Well, here we are: for the second consecutive year, we’re turning Memorial Day weekend into a time of remembrance for the many great artists we lost since last May. But because this is still Dystopian Dance Party, and we’re constitutionally incapable of being reverent for more than a few minutes at a time, please be aware that the resulting podcast is about 70% wake, 30% roast (well, maybe 60/40). Just believe us when we tell you it’s all coming from a place of love. Hopefully, while everyone good continues to die and leave us trapped on this smoldering husk of a planet, we can at least entertain you (and ourselves) with our impressions of “The Force M.D.’s Meet the Fat Boys”… R.I.P. to Trisco Pearson. Show notes and Spotify playlist below. Continue reading “Dystopian Listening Party Podcast: Memorial Day, 2016-2017”
Look, I’m not gonna lie: our enthusiasm is flagging this month, hence the preview video going up a week later than usual. Our legislators are trying to kill us, Jheri Curl June is still three weeks away, and we just don’t give a shit anymore. So stay tuned for our annual Memorial Day podcast, a Dance Mix of songs for the impending healthcare dystopia, and (maybe, possibly) that last installment of the Kanye West Oeuvre I keep pushing back. Or don’t. We don’t really care.
It’s hard to believe, but we’ve been doing Dystopian Dance Party for three years now; I’ve had actual relationships that didn’t last as long as my relationship with this stupid blog. Even harder to believe is the fact that we’re still not running out of steam. Basically, at this point the blog is an act of aggression; we’re going to keep inflicting it on the world, whether the world likes it or not. If you do like what we’re doing (for some reason), check the list below for my completely subjective choices for the 12 best posts in our third year of operation.
We’re back to our regularly scheduled programming this month, and I think we’ve got a pretty good slate of coming attractions. The big news this month is, of course, the long-awaited conclusion to our series of Dystopian Book Club podcasts on the memoirs of KISS, covering the Starchild himself, Mr. Paul Stanley. In less exciting news, there’s also the return of Zach playing Final Fantasy XV and talking to himself. This is also (probably) the month when he will finally finish that epic post on Kanye West’s The Life of Pablo he’s been promising/threatening for so long. And, last but not least, we’ll have a Dystopian Dance Mix dedicated to Ishtar (the Mesopotamian fertility goddess, not the legendary movie flop starring Dustin Hoffman and Warren Beatty). There’s a couple other things up our sleeves, too, but for now, we’ll leave it at that. Hope to see you soon!
Azealia Banks is not a role model. Earlier this year, while at least half a million women traveled to Washington, D.C. to protest the inauguration of Donald Trump, she was doubling down on her support for the president and offering to host his inauguration with professional shithead Milo Yabbadabbadopolous. A few months before that, she earned the dubious distinction of losing a public relations battle with famed phone-hurler Russell Crowe, both of whom claimed to have been assaulted by the other at a private party with the RZA (seriously, you can’t make this shit up). Hell, this very week she seems to have decided to usher in Women’s History Month in her own inimitable way, by failing to show up to a court appearance for a 2015 incident in which she allegedly bit a female nightclub bouncer’s breast.
In short, Azealia Banks is a disaster. She’s as messy as those cheap-ass weaves she wears: like Kanye West on steroids, but without the occasional flashes of humility. For every time she authentically speaks truth to power–or at least Iggy Azalea–there are a dozen other times when she comes out in support of skin bleaching, or claims that as a woman she should be able to use homophobic slurs, or uses white supremacy as an excuse to hurl racial invective at the Muslim kid from One Direction. And yet, for better or worse, I just can’t quit her. Don’t get me wrong: I’m no longer following her on social media, and am generally trying to ignore her antics until she puts out some more good music. But I also can’t help but maintain a grudging admiration for the sheer paucity of fucks she gives. Banks’ brand of feminism may be just a hair shy of nihilism, but she’s a defiant, unruly woman in a culture that still demands feminine propriety, and for that, at least, she has my respect.