sure what to expect when you went into a McQueen show. And you also didn’t know what you felt when you left a McQueen show at the same time. You always were left with sort of feelings of confusion…

Long Live McQueen… Thank God he bathed the scene… #amenfashion

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.

Boots are made for stunting and that’s just what they’ll do… and one of these years these boots are gonna stunt all over you… Little Boots were made for shaking and heartbreaks…

Swipe’s were made for trekking the transatlantic scape… Doc’s were made for leaving a footprint on the place… Politicians, happy-until-a-week-later marriages, Hauskeepers, one-percenters, tea-sippers, common sense and decency got a boot straight to the face… This year the bottom fell out in a most beautiful way, how do you destroy angels? Close your eyes… and just listen to the sounds… of these big, black, boots

Whole lotta money in the black bag… boot straps – you know what that’s for… #pullup

Nothing’s too cool, to take me from you…

New York is not just a tan that you’ll never lose: because all other occupants pale in comparison

Never truly a Manhattan Sunday Best without a calling card from the East Side’s savoriest baked bluffer… #thisbluffsforyou

“Edge of Glory,” “Judas” - Born This Way - Lady GaGa

But, first, a word from our sponsor…

… and now back to our regularly scheduled Popgramming

This album… this year… was cognitive dissonance on parade… but – at least it was in movement towards something… something post-colonial… something in the wake of betrayal, on the brink of Biblical, and basking in the bricolage. Born This Way isn’t a one-sound-fits-all sonic scenario collectively, but one of its many fine fragments will undoubtedly appeal to the fair share of all ears. “Edge of Glory”… not a favorite song off of the album, not a favorite single from the year… but it was released on my birthday, and its presence was everywhere… “If anyone did anything – if  a cat got across the street this year: they were on the ‘Edge of Glory,’”ubiquitous, optimistic, mortal – but magnificently so, it was anthemic for the aspirational ones. “Judas” … Judas, on the other hand, was a banger of beasting proportions for the bad kids with the killer kiss. The Hidden Miss and the Hit-and-Miss… “In the most Biblical sense, I am beyond repentance: ‘Fame hooker,’ ‘prostitute wench,’ ‘vomits her mind’ – but in the cultural sense, I just speak in future tense; Judas kiss me if offensed, or wear ear condom next time.” #dropthemic

“No Church in the Wild” ft. Frank Ocean and The-Dream – Watch the Throne - Jay-Z & Kanye West

We formed a new religion: no sins as long as there’s permission, and deception is the only felony…

The Throne… Black Jesus walks in the wild… Where there is no church, just a primal society of spectacular sinners in the magnificent monde a la mode… Amen fashion… London is looting, Paris is burning, New York is occupied, victors are vilified, and the beasts are the beautiful beacons of a new world… Postcolonial cultural institutions, Neo-capitalism beneath the civilly disobedient liberated lady, soundtracks run through the veins and veneer of a blind Justice Judy… Mitochondiral thieves, sons of Reagan’s mythological Welfare Queens, tears on the mausoleum floor, lies on the lips of a priest… Faustus grants voices, viles of victorious libations, and a hand to grasp to the thug’s prayers reached…. Human beings to a mob, what’s a mob to a king, what’s a king to a god, what’s a god to a non-believer who don’t believe in anything… When pop is the pre-eminent place of worship and The Throne makes room for Jo Calderone… what’s Queen Bee to Minaj, what’s Minaj to a Bey, what’s Britney to GaGa, what’s GaGa to the tot Belieber who don’t believe in anything… #preach

“Civilization” - Audio, Video, Disco. - Justice

From Brazil’s Christ Redeemer to B.o.B, Stonehenge to the endless Sk8er Boi party, Madonna Litta eclipsed by the Purrs of California’s Kitty Lolita, Easter Island, Themis, The Sphinx, man-made structures bordering on the divine – resurrected here if only to remind us of what we left behind… All Day I Dream About Significance, Society, Substance, Something – anything more… Mount Rushmore cashed out, Noah’s Ark now nothing more than a two-by-tomb, while the ruins of civilization go all in, stumble, and settle in the Mediated Mesopotamian womb… From behind the veil of the ever present bottom line, sights of the American celebrity to drown out the French artisan’s sound… when culture is dependent upon commerce, justice remains forever blind: Anything less would be uncivilized #allin

“Go With You” – Underneath the Pine - Toro Y Moi

I don’t know how, how we’re gonna get out; but I’m not scared, of getting point to point

Whimsical, yet weathered… a post-suicidal virgin’s rhytmically respiratory ambient air… subtle psychedelic melodies wafting along  the breeze… Bundick hums beneath the fragile funk’s pine, coasting along the roots of Seventies soundtracks… xylophonic keys echo in the distance, just beyond the hushed vocals… looping and laying a fresh foundation for tomorrow’s sonic dawn, or tonight’s dusked nightcap… speak easy, synth soundly, step lightly, but strut nonetheless along the harmonic chillwave hymnal of Toro Y Moi…