Metal Remix

Last night I was introduced by a new friend to four videos of dirty, filthy, music sex. Advertised as remixes, these tracks are much rather four tasty heavy metal covers of Lady Gaga's Alejandro, Judas, Heavy Metal Lover and Scheiβe. Lending a hand to Miss Stefani's vulgar rock n' roll history, the power of the Born This Way and Fame Monster numbers marry perfectly with the crunching riffs and shredding talents of "sindremyskja"s one-man band.

Would you like to be surprised for once today? Click play.

Hard Work & Coffee

Ah, a nice cup of warm coffee; the bitter taste of hard work. I suppose this means I'm growing up, does it? Not  more than a year ago I would've announced to you that hard work was the gritty displeasure of Pro Plus tablets under my tongue, coupled with that wonderful feeling of my contact lenses shrivelling to dust on top of my irises. Oh, wasn't college a barrel of laughs. Getting older is definitely a bitch, but I must admit, I'd rather take the coffee.

Anyway, I've decided to call my new song "Blondie".

Blonde hair has been quite a major fascination in my life recently. There's just something about blonde girls which develops this funny kind of lust within my girlie self, which I have finally decided not to fight, but embrace. There's a pot of peroxide with my name on it next month, so goodbye brunette days!

After a long time thinking about it, I've come to the conclusion that there comes a point in every woman's life where she has to decide whether or not she wants to take the leading roll in the story of her future, or subside to be a sub-plot in some other bitch's autobiography. As much as I hate to admit it as a natural brunette, if hair was a metaphor for success, a blonde would be cast in the leading roll, wouldn't she?

I've always been inspired by the world of celebrity, and through this little fascination I've noticed that if you want to really succeed, and I mean not just get your name on the door succeed, but to become nothing short of a cultural icon, in order to buck the stereotype you need to firstly embrace it. It's easy; go blonde, wear pink, slip on a pair of heels more imposing than the dick you're trying to impress, and get cast in the leading roll. Once you've clawed your way in, shove a great pointy Loboutin in the door and start acting as brunette as you could possibly imagine.

I've written "Blondie" as my first piece of writing dedicated to Lady Gaga, actually. The way in which she embraced the blonde, shallow stereotype of a pop artist to force her way into success instead of compromising her talent and intelligence is inspirational. I'm writing at the early point of transition between blonde and brunette character, and how she was perceived by the world to be nothing more than a one-hit-wonder unless you really took the time to listen. In a way it's also a "fuck you" to a lot of the people I associate myself with, who point-blank refuse to believe she's talented, without even listening to a live performance, or a song besides Poker Face or Bad Romance.

I'll post it as soon as it's finished!

Disneyland

Money's tight, but fuck the change... In November we're saving up to go to Disneyland (Paris, we're not made of cash). After the past couple of months, I'm determined to make this year the best I possibly can. Going blonde to change my look, applying for university, booking concerts to see my favourite artists in the world, and now we're travelling for the hell of it. I'm trying my best to make 2012 the best year I possibly can instead of wallowing in a place I hate. "With money to burn on a minimum wage, well I don't give a shit about the modern age!" Anybody recommend any pleasure rides? I'm a wimp.

Concerts, Studs, and cups of Beer

Soon, it'll be June the 24th, and I'll be in a bar somewhere north, my excitement bubbling as enthusiastically as the amber fizz popping around in my drink. In a couple of hours I'll be seeing my second favourite band, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, grand masters of funk, in Sunderland's Stadium of Light.

Denim and asterix vest a-go-go.

No more than three months later, on September the 11th, I'm ecstatic to announce I'll be sitting precariously on a bar stool somewhere south, trying desperately not to either bounce myself off it in sheer anticipation, or rip holes in the leather with a bunch of violent-looking studs stapled to my skirt. This morning I purchased tickets to see my favourite woman in the world, Lady Gaga, in Manchester's MEN arena.

Custom jacket? I think so.

Aside from that, at certain points around September, November, and January, I'll be in my car, driving in a circle, blasting either Uno!, Dos!, or Tre! at full volume, wailing along to each track until I've got the lyrics down better than I know my own name. In those months, my all-time greatest idols whom I adore more than it's humanly possible to describe, Green Day, will have released three brand-new albums consecutively.

Call an ambulance, please. I've been officially slayed by music.

Love Bursts From Guns

I’ve named this post after one of my favourite pieces of work.

Coincidentally, along with being a prime example of my creative process which I’m about to write about, the title is the perfect metaphor for the way in which I generate my little works of art. By art I mean of course, the written extensions of myself I call my lyrics.

I don’t really want to go into it, but for the record, do not for one second brush this post off because you don’t understand the importance of lyrics, or even acknowledge them as a legitimate form of art. For one thing, their force of impact on contemporary society is equivalent to a one-hundred tonne sledgehammer compared to the likes of Wordsworth and co, especially if you want to make an artistic statement. They are fashions of modern-day poetry when written well.  For example, how many 20 year-olds do you know who can sing one line of Bohemian Rhapsody? Compare that to how many people you know who can recite more one line of Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and you will have your legitimate reason.

If there was one thing my Literature lessons taught me, it was that it doesn’t matter if you’re reading a poem over one-hundred years old, or an album booklet featuring lyrics written by Lady Gaga in the 21^st century – basic human nature will always be the same. Presentation and society are only temporary factors in the grand scheme of the raw, human emotion of the poetic verse.

But, that’s not what I’m going to write about tonight. You know in fact, I’ve prepared a completely different post on the topic, but utter metal fatigue has prevented me from being able to finish it.

That is what I’m going to write about tonight. It’s not “writers block”, because in order to write, or to be truly considered an artist in my little brain, the word “block” should definitely not be in your vocabulary. What should be instead is the word “inspiration”, and that stuffy, well-worn, casual phrase to be replaced with the lack thereof. There are no barriers to art, only obstacles available to cross if you have the right technique. So, instead, I am writing about the intense confusion of “techniques” which are happening in my brain.

There’s a perfect metaphor for this I could use, but instead I’m going to twist it to make it sound less as though I’ve done a copy and paste job, and probably, make it a little bit more representative of my creative mind set at the present time.

Imagine… You’re in jail.

Imagine you’re sat in really stereotypical jail cell, on the dusty floor covered in bits of straw and the bones of rats, and across the room, is a dirty fat guard asleep in front of the fire, with a set of keys hanging loosely from his belt. The situation is this; you’ve managed to reach through the bars, unhook the keys without him waking up, and now you’re stood there, with the lock inches away, holding the first key out of twenty, wondering how long it’ll take before you find the right one.

Typically, your first port of call is trial and error. Some look blatantly too big for the lock, so you push them aside, and others blatantly too small. Eventually there are ten keys left, any of which could reach blindly into the lock, click it open, and release you into the world of your dreams. One key and you’re free.

The only problem is that time is limited. You have to strike while the opportunity is as scalding hot as that candle flickering away there in the corner. The consequences if you don’t are fatal – you won’t unlock the cell, you won’t escape and you won’t be free.

Half the time I’m sure nobody understands what I’m talking about because ninety per cent of the time I find myself speaking in metaphors. If that made no sense then I’m about to confuse you even more… At the moment I’ve got around five or six sets of lyrics I’m “working” on, and I have no idea which key, direction, or technique will allow me to unlock each cell into the freedom of turning them into genuine pieces of art in their own right. One more metaphor; each song I’m writing makes me feel like I’m a spider, and every one of my eight legs wants to walk in a different direction, without any being stronger than the other. I’m ever so slowly being pulled apart.

Spiders are the spawn of the devil, I’m telling you. This is how much I hate this situation.