Pulse the signature sound as apropos a sonic aesthetic as any you could possibly fathom. Be the rainbow coalition rallying cry emerging as the pulse of the marginalized and socially-oppressed communities. The uber-derivative genre infusing indigenous sounds with new synth technology. The cultural anomaly with which to be reckoned, that self-contextualized subculture hidden-in-plain-view.
Be the rainbow-haired bad romancer emerging as the pulse of the Generation Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell fringe networks. Bathe in uber-derivative artistry. Pull identity from Lorca, Queen, Motley Crue, In Living Color, Peggy Bundy, Kardinal Offishall, Stanley Kubrick, Yoko Ono. Wear it. Infuse influence with modern Pop veneer. Bear 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.
Live the liberating voice, the heartbeat and pulse; when Nixon and Reagan put the fringe elements away, when Bush and Clinton put the freaks in the doghouse, when Obama flips the forgotten: be what the subculture whistle while they werq.
Turn the basement into the big house. Make the freak fabulous. Studio 54 on the floor. Monster Ball out of control. Take the clandestine. Make it social currency. Ironclad community. Bond the oppressed. Fuel the funk. Be universal. Be liberating. Be innate. Be the self-made high-hated. You can’t pay rent but be gorgeous, and you are never dead – just beautysleeping in a trance, but never sleeping to dream: and this is The Fame.
And The Fame is.