Archive for glam rock

Gaga Must Be in Awe of Mark Ryden. (Hell, Who Isn’t?)

Posted in Art & Culture, Fame & Celebrity, Feminism (Shades of Gray), Goof & Glamour, I Heart Shaman*Art, I Heart Tricksters, In Celebration of the Absurd, Lipstick Shamaness, Psyche & Sexuality, punk rock, Sexuality, Sideshow Siren & Bearded Lady, Star F*#ker, Style & Fashion, Technicolor Pop, Top 2% of Coolest Mofos with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 15, 2010 by alphabetfiend

   I didn’t watch the VMAs but, periodically glancing down at my iphone screen, I saw that twitter was all a-twitter over Lady Gaga’s meat dress.     

(Yes, IPhone, yes Twitter. Groan. “Long Story,” sighs The Lusty Luddite.)    

    

But no one was saying the obvious which was “OMG! Gaga’s gone real life Ryden!”    

Check out that white flaxen hair!

  

Being the selfish little writer-chick that I am I decided to save my “OMG!” for y’all. Except then I couldn’t get online for the umpteenth time (boy, the free wifi from my next door coffee shop sho’ ain’t whut it used ta be.) By the next morning, several people were pointing it out, including Ryden himself. (On Twitter. Hence Twitter.)    

    

Look, no one’s calling Gaga a Ryden rip-off or at least I’m not. It’s still super cool & mad genius. Once again, Lady Gaga used costume as an artistic and spiritual medium; stirring our own frockful fantasies; probing own throbbing architectures of mythos & meaning. So yea, it was pretty much awesome. After all, the girl in “Incarnation” isn’t a real-life girl with stepped-one toes. She was a fantasy, up for the taking.    

Gaga plucked that sucker from the tree of meaning and took a big juicy bite. Oh, wait, let’s try that again. >>I’m a bit rusty due to my recent sabBRATtical. << Gaga fillet’d that fucker from the flank of id and toothesomely tore off a hunk of bloody flesh.    

    

It was brilliant, really, I loved it, except… well, it would’ve been much cooler if she had given Ryden a big old “Yea, baby!” shout-out rather than mumbling some vague, tired shit about feeling like a piece of meat or being seen as a commodity or bla bla bla. Shaaaad up, Lady Bla Bla.    

    

Look, the whole feminism “feeling like a piece of meat” thing, I get it. I just don’t buy it. Not from Gaga.    

Lady Gaga is an absolute expert at letting her meat hang out. If she were really troubled — feeling like a piece of ass — she’d probably cover that ass.     

     

Nah, I think it’s much more likely that Lady Gaga, just like the rest of us, has spent hours agog and drooling over Ryden’s paintings, searching for ourselves from among his feminine archetypes.    

    

I’ve often blamed Ryden’s meat paintings on pop culture’s current carnivorous phase. At the store, as customers went nuts over steak bath-mats and bacon band-aids, I’d just chuckle at Ryden’s far-reaching influence. People may not know that Ryden’s the reason they’re craving meaty gewgaws but he is.    

Mark Ryden put meat on the muther-fuckin’ map. Mark Ryden made meat cool.    

I dunno but I’ve heard that if you wanna get more followers on Twitter, you need only name-drop bacon.    

And vagina.    

And penis.    

And there, folks, is all you really need to know about WHY we are so obsessed with meat.    

    

We are meat. Sometimes we forget that we’re meat. And sometimes we long to remember.    

    

Mark Ryden probes that soft, bloody, fleshy place inside of us. And we…respond.    

    

Lady Gaga wasn’t saying “How dare you treat me like a piece of meat!” Puh-leeze. She was shouting, “Hey, everybody, look at me! I’m meaty!”    

"Broken Label" with Mark Ryden

  

Gaga was acting on an impulse that wasn’t as wholly original as many non-Ryden fans might think. In 2009, freaky fashion blogger Tatianista gave voice to that Grade A urge.    

How utterly fabulous would it be for an underground fashionista like myself to have wearable meat a la Ryden to add to my ever-growing, glamorously eccentric wardrobe? So fab, in fact, that someone far more clever thought of it long before I did.    

Tatianista waxed poetic about the Nagi Noda / Mark Ryden collaboration, which launched Noda’s “Broken Label.”    

The first and only collaborative fashion collection the two artists produced…will likely be as highly collectible as just about anything else Ryden has produced…even more-so now that Noda, whose broad body of work included everything from popular music videos and commercials to sculpture, conceptual art and “hair hats” died tragically young last year. She left this world wearing her favorite Chanel boots, Victor and Rolf black lace eyelashes and one of her own Mark Ryden dresses.    

In February of this year (2010) the prescient Schadenfreude Pony declared of the meat dress in Ryden’s “Incarnation”    

GaGa will be wearing it next week.    

Unlike Tatianista and Gaga, I’ve never felt an enormous need to wear a meat dress. I’ve always been more into Ryden’s more mythic maidens, all filled-up from the inside with story & secrets.    

    

 I was obsessed for a time with creating a t-bone steak clutch, perfect accessory for the LBD, but was too lazy and never got around to making it.    

    

The ground chuck bag was a Ryden collab with Paul Frank. I’m not sure who did the pork slab but isn’t it the ideal briefcase for bringin’ home the bacon?    

    

My someday steak purse would not be a real t-bone, of course, cause I can barely stomach raw meat when preparing it for the grill (and my stomach.) My meaty fashion forays would be more figurative than real life soon-to-be rotting flesh.    

    

Such as these folks did for a Mark Ryden opening. (She’s in stilts, I think, which is all kinds of circusy spectacular)    

Man in a meat at Mark Ryden show

  

Though I give Gaga big props for keeping it real. I mean, look at these shoes.    

    

They look like they’re ready for the oven not the VMAs.    

    

One sultry June night in Toledo, I met my friend Dan McGuire — my Precocious Dandy — at a gritty east-side club. Dan was joining a local band, The Porn Flakes, on-stage. As a steak. All 6 feet and 5 inches of Dan had disappeared into a giant foam-rubber t-bone. Back stage, in the tiny yard behind the club, Dan stripped outta the steak and changed into a giant cow.  I dropped down onto the discarded steak, lounging like it was a carne-chaise. In a tiny pinkey-orange sundress & pink boa, with a nice marmaladey tan, I was feeling pretty luxurious, pretty damn cheeky. Things were going great, until one of the Porn Flakes began to eye me hungrily.    

“What?” I playfully glowered. “What am I? Just a piece of meat?”    

“I dunno, nah,” he drooled, “But you sure do look like a golden, buttery mushroom to me mmm.”    

“Hey, hey! ” Dan hollered. “That’ll be enough of that. Have a little fuckin’ respect, why don’tya?   

While Dan railed and ranted — protectively, possevively — I lounged extra lasciviously on my meat chaise. I batted my lashes as Dan hurried to pack his things. I smirked as he reached for my hand, yanking me up, pulling me away from those perverted Porn Flakes. I giggled as I caught up with his long aggravated strides, glancing back at my starving admirer. Then I leaned lovingly into Dan’s sturdy ribs as we ran excitedly down the dirty street, a trail of pink feathers behind us.    

*All paintings/art by the crazy gorgeous genius Mark Ryden. Check out his dot.com  

*For another meaty anecdote, read “Ham, I Am”

Moved by Dolly Rocker Movement! Curious About Burning Man.

Posted in Goof & Glamour, I Heart Friends, I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Steampunk, punk rock, Sexy Bitch Steampunk yum with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on June 12, 2010 by alphabetfiend

The Robot Boy has a very old dear friend who has completely dedicated his life to an ever-evolving discovery of cool music. This is not a quest that Bruce takes lightly. He’s a punk-monk who eschews anything that might distract him from his destiny as rock & roll omen seeker. He has exquisite eclectic taste and I would follow him anywhere. When Bruce tells you to check out a new band or replay an old band you rush to do it. Something dreamy awaits. 

 

So when Bruce borrowed our car and returned it with a CD in the player, we hit play and hiked the volume. 

 

The CD was a Bruce-made mix of songs by The Dolly Rocker Movement. A new band that feels old. 

 

Now, for my fellow night owls,  as a little friday night into saturday morn’ 3:00 a.m. treat,  I offer you “Coffin Love” by The Dolly Rocker Movement. The song is set to the most amazing shots of a Burning Man fest. This clip is worth it for the visuals alone. I’d assumed that Burning Man had become just another hippy raver scene, having lost all vestige of its former mystery. I’m blown away by the sort of mythic Mad Max steampunk aesthetic and all these odd chitty chitty bang bang machines. It looks like a strange dream with cosmic-circus-steampunk-gypsy elements combining in a sort of A-bomb fairytale. 

This video was artfully done by www.tribalturk.com , a Turkish fan-zine site that’s worth poking around on even though the text isn’t in English. It’s a really cool site, I’m impressed with their aesthetic. 

A steampunk tree house

 

 Have any of you been to Burning Man? Was it really this beautiful, eerie and elaborate? Did it really have that PK-Dickian sci-fi steampunkery? Recently? How recently? Did you have any transformative dream-like experiences while there? After seeing this video, I’m crazy curious. I was so sure that Burning Man had devolved into yet another mushroomy melee, y’know, just naked hippies in the desert and if anyone read my last post (born on a commune, lived in a cave) then you’ll understand that I’ve had my fill of that. But now I see these beasty-machines and steampunk tree houses, winged motorcycles and tattered circus tents … have I made a major miscalculation here? I must have!   

So comment! You architects of steampunk treehouses! You dirt-bike PKD! You saint of steel & dust! I wanna hear from you! Is Burning Man the place for a cosmic clown, side-show siren, bearded lady, steampunk seductress, Lipstick Shamaness such as myself? 

 

Speak, my sweets, my freaks, my night owls…. C’mon baby ring my bell. All ya hafta do is ring my bell!

What’cha Gonna Do About It?

Posted in Fur Reals, punk rock, Rock & Roll with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 11, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Small faces, secret mohawks…

The song “What’cha Gonna Do About It” by The Small Faces is so punk rock! Especially considering that it dates back to the incense & peppermints of 1965. (The original BBC recording rocks much harder than the more radio-friendly American version.)

The song is the size of a fist and packs a big emotional punch.

I want you to know that I love you, baby
want you to know that I care
I’m so happy when you’re ’round me
but I’m sad when you’re not there

what’cha gonna do about it?

I want you to give me your sweet sweet kisses
want you to hold me tight
I want you to come whenever I call you
and let me walk you home at night

what’cha gonna do about it?

Such a sweet little co-dependent love song…

You hafta wonder if maybe the singer oughtta just get a dog. Canines come when called and they’re always up for walks!

I love those old-school rock & roll challenges. McCartney howling on the Beatles’ White Album, “Why don’t we do it in the road?” Or Union Carbide’s Ebbot Lundberg daring us to ring his bell.  

If you want me all you hafta do is try ta ring my bell! Ring my bell ring my bell ring my bell ring my bell! Ding dong ding ding dong ding dong ding ding dong.

Makes me wanna get naked in the dark and go down on my lover beneath a glowing street lamp. Makes me wanna ring that fucker’s bell like I’m banging Marc Bolan’s gong. Hell yea! Get it on! Bang a gong! Get it on!

Speaking of my loverly Ebbot, I dug up this awesome footage of Union Carbide performing  “Ring My Bell” in 1988.

Ebbot’s just a kid in the video: all shirtless, thuggish, writhing and sexy as shit. Damn!  TSOOL fans will be surprised to see Lundberg looking so very different from his current Soundtrack of Our Lives incarnation: tunic clad, Buddha belly, guru delivery. Hey, I’m not dismayed, no way. A few extra pounds is just more to love when it comes to geniuses like Jim, Elvis, or Ebbot. My rockstars are welcome to get as fat and as furry as they fucking like.

I love Ebbott as is but it’s still pretty cool seeing him — in motion — as a young punk. Those pounds, those years, they’ve been kind. He still dances with that same snaky gleam.

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