Tekiaaahhhh

I got bored and sad talking about Fashion Week. Even before I could write-up Calvin Klein and Oscar and those beautiful, light and peachy warm-weather furs at Dennis Basso and Queen of Los 90's, Isaac Mizrahi's, decade-delayed return to the Tents.

It wasn't the clothes. I really love to think and write about clothes. It's how the Fay-shun business, a fat, airy planet (and it's moons and its satellites), is spangly and aggressive and (mostly) dumb. It's bi-annual (and sometimes tri-annual) stomping and performing rites are meant, I suppose, to sell and be...pleasurable. But--despite what I said at the outset-- the consumerist "violence" fell/felt flat this year. I'm not some Recession Puritan, who eschews all gross displays of wealth in these hard times. It's just, the New York factions looked to be pretending there wasn't a Recession on at all. Instead they might have, with a bit of bravado, used the dingy economic circ's to be subversive with their brand of excess...also, it's just quite apparent that NYC lags behind Paris and Milan (and Belgium). At the end of the last century, Europe was dogged by tradition, a certain narrowness, while, in attractive opposition, America was an open expanse, ungoverned, candid, audacious. These days, the tables have turned MAJORLY. We are the stiff-necked and delusional population, the ones with some great blockage.

However, I have been feeling pretty dedicated to America lately. And so have my friends. I'm pleased to look American ("unsophisticated" though it may be...?). And travel American. I'm pleased to think about American history, both proud and dismal. I can no longer pretend an America. All I can see is the actual. Though this does not leave off sentiment...

I'm getting particularly sentimental about hometowns (Memphis and the NYC) and "representation." And though I've tried to be sour about his new effort (ahem), I seem to be liking Jay-Z's single, "Empire State of Mind." It's merit is entirely due to Alicia Keys's solid, rallying cry hook--

New York!!!! Concrete jungle where dreams are made of, There's nothing you can’t do, Now you're in New York!!! These streets will make you feel brand new, the lights will inspire you, Let's hear it for New York, New York, New York!

So, it's corny for sure. And thank G-d. This is a great moment for corny. And if anyone can get away with singing baldly about things like "inspiration" and "dreams" (with exclamation marks) it's Alicia Keys, a not always stylish, but certainly earnest artist. The refrain at once uplifts, as intended, and deflates with it's exuberance, a quality made real in the song, but not necessarily abundant in this listener, in many of us, at the close of a trying, oft creepy summer. I like this push and pull. I like the conflicting emotions it draws out.

Jay's voice is one I've been feeling less and less comfortable with. I love his story and his wife, their upper upper echelon. But, over time, I've been able to read what a businessman he is, ever-cool, relatively soulless. I've said for a while (and so have others) that Jay-Z's first huge summer-jam pop single, "Hard Knock Life," was aimed straight at me and peers, bourgeois, preteen girls (as of 1998), with its sample from the musical Annie. In this new single, Jay speaks to us, now aged (alongside his subsequent Blueprints and Black Album) directly, with a verse about post-collegiate party girls errantly "addicted to the high life" (the very 'high life' he and like-others sold us?). As Alicia "uplifts," Jay declares "8 million stories out there in the Naked City/It's a pity half of y’all won’t make it." The crosspurposes persist. And Alicia's voice begins to sound desperate, as if she's trying to wail Gospel with no air left in her lungs. Our town's greatest poet (I think I'm allowed to say that) wrote, "I contradict myself. So, I contradict myself." This (teehee) high/low, up/down, brave/despondent, open/limited stuff is pretty quintessentially New York (American...human). The song may achieve far more than it set out to...

Among D.J. A.M.'s last communications before his August suicide was (sadly enough) a Twitter post that went something like "New York City ain't all it's cracked up to be." And he was right. This town reneges on promises. It is the Omni-American capital, the seat of our Big Commercial Empire, Empire of Capitalist teasing, illusions, smoke, mirrors. New York is extraordinary, handsome, tough, varied, rich, "naked," FAST. The dashing of hope, met handily by its constant renewal, marks the New York Experience. It is never what "it's cracked up to be," because the place has already shifted as a summation of it is made. These revolutions can dazzle, and they can also terrify, make one miserable. New York is one thing to a visitor (a glittering, sleepless mecca), and another to a citizen (your house, your block, your long walk to and from the grocery store). It is our home. For us, it must needs be average or below-average, at least some of the time. The mythology of the place, the thrill of the tourist, the interloper, can either boost our prodigious egos or make us smart with bitterness. It depends on one's luck, on the weather.

Here is "Empire State of Mind" and the song that accompanies it on my current favorite playlist, bang--

Funny For Sickday

I googled "how to stop a cold" last night, and found myself on the Men's Health website. I once read an issue of this hooey uncomfortably drunk at ten in the morning on the couch of a creep who worked in advertising (I think he had a subscription). Anyway, here is a particularly miserable piece, penned by a lady, about how to woo a lady. Lawd.

For Petrova

Dot Biz

I'm amazed that Beyoncé Knowles still has so many god damn detractors. Recently some friends mentioned they disliked the nasal quality of her voice, which is a welcome criticism considering how scurrilous and weird most media/blog attacks on the pop star are. It's a matter of taste. I happen to like nasal sounds when they are used with style and subtlety, as with Bey, as a portion of a crafted noise. Bey will make a siren call through her nose, and then, in an instant, turn a corner and snarl or rap or belt.

Anyway, as mentioned, most criticism launched at this accomplished diva is foolish. There are the obvious attacks on her body and clothes, mostly launched by mean gays. Then there's the (also obvious) attacks on her drive, ambition, and success as, you know, a womyn. A site that I check weekly or biweekly, Bossip, calls her a bitch and a robot and a fake on the regular. Por ejemplo, they thought they were really onto something when they got news that Bey's giving over of the spotlight to Taylor Swift (O.M.G. have you heard that number?!) at the VMAs was arranged, planned. Um, yeah. It was. Because the VMAs are a live televised show, and they have a "plan" for everything that happens, because otherwise, it wouldn't happen. Taylor came from backstage. It was obvious. She had been in Times Square performing mid-ceremony. I'm sure that MTV and Bey and her people and Taylor and her people had a conversation. Maybe, in the course of that conversation MTV informed Bey that she would be winning Video of the Year. Maybe, she already knew. Kanye had hurled them into an unexpected P.R. kerfuffle. Each of their brands had been brought into his media-circus-wooing, and they each needed to come out on top (Kanye be damned). Why are people so confounded by art+commerce--particularly, pop music+commerce?! Beyoncé Knowles is a businesswoman, and a very good one. Beyoncé Knowles is a performer, and a very good one. What the fuck is "realness" anyway? I got the impression that Bey "meant" the gesture, however it was orchestrated. But, whatever. Why are we so concerned with the character of our artists and performers, with what "sorts" of people they are? I'm not saying I'm immune to it (clearly), but I wish I would be.

Update: Bossip just posted this. And then this caca. It's OVAHHHH between us!!!!

Verses

"Ten Cents A Dance"
Lorenz Hart
1930

I work at the Palace Ballroom,
but, gee that Palace is cheap;
when I get back to my chilly hall room
I'm much to tired to sleep.
I'm one of those lady teachers,
a beautiful hostess, you know,
the kind the Palace features
for only a dime a throw.

Ten cents a dance
that's what they pay me,
gosh, how they weigh me down!
Ten cents a dance
pansies and rough guys
tough guys who tear my gown!
Seven to midnight I hear drums.
Loudly the saxophone blows.
Trumpets are tearing my eardrums.
Customers crush my toes.
Sometimes I think
I've found my hero,
but it's a queer romance.
All that you need is a ticket
Come on, big boy, ten cents a dance.

Fighters and sailors and bowlegged tailors
can pay for their ticket and rent me!
Butchers and barbers and rats from the harbors
are sweethearts my good luck has sent me.
Though I've a chorus of elderly beaux,
stockings are porous with holes in the toes.
I'm here till closing time.
Dance and be merry, it's only a dime.

Sometimes I think
I've found my hero,
but it's a queer romance.
All that you need is a ticket
Come on, big boy, ten cents a dance.

New York Fashion Week, Spring 2010 Collections: Big Kids

Marc Jacobs—For a couple of seasons now, I've found his work (here and in Paris) murky. The ruffles. Those grotesque bags. That tawdry Aughts-cum-30's (or 40's or 50's) satin underwear. The sheer and ill-fitting gowns and belted coats (not so much "belted coats" as coats and belts). I don't hate this list of elements. I've sported and celebrated each of them. But, though I almost never say this, a girl would be a fool to shop these looks anywhere but in a thrift shop or a Mama's closet.

Donna Karan—I had to glance over the collection a couple of times to stop decrying the hats. They began to recede, and I felt as if these were clothes that I had made (but for their delicacy and precision). I mean, they look like the product of some extraordinary home experiment in drapery. It is as if the models wrapped themselves with the finest fabrics, trimmed, sculpted, fastened with a sash. It's ancient! I love this lady.

Carolina Herrera and J. Mendel—My second and third favorite of this sort of fussy luxe (Oscar being the clear first). Herrera is doing print and sheen in a way that I am v. ready for. The critic who invokes a tired, "Uptown-Downtown" reading does her a great disservice. The gestalt of J. Mendel is a little too tasteful (without ease), for me, but the coats, set apart, are PERFECT.

Thakoon—Whatever.....is that mean? Maybe I'm just tired.

Baby Baby Baby Baby

Congratulations are in order! Weezy and, personal (life)style icon, Lauren London delivered their healthy baby bhoy in Atlanta this morning. And what's more, they gave him a hot (sorta Jewy) name!

Over the weekend I watched The new Lil Wayne Behind the Music on VH1 (they don't cover enough rappers). Do take a look if you have an hour to spare. I plan on rewatching it. Multiple times.

I've become a great fan of his ex-wife Toya's, via her BRILLIANT B.E.T. reality collaboration with T.I.'s main lady, Tameka "Tiny" Cottle. And, as I've stated, A&P loves Lauren too. Next (in a couple of months), Millennial hot girl, Nivea, will give birth to Mr. Carter's fourth heir (there is another son, born between Toya and Lauren's girl and boy, whose mother remains unnamed).....um....remember Nivea's masterful 2003 joint effort with Roberto K.?--

THIS IS YOUR RECEIPT AND IS NOT A TICKET FOR TRAVEL

News of the Monday

Bill and Barack had a late lunch at Il Mulino today. A bit of news that is glamorous and happy. But I hate how the Obamas have eating disorders (at least Bill's still an aesthete...).

Don't Let Me Hear You Say Life's Taking You Nowhere

'Cause the VMAs are stupid anyway. Bey was absolutely robbed. And Kanye was just doing what he always does, which is rip off people that are way cooler than him.



Also, Kanye wins because he got to go home with the best trophy of all. I can't find a picture of Amber Rose's outfit that isn't going to take up the whole blog, but can we talk about it? Where does she shop? I want to go to there.

New York Fashion Week, Spring 2010 Collections: A Backward Glance

Despite my high hopes, for the most part, this weekend's shows have read...Angelino. Of course, many BIG HOUSES won't be trotting out garments until weekdays, which accounts for (some of) the lack of lustre. But, really, there's a whole lot of designer-stylists making down(ish)-market luxe right now—the sort of clothes that belong on racks, in closets, in the mix, but not whole, total, look-to-look-to-look on a runway (not enough theater or architecture or MONEY, by miles).

Last month, on a lunch mission to buy this incredibly smart, wool double-breasted jacket, I came across two Alexander Wang satchels, one in slashed-up, buttery, dull, black leather, the other with a sort of pewter lamé treatment. They're $900 each; so, for me, no dice. But I was quite impressed. They were useful and beautiful. They had a nice weight, felt tremendous on the shoulder. They were cool and urbane and unfussy, real New York items, American Sportswear sans the Prep. However, I found myself "not getting" his Saturday showing. "Not getting" is a thing I don't think I do much. I'm no genius, mind you. I just am never that preoccupied with "getting," compartmentalizing, encompassing. I'm quite comfortable with loose and dead ends, with disconnection and collage. But here, though the "vintage football" theme is clever, the clothes just do not make any damn sense to me. The items look stiff, awkward, tailored against (not for) the body, not so much to invoke art or gender politics, as to appear modish-via-inelegance, the dullest and tiredest of hipster tropes.

The other most-buzzed as of Sunday A.M.: Ohne Titel. I have an even harder time with this stuff. Again, I dig the stated origin point of the collection, mummies. But the clothes cloy. They are of the "body-con" school, which I find severe and socially irresponsible and DONE. And--speaking of "DONE"--this haute, 80s-tinged tech-sportsgear feels very, very Balenciaga to me. These garments are over-designed, lacking permanence and...relevance?

These two, and a few not-so-worth-mentioning others, didn't take me anywhere but down the block (to some godforsakenvelvetropedbottleservicelounge).