#taylor swift is like the final boss of white women are you kidding me

[ifuckinglovestvincent]

Switching Lanes With St. Vincent

By Molly Young

January 22, 2019

Jacket (men’s), $4,900, pants (men’s), $2,300, by Dior / Men shoes, by Christian Louboutin / Rings (throughout) by Cartier

On a cold recent night in Brooklyn, St. Vincent appeared onstage in a Saint Laurent smoking jacket to much clapping and hooting, gave the crowd a deadpan look, and said, “Without being reductive, I'd like to say that we haven't actually done anything yet.” Pause. “So let's do something.”

She launched into a cover of Lou Reed's “Perfect Day”: an arty torch-song version that made you really wonder whom she was thinking about when she sang it. This was the elusive chanteuse version of St. Vincent, at least 80 percent leg, with slicked-back hair and pale, pale skin. She belted, sipped from a tumbler of tequila (“Oh, Christ on a cracker, that's strong”), executed little feints and pounces, flung the mic cord away from herself like a filthy sock, and spat on the stage a bunch of times. Nine parts Judy Garland, one part GG Allin.

If the Garland-Allin combination suggests that St. Vincent is an acquired taste, she's one that has been acquired by a wide range of fans. The crowd in Brooklyn included young women with Haircuts in pastel fur and guys with beards of widely varying intentionality. There was a woman of at least 90 years and a Hasidic guy in a tall hat, which was too bad for whoever sat behind him. There were models, full nuclear families, and even a solitary frat bro. St. Vincent brings people together.

If you chart the career of Annie Clark, which is St. Vincent's civilian name, you will see what start-up founders and venture capitalists call “hockey-stick growth.” That is, a line that moves steadily in a northeast direction until it hits an “inflection point” and shoots steeply upward. It's called hockey-stick growth because…it looks like a hockey stick.

Dress, by Balmain

The toe of the stick starts with Marry Me, Clark's debut solo album, which came out a decade ago and established a few things that would become essential St. Vincent traits: her ability to play a zillion instruments (she's credited on the album with everything from dulcimer to vibraphone), her highbrow streak (Shakespeare citations), her goofy streak (“Marry me!” is an Arrested Development bit), and her oceanic library of musical references (Kate Bush, Steve Reich, uh…D'Angelo!). The blade of the stick is her next four albums, one of them a collaboration with David Byrne, all of them confirming her presence as an enigma of indie pop and a guitar genius. The stick of the stick took a non-musical detour in 2016, when Clark was photographed canoodling with (now ex-) girlfriend Cara Delevingne at Taylor Swift's mansion, followed a few months later by pictures of Clark holding hands with Kristen Stewart. That brought her to the realm of mainstream paparazzi-pictures-in-the-Daily-Mail celebrity. Finally, the top of the stick is Masseduction, the 2017 album she co-produced with Jack Antonoff, which revealed St. Vincent to be not only experimental and beguiling but capable of turning out incorrigible bangers.

Masseduction made the case that Clark could be as much a pop star as someone like Sia or Nicki Minaj—a performer whose idiosyncrasies didn't have to be tamped down for mainstream success but could actually be amplified. The artist Bruce Nauman once said he made work that was like “going up the stairs in the dark and either having an extra stair that you didn't expect or not having one that you thought was going to be there.” The idea applies to Masseduction: Into the familiar form of a pop song Clark introduces surprising missteps, unexpected additions and subtractions. The album reached No. 10 on the Billboard 200. The David Bowie comparisons got louder.

This past fall, she released MassEducation (not quite the same title; note the addition of the letter a), which turned a dozen of the tracks into stripped-down piano songs. Although technically off duty after being on tour for nearly all of 2018, Clark has been performing the reduced songs here and there in small venues with her collaborator, the composer and pianist Thomas Bartlett. Whereas the Masseduction tour involved a lot of latex, neon, choreographed sex-robot dance moves, and LED screens, these recent shows have been comparatively austere. When she performed in Brooklyn, the stage was empty, aside from a piano and a side table. There were blue lights, a little piped-in fog for atmosphere, and that was it. It looked like an early-'90s magazine ad for premium liquor: art-directed, yes, but not to the degree that it Pinterested itself.

Coat, (men’s) $8,475, by Versace / Shoes, by Christian Louboutin / Tights, by Wolford

The performance was similarly informal. Midway through one song, Clark forgot the lyrics and halted. “It takes a different energy to be performing [than] to sit in your sweatpants watching Babylon Berlin,” she said. “Wherever I am, I completely forget the past, and I'm like. ‘This is now.’ And sometimes this means forgetting song lyrics. So, if you will…tell me what the second fucking verse is.”

Clark has only a decade in the public eye behind her, but she's accomplished a good amount of shape-shifting. An openness to the full range of human expression, in fact, is kind of a requirement for being a St. Vincent fan. This is a person who has appeared in the front row at Chanel and also a person who played a gig dressed as a toilet, a person profiled in Vogue and on the cover of Guitar World.

The day before her Brooklyn show, I sat with Clark to find out what it's like to be utterly unstructured, time-wise, after a long stretch of knowing a year in advance that she had to be in, like, Denmark on July 4 and couldn't make plans with friends.

“I've been off tour now for three weeks,” she said. “When I say ‘off,’ I mean I didn't have to travel.”

This doesn't mean she hasn't traveled—she went to L.A. to get in the studio with Sleater-Kinney and also hopped down to Texas, where she grew up—just that she hasn't been contractually obligated to travel. What else did she do on her mini-vacation?

“I had the best weekend last weekend. I woke up and did hot Pilates, and then I got a bunch of new modular synths, and I set 'em up, and I spent ten hours with modular synths. Plugging things in. What happens when I do this? I'm unburdened by a full understanding of what's going on, so I'm very willing to experiment.”

Coat, by Boss

Jacket, and coat, by Boss / Necklace, by Cartier

Like a child?

“Exactly. Did you ever get those electronics kits as a kid for like 20 bucks from RadioShack? Where you connect this wire to that one and a light bulb turns on? It's very much like that.”

There's an element of chaos, she said, that makes synth noodling a neat way to stumble on melodies that she might not have consciously assembled. She played with the synths by herself all day. “I don't stop, necessarily,” she said, reflecting on what the idea of “vacation” means to someone for whom “job” and “things I love to do” happen to overlap more or less exactly. “I just get to do other things that are really fun. I'm in control of my time.” She had plans to see a show at the New Museum, read books, play music and see movies alone, always sitting on the aisle so she could make a quick escape if necessary. But she will probably keep working. St. Vincent doesn't have hobbies.

When it manifests in a person, this synergy between life and work is an almost physically perceptible quality, like having brown eyes or one leg or being beautiful. Like beauty, it's a result of luck, and a quality that can invoke total despair in people who aren't themselves allotted it. This isn't to say that Clark's career is a stroke of unearned fortune but that her skills and character and era and influences have collided into a perfect storm of realized talent. And to have talent and realize that talent and then be beloved by thousands for exactly the thing that is most special about you: Is there anything a person could possibly want more? Is this why Annie Clark glows? Or is it because she's super pale? Or was it because there was a sound coming through the window where we sat that sounded thrillingly familiar?

“Is Amy Sedaris running by?” Clark asked, her spine straightening. A man with a boom mic was visible on the sidewalk outside. Another guy in a baseball cap issued instructions to someone beyond the window. Someone said “Action!” and a figure in vampire makeup and a clown wig streaked across the sidewalk. Someone said “Cut!” and Clark zipped over for a look. It was, in fact, Amy Sedaris, her clown wig bobbing in the 44-degree breeze. The mic operator was gagging with laughter. It seemed like a good omen, this sighting, like the New York City version of Groundhog Day: If an Amy Sedaris streaks across your sight line in vampire makeup, spring will arrive early.

Blazer (men’s) $1,125, by Paul Smith

Another thing Clark does when off tour is absorb all the input that she misses when she's locked into performance mode. On a Monday afternoon, she met artist Lisa Yuskavage at an exhibition of her paintings at the David Zwirner gallery in Chelsea. Yuskavage was part of a mini-boom of figurative painting in the '90s, turning out portraits of Penthouse centerfolds and giant-jugged babes with Rembrandt-esque skill. It made sense that Clark wanted to meet her: Both women make art about the inner lives of female figures, both are sorcerers of technique, both are theatrical but introspective, both have incendiary style. The gallery was a white cube, skylit, with paintings around the perimeter. Yuskavage and Clark wandered through at a pace exclusive to walking tours of cultural spaces, which is to say a few steps every 10 to 15 seconds with pauses between for the proper amount of motionless appreciation.

The paintings were small, all about the size of a human head, and featured a lot of nipples, tufted pudenda, tan lines, majestic asses, and protruding tongues. “I like the idea of possessing something by painting it,” Yuskavage said. “That's the way I understand the world. Like a dog licking something.”

Clark looked at the works with the expression people make when they're meditating. She was wearing elfin boots, black pants, and a shirt with a print that I can only describe as “funky”—“funky” being an adjective that looks good on very few people, St. Vincent being one of them—and sipped from a cup of espresso furnished by a gallery minion. After she finished the drink, there was a moment when she looked blankly at the saucer, unsure what to do with it, and then stuck it in the breast pocket of her funky shirt for the rest of the tour.

A painting called Sweetpuss featured a bubble-butted blonde in beaded panties with nipples so upwardly erect they actually resembled little boners. Yuskavage based the underwear on a pair of real underwear that she'd constructed herself from colored balls and string. “I've got the beaded panties if you ever need 'em,” she said to Clark. “They might fit you. They're tiny.”

Earrings, by Erickson Beamon

“I'm picturing you going to the Garment District,” Clark said.

“There was a lot of going to the Garment District.”

As they completed their lap around the white cube, Clark interjected with questions—what year was this? were you considering getting into film? how long did these sittings take? what does “mise-en-scène” mean?—but mainly listened. And she is a good listener: an inquisitive head tilter, an encouraging nodder, a non-fidgeter, a maker of eye contact. She found analogues between painting and music. When Yuskavage mourned the death of lead white paint (due to its poisonous qualities, although, as the artist pointed out, “It's not that big a deal to not get lead poisoning; just don't eat the paint”), Clark compared it to recording's transition from tape to digital.

“Back in the day, if you wanted to hear something really reverberant”—she clapped; it reverberated—“you'd have to be in a room like this and record it, or make a reverb chamber,” Clark said. “Now we have digital plug-ins where you can say, ‘Oh, I want the acoustic resonance of the Sistine Chapel.’ Great. Somebody's gone and sampled that and created an algorithm that sounds like you're in the Sistine Chapel.”

Lately, she said, she's been way more into devices that betray their imperfections. That are slightly out of tune, or capable of messing up, or less forgiving of human intervention. “Air moving through a room,” Clark said. “That's what's interesting to me.”

They kept pacing. The paintings on the wall evolved. Conversation turned to what happens when you grow as an artist and people respond by flipping out.

“I always find it interesting when someone wants you to go back to ‘when you were good,’ ” Yuskavage said. “This is why we liked you.”

“I can't think of anybody where I go, ‘What's great about that artist is their consistency, ” Clark said. “Anything that stays the same for too long dies. It fails to capture people's imagination.”

Coat (mens), $1,150, by Acne Studios

They were identifying a problem with fans, of course, not with themselves. It was an implicit identification, because performers aren't permitted to critique their audiences, and it was definitely the artistic equivalent of a First World problem—an issue that arises only when you're so resplendent with talent that you not only nail something enough to attract adoration but nail it hard enough to get personally bored and move on—but it was still valid. They were talking about the kind of fan who clings to a specific tree when he or she could be roaming through a whole forest. In St. Vincent's case, a forest of prog-rock thickets and jazzy roots and orchestral brambles and mournful-ballad underlayers, all of it sprouting and molting under a prodigious pop canopy. They were talking about the strange phenomenon of people getting mad at you for surprising them. Even if the surprise is great.

Molly Young is a writer living in New York City. She wrote about Donatella Versace in the April 2018 issue of GQ.

A version of this story originally appeared in the February 2019 issue with the title "Switching Lanes With St. Vincent."

[fakesam]

Belated Black Panther Thoughts

Everything happening regarding Black Panther right now feels like a miracle. You can only congratulate a giant, increasingly powerful conglomerate so much for realizing black money runs the same as white money, but it is still a moment to be celebrated. Seeing a movie this proudly black in the limelight, with such a large budget and plenty of promotional backing, is delightfully paradoxical given the toxic whiteness infecting the national atmosphere from the top down. This movie dropped at the right time. The biggest individual piece of promo comes courtesy of Black Panther: The Album, curated by Kendrick Lamar and the rest of the Top Dawg Entertainment braintrust. Licensed movie soundtracks have experienced something like renaissance over the last couple years, a business maneuver congealing the interests of film studios looking for anything to boost social media traffic and musicians to get some extra exposure and a decent payday. The results of these partnerships has been mixed at best, even when the Best Rapper Alive is involved. Remember when Kendrick rapped over an overly macho remix of Tame Impala’s “Feels Like We Only Go Backwards”? Most people don’t.

Even with this project, it was easy to develop some cynicism about the final results. Kendrick has become more and more intransigent about being the voice of the voiceless, but he’s hasn't been above easy mainstream pop dollars in the past. Man gave verses to Taylor Swift and Maroon 5, and performed with Imagine Dragons. “All The Stars”, the most successful single off The Album, is a pleasant enough pop-rap hit that struts perfectly over the end credits of a blockbuster, but it lacks the depth of feeling that has made Lamar the current Poet Laureate of Black America. There’s also “Pray For Me”, a Weeknd and Kendrick collab that sounds like it was salvaged off the Starboy cutting room floor. These songs are fine, but eminently forgettable. Thankfully, these tracks are clear outliers, the lone examples of mainstream genuflecting across the entire project. The uniqueness and specificity that makes Black Panther so appealing as a film is also apparent in the sprawling sonic odyssey of its soundtrack. It’s better than anyone could've hoped for.

The playlist era of album design, gives credence to the worst impulses of people just trying to get paid, narrative coherence be damned. Migos’ Culture II was ruined by an engorged tracklist that led to a runtime comparable to most of the nominees for Best Picture at the Oscars. Twenty-four songs was at least ten too many, but who needs an editor when the penalty for choosing quantity over quality is so minimal? But it’s the perfect format for a movie soundtrack.

Kendrick’s ability as a tastemaker has never really been a thing to consider until now. His albums are hermetically-sealed portraits of his psyche, exploring his personal tensions and how they’re informed by his personal history and the lineage of black strife in America. This intricate exploration of his inner self doesn’t leave much room for other voices - the featured artists welcomed into his world are brought in for a very specific purpose. Kendrick is also very selective about the songs of other artists he’s willing to jump on. Combine that with his social media reticence, and the lists of contemporaries that Kendrick listens to are tantalizingly vague. There’s an undeniable intrigue to learning who a near-consensus superstar genius deems worthy of the aux cord. Consciously leeching on to the burgeoning movements of younger rappers is a tactic that Drake has perfected over the years. The two current titans of hip-hop have been acting out a musical cold war for the last couple years, so it’s tempting in a sense to think of Black Panther: The Album as Kendrick running with Drake’s idea of a “playlist project” that he tried to make happen with the release of More Life.

But it’s much more tempting to talk about the sumptuous quality of this music on hand. The litany of artists brought together to assemble this album, a mix of established stars, burgeoning upstarts and total unknowns, bring disparate genres and musical approaches to the table, all cohesively strung together under the diasporic flag of black excellence.

It’s obvious in hindsight to see why Kendrick was so attracted to the project that he asked to oversee the entire soundtrack after watching snippets of the film during its production. The divide between T’Challa and Killmonger’s views on progress mirrors the internal strife that has Kendrick has been ruminating on his entire career. TDE took their role as gatekeepers seriously, drawing delineations between the conflicts of the movie and the endless struggle that is sadly inherent with the black experience. Black Panther could never have the intimate complexity of a solo Kendrick record, but it details the black experience with more nuance than many albums told from one perspective. The strokes are broad, but the completed painting is still worthy of admiration.

Most of TDE shows up in some form. SZA provides the hook on the aforementioned “All the Stars”, Schoolboy Q reminds us of his undeniable charisma on “X”. Ab-Soul puts together his first good verse since his 2012 album Control System on “Bloody Waters”. We even get a glimpse of the lesser seen, frivolous Kendrick on “Big Shot”, a bouncy, “New Freezer” interpolating Travis Scott collab that doubles as the latest entry in the “Dope Rap Songs built around a Flute Sample” pantheon. from rap to pop to heavily indebted house music from South Africa. But it’s the newer faces that making their formal introduction to larger audiences that makes this album genuinely exciting. SOB x RBE have received most of the acclaim for their scene-stealing performance on “Paramedic”, and that praise is warranted, but they’re not the only up and comers who killed it. Jorja Smith makes a war march sound like heaven on “I Am”, and South African artists Yugen Blakrok and Babes Wodumo make their case for international renown on “Opps” and the South African house jam “Redemption”. Kendrick is present on every song - his contributions ranging from being the best rapper alive to windy background vocalist - but he’s very much a secondary figure in the works of others.

It’s bears repeating how remarkable it is that this thing has been allowed to exist. That Future inhales a bunch of helium, interpolates Slick Rick, and asks for a blowjob with one absurdly entertaining turn of phrase. Someone at Marvel signed off on all of this. We should all be thankful for that man or woman or committee of persons. What could’ve been a simple cash grab for TDE becomes something much more stirring and exciting thanks to a commitment to take the source material seriously enough to use it as a launching point for work that is both evocative and entertaining. A perfect table setter for the main event.

As I sat in the chair of the theater waiting for the movie to start, I was slightly nervous about the quality of the movie. The hype cycle had spun into overdrive had built the movie to stratospheric heights. Black Panther stopped being a movie and became a religious communion. That’s a lot to live up to. Aside from the inescapable expectations created by fans, Marvel’s cinematic spell lost their power over me years ago, as the negative aspects of the “Movies as TV episodes” system became more glaring. Nothing of consequence ever happened and the action scenes were overwrought and anticlimactic, antiseptic, CGI-soaked action that put me to sleep. The last comic book movie I enjoyed without much reservation was the first Guardians of the Galaxy, way back in 2014, 87 years ago. Even Wonder Woman, one of the rare superhero films allowed to take some risks - as much as giving women the chance to be all-powerful warriors without the prompting of a man counts as a risk to some people - lost me during the third act when Gal Gadot fought a Bloodborne boss yelling corny “Give In To Evil and Join Me!!!!!!!” dialogue in the middle of a flaming airfield. When comic book movies go extremely comic book-y, I lose all interest. My expectations were middling despite the widespread adoration of the movie that compelled me to go see it in the first place. Not quite as cynical as I tend to be, but not wearing a T’Challa costume to the theater.

By the time the entire elite class of Wakanda was shimmying from on high while T’Challa fought for the throne of this Afro-futurist utopia (the first time this happens), I realized how wrong my assumptions were. I didn’t realize how much I needed this movie to exist. Just witnessing this much blackness - a proud, intelligent, secure version of blackness - actively enriched me while I was watching it. The power of representation isn’t lost on me, but I believed I was past the point where I would experience such gratification from a giant blockbuster. I underestimated how affirming it would be to see this much black prosperity on film. It’s amazing how impactful the casting of black actors in roles usually given to white people can be. I’m jealous of little kids who can look up to Shuri or T’Challa or Nakia and feel a little less ashamed of themselves at a young age. M’Baku’s capacity to be large and menacing and also capable of telling jokes about cannibalism is magical. I would watch all of these characters do anything for hours. Instant icons, all of them.  

Black Panther also solves the eternal villain problem that’s been flummoxing superhero films since Heath Ledger died. Killmonger is incredible. He is still a villain, since his endgame of choice is to start a literal race war, but his motivations and reasoning up to that point are totally understandable. From an outsider’s perspective, Wakanda is this hovel of selfish conservatism that does nothing to stop systemic oppression and kills anyone who whispers about their existence too loudly. Sitting pretty in their Vibranium-powered towers above the struggle. It’d be easy to resent Wakanda if you’ve never seen Shuri pranking T’Challa in her lab. The most logical emotion for him is anger. He went out like a G, too. That last line was perfect. I would have liked to see more of a conversation between Killmonger and T’Challa before he took over, but you can only hope for so much civil rights philosophizing in a blockbuster. It was enough to feel like the obligatory third act battle was had actual stakes. Black Panther finally made the Game of Thrones fandom sensible to me. Political maneuvering can be way more engaging than I realized. Blame George Lucas for that train of thought.

I find it hard to think about this movie in any critical sense because I’m so happy that it was allowed to exist in this form. After sleeping on it, I will concede that the South Korea sequence didn’t need to be that long. The “Andy Serkis is a Soundcloud rapper” goof was an airball. But anyone who would rather complain about about the scene’s usefulness as a plot device more so than celebrate the badassery of Chadwick Boseman and Danai Gurira is not to be trusted. Same goes for the fact that this movie has a sense of humor that can’t be reduced to just Tony Stark saying something snarky or tryhard quirkiness, Guardians of the Galaxy 2 style. They really let Ryan Coogler do that shit. Black Panther is the first Marvel movie that was clearly in the hands of an auteur, with a vision uncompromised by studio notes or the compulsion to tie itself to the rest of Marvel Cinematic Universe. This movie never feigns interest in the machinations of the Avengers or whatever wold-destroying portal they need to destroy, and thank god for that. The narrowness of the story lends itself to much more in-depth character development and a sense of place. It rarely feels or looks like other Marvel movies. Wakanda is too good for reality, but the open designs of the shopping areas and the impeccable fashion of the citizens tied into the history of African culture in a way that's easy to intuit. Shoutout to the Codeine Crazy-esque skyline in T’Challa’s first herb-induced vision. Shoutout to the guy with the giant disc in his mouth. Man had fits for days.

Even my mom loved it. I saw the movie with her and Danai Gurira’s performance was so good that she thought about shaving her own head in her honor. She also said she wanted braids like Angela Bassett’s character, but quickly decided against it because of the time commitment to getting such a hairstyle. But getting that level of inspiration from a Marvel movie spells out how special Black Panther is. I rarely watch movies with her anymore. Our tastes have mostly split as I’ve grown up. I haven’t seen her that giddy walking out of the theater since… ever? Her love of the movie really made it clear how special this moment is for the culture. I kinda hate that I said for the culture, but I don’t know how to end this.  Many thanks to Ryan Coogler and company for giving me that moment. Uhhhhhhhhhh bye.