Pop: because I’ll take you everywhere – call me MC Hammer #imaboutscene. GreatEclectic isn’t a moniker, it isn’t a motto, or even a mantra – it is a melodic manifesto: #thus
Megalomania: A psychopathological condition characterized by delusional fantasies of wealth, power, or omnipotence. 2) An obsession with grandiose or extravagant things or actions. 3) Ba$$ Pop (Badass Bank and Bubblegum Schemes) 4) Sounds better with you – and by you I mean that gorgeous stack of pancakes in the mirror – shining in Swarovski clear view
Eargasm: 1) The sensation one gets while hearing a dramatic climax in music. 2) The climax of musical excitement. 3) To have an eargasm. 4) See above, below, and all about #this
JungleGum: Aural amazonic sounds emanating from the urban undergrowth… bubblegum dreams fantasized from beneath deep drum and dirty bass… Pop princesses reigning from atop a throne of Ameritropolis morass… glitterbombs and graffiti sprayed across the sonic stratosphere… ballerinas and bawse beats… indigenous and electronic climates converged into a barreled bonfire of the vanity streets
SnappIt: Teenage Dreams swirling above the militaristic battle ground, fueling lofty flights of toy soldierettes… Megalomania is the slow, steadily acquired condition of the voice and the vice meeting in the back of your head, sparking the celebrity psyche within us all… What starts as a Californian girl’s candy wish enters a new environment, where slowly the fairy tale fantasy enters the Amazon jam – Jane meets Tarzan: enter JungleGum Volume One. There’s the sentiment of Spears’ slave – sonic servitude on a dancefloor. Battleground drum and bass blend with arcade-style artillery beneath Diddy-Dirty Money, the manifested dream about to break just beneath the Dawn. Adele’s London tone rolls through deep house beats, Rihanna’s cries revive the self-dialoguing, dominatrix-dictated megalomaniacal nocturnal romp. BPMs and pulses rise through Gucci and drop beneath GaGa: over-riding Britney’s global shutdown, dark synth, high vocals, signature nightmarish fantasies collide beautifully over the bridge with Bey – three-the-hard-way, destiny’s newest descendants stand – HBIC soldierettes, leashes in hand – so-happy-go-lucky gone hard as Spears takes the throne and Rick Ross’ hand. When you’re an artist, your beat is your badge – Britney battled through the blackout, and though it left a black eye on her career, it solidified her Pop music boss status; in a logical world, Blackout would’ve earned Britney a brick-laden Lex Luger-laced liner in 2010 – this isn’t said world though – so, on behalf of said world, Daye bestows upon Britney the backbeat she never had, the stone cold sonic spine to vapor all swelter, and the magnanimous opus she was too toxic to taste. Then the crash, then the barrage of metallic weight, then the low-fi rock riffs bellowing from monstrous lips – besos: XXXO. M.I.A. malts Kelis’ milkshake in a contagiously rhythmic sonicquake reverberating infinitely beyond the present, to the gifted past of nostalgia… before the fleeting fame’s incessant rapture became the soul obsession, when it was a mere fantasy of a life lived in the spectacle of sole expression. A hop, skip, and two-step over a catchy bridge into the cacophonous canopy of your love’s starry-eyed gaze… and we finally drift back into a life toned-down and dimmed, upgraded from sin, into the suspended space of eternal sweet dreaming… where just beneath the benign reverie lives the eurythmic soul of gilded guilt, and just across the glassy pond sits splendid isolation – if only we could pull our narcissian selves away from the diamond reflection of vainglorious desolation.
Watch This Space: Good Pop is megalomaniacal – willing oneself into perceived prominence, delusional visions of grandeur… scening yourself in the scheme of things