I guess I should call this, “The Siege of The Warwick…”
but, left alone with a substantial supply of speed I forgot that I was heavily addicted to barbiturates and I started having strange compulsive behavior.
This was after I was done, well, I was shooting up every half hour, every twenty minutes on the half hour, thinking with each fresh shot I’d knock this nonsense out of my system, this physical disability I began to notice, namely convulsions, which lasted eight hours, during which I entertained myself while hanging on to, head down, hanging on to the bathroom sink, with my hind foot stomped against the drawer, trying to hold myself steady enough so I wouldn’t crack my stupid skull open.
Continue reading re:verse : “The Siege of the Warwick” – Edie Sedgwick
In a brief defense of Pop music, I would just like to say…
Pop music is here to elevate you. Pop music exists to channel transcendence. Pop music is not relegated to a single frame of performance or musicality. Pop music is the amalgam of experiential sonic rhythm, crafted and delivered for and to the contemporary body. Pop music is founded upon Pop musicians.
The contemporary is inundated with “new” media. The contemporary is a global marketplace. The contemporary is spectacular. Pop musicians, as such, are here to reciprocate and satiate said contemporary. The contemporary is a stage, the contemporary are performers – the audience are exhibitionist voyeurs and the actors are voyeur exhibitionists, we’re all in this Factory frame together.
And so, we dance, we sing, we get up, we do our thing, we put on a show tonight, do whatever the collective they like – for the fame, so they see our face and know our name. So, know this space. Know that the ones in the brightest lights push hardest in the darkest nights, know that the ones who do it endlessly – the ones who first trigger the reflexive ennui – do it for you.
Never Be Low Brow: Pop Canons.
Continue reading re:mind : on brief behalf of Pop music
“I would like to turn the world on, just for a moment … just for a moment,” so spoke Andy Warhol’s brightest burning – and arguably quickest dimming – Superstar, the girl on fire, the Poor Little Rich Girl, Edie Sedgwick.
As much as April 20th is the unofficial holiday celebrating the blurred, covert cool, touted taboo identity of this Lost Generation; Edie Sedgwick, born on this very day in 1943, is the unofficial harbinger of the Hipster – “It’s not that I’m rebelling. It’s that I’m just trying to find another way.” Everything about Edie was cool, everything about Edie was “now,” everything about Edie was so beautifully disastrous. Her significance is insignificant, if only because it was so superlative, but so temporally isolated; and if only because of that fact: her obituary is our biography – those dying to live, and forever living under the shadow of that spectacular demise.
Continue reading The Prophiles: Edie Sedgwick