The desert seems like an unlikely choice for a song about everything; consumption, chaos, speed, glut, and overstimulation. But it serves here as a kind of primal scene for America, but in reverse. The detritus, the laboratory, and the canvas. Everywhere you go there are signs that bear the same omen: E.N. It's a logo, a joke, and the psychic condition of billions.Read More
Julian always seemed to me like a the narrator from a post-modern novel; he's looking around at a chaotic cityscape which is vulgar, commercial, fractured, and undecipherable, and isn't sure how or even if he feels about.Read More
Models and cyborgs are intimidating to us because of their physical perfection and their access to power. But models grow older - despite the efforts of surgery, UV absorbers, and probiotics - cyborgs don't. Vroom Vroom is an apocalyptic vision; what if the cool kids never grew up?Read More
The circle in Make Me Like You recalls the circling, vulture-like mobility of the paparazzi. Gwen moves within an enclosed spiral, a space that can only point inward towards an disembodied watchman. That Gwen seems joyful in this video speaks to her ability, in her personal life, to cope with extraordinary circumstance.Read More
Her hair was spiked up with Elmer’s glue that she kept under our bathroom sink next to nail polish (black, white, chrome), maxi pads, and unused perfume samples from the mall.Read More
He’s dressed more like he’s going out less, sleeping on his dance coach’s butt like it’s a pillow, making faces I thought only I made when I do karaoke. Or yawn.Read More
She asks to play with his radio and unties a pair of sneakers with her teeth. Kim's lyrics are exaggerations of girlish longing and obsession and here she casts herself as both the go go dancer that got to speak and the horny fangirl lusting after a too cool black boy.Read More
The kitchen is empty, save for a tabloid with our girl on the cover (someone’s seen Britney’s Lucky Video one too many times). Except Lucky wasn’t ever allowed to say high or do drugs or admit that she had her own feelings. When she was first caught with a cigarette on a balcony in April 2002 she was in a whirlwind of shit with news media and fans alike.Read More
High by the Beach is part self-fulfilling prophecy, part revenge fantasy. Featuring her new getaway in the video gives her a unique kind of power: no need to worry about people selling blurry pictures of her home to TMZ, she’s hosting an exclusive housewarming herself, and everyone’s invited—though not everyone may stay.Read More
But Good for You is unmistakably about Selena’s pleasure: she is alone and in every single frame, she mumbles her delivery like there isn't anyone to hear it, she sings about wearing her hair up and a skintight dress while wearing an oversized white t-shirt and her hair down.Read More
By Sennah Yee
There are too many fans in the room—whirring on the ceiling, the tables, the floor. They blow the bouquets of fake flowers set on every table, but they do not emit that real, hushed rustle. The paintings on the walls are worthy of both gallery and thrift store collections: muted landscapes, flocks of seagulls, frothy shores. Mounted beside them, frozen birds of prey and sobbing bass heads.
The suits, the tucked-in polos, the baggy hoodies, the varsity jackets and jerseys—and a windbreaker momma who oddly sticks out, though she isn’t supposed to—they sit back in folded chairs, arms crossed, fingers laced, chicken wings half-gnawed, glasses half-sipped, brick phones on silent. Dangling chains, keys on lanyards, formal ties. Watching, assessing.
What time is it? Where we are? who they are is not a concern. All that matters is the entertainment. Her dress, shoes, jewels are brilliant shades of mint and emerald, satin ribbons and mermaid tailed. The brother wants to trace the veins on her arms, soft but sculpted. He is beckoned by everything about her and everything that this room is not. When a spell is cast, is one being awoken, or put to sleep? The sister watches on, ashtray and meal both ignored.
The suits, the tucked-in polos, the baggy hoodies, the varsity jackets and jerseys—the windbreaker momma, too—they raise their hands and glasses, while she keeps her eyes down on the ground, the brother. The sister’s eyes stay fixed, unblinking. All those fans will dry them out. Whirring, ignored.