#a WHOLE ASS PRINCE WHO PLAYS SAXOPHONE (right?)

[scuopsie]

Prince Minhyuk Edward Lee Junior 😭❤️

#LOOK AT HIMMMMMMM #a WHOLE ASS PRINCE WHO PLAYS SAXOPHONE (right?) #monsta x #minhyuk

[illkickyourbass]

henlo. have an expanded Shining Quest AU.

to release some steam from my kettle of stress, have some noodling about a Shining Quest AU that’s less April Fool’s, more high-stakes high-fantasy, but still every bit as tropey, stuffed with otome trappings, and Yay Music as we’ve come to expect from Utapri 

As with the last venture into this AU: not explicitly romantic, non-gendered MC, SFW, and mild CW for arranged marriages. I don’t know HEAVENS (plus they didn’t get canon classes for Shining Quest), so we’ll just be covering STARISH and Quartet Night! 

It’s a fairly typical setup -- there’s a fantasy kingdom, there’s a useless king, there’s a princess (Haruka) known for her talent for music composition, there’s a court of nobles and royals, all that usual hey. Magic is cast by mastery of the arts, whether that be visual, performing, musical, written, you name it. 

There’s a looming threat of some sort of demon king or similar fantasy anime bullshit that the royals and nobles of the kingdom are tasked with keeping at bay. We’re also gonna shamelessly borrow a detail from the pinnacle of wasted potential, the movie Rock and Rule -- there’s a plot point about how a demon can only be forced back with “the magic of one voice, one heart, one song....but there is no one.” Here in this ‘verse, that’s a longstanding prophecy the status quo has taken to mean there’s no-one who’ll ever be able to defeat the demon king. 

The solution that’s been in place for as long as anyone can remember is a royal or noble family offers one of their heirs as a sacrifice to be married off and sate the demon king for that generation-- the “devil’s bride” or “devil’s groom” or “devil’s betrothed.” This goes pretty badly for the heirs, of course, but it offers great prestige to the house that does it. 

You, the player, would get to pick what RPG class you fill (which would affect some dialogue trees and the expertise you demonstrate) and what art you use to cast magic. You are a member of the royal guard tasked with Haruka’s protection, but you’ve stumbled into the knowledge before it goes public: she’s the next devil’s bride! You go to Tomochika, a hired hand to the royals who’s been dating Haru in secret, and you begin to hatch a plan to bust Haruka out of the arrangement. 

Your route’s then determined by which of the boys you seek out as your other co-conspirator. 

Otoya is a fellow member the Royal Guard on Haruka protection detail. He’s equally resented and well-liked for his dauntless optimism and natural talent with swordsmanship, but it’s no secret that he’s not someone you’ll be trusting for expert strategy. He’s had the chance to become friendly with Haruka, and he’s ready to fight tooth and nail for her freedom! He’s classed as a warrior, who casts light-element attacks and healing spells with his music. 

Masato was raised from birth to become an ideal Devil’s Groom, since the Hijirikawa nobles are falling out of favor in the courts (spurred in part from their takedown of the Kurosakis backfiring on them). But Masato has rejected that he (or Mai) will ever go along with that plan, instead intently training in swordsmanship and fusing music and fiber arts to make enchanted fabrics that work like armor. Quietly, he has kept a very ambitious goal in mind: outright defeat the demon king and end the legacy of the devil’s betrothed. 

Natsuki is a natural genius at using both his voice and viola to communicate with creatures and summoning the cutest ones to absolutely wreck house. Though a humble farmboy who’s kind of out-of-touch with the political goings-on of his land, his talent was too great to go unnoticed forever, and he was invited to live among the high court as an entertainer and summoner. He got to make so many new friends (like the princess and you!) and better provide for his family, so he’s thankful every day for the change, even if he misses his animal friends at home! 

Tokiya came from a humble family that wanted to lead a quiet life, but Tokiya himself had ambitions that far outpace that. Though not a natural talent, he put unimaginable sweat into a field that creates potent spells and tools by the power of song. Eventually becoming estranged from his whole family, Tokiya finds it all worthwhile after struggling his way into being hired by the royals. Much of the court thinks of him as a weird mad scientist who sings to his books, but he’s found fast friends he’d go to the ends of the earth for, like Masato, the princess, and you! 

Ren is the inverse of Masato in his circumstance. Like the Hijirikawa noble family, the Jinguujis helped orchestrate the fall of the Kurosaki nobles, but the blowback had them falling out of favor instead of rising in power. Ren was planned to be offered as a Devil’s Groom to restore some clout, but instead of being intently groomed, he was left to do whatever he wanted since he’s got such a foregone future. So Ren becomes a carefree playboy, eventually taking his talent for alchemy and becoming a for-hire adventurer to sate his boredom. He tells everyone his saxophone is his secret to brewing his one-of-a-kind love potions, but he’s actually devised some uniquely remarkable revival and buffing potions.

Syo comes from the same backwoods as Natsuki, but took less interest in working for the courts and instead trying to find a career emulating his childhood hero that kept his body’s limits in mind. But his twin left to pursue medical schooling, and eventually, between loneliness, worry, and the promise that the musical magic and medicine in the courts could help him safely push his limits, he follows Natsuki into the belly of the royals and nobles. His small stature and commitment to the movement arts made him a natural rogue, and he’s technically part of the Royal Guard’s special ops. But Syo’s brashness and burning spirit tends to best serve motivating the people around him -- what few spells he prefers to cast with his violin-playing are all buffs that lift the spirit and energize the body.  

Cecil came to this land on essentially a study abroad program and came to love the friends he made so much he stuck around! A wildly talented sorcerer able to cast even without playing his flute, Cecil is held in high esteem by the whole kingdom for the knowledge and skill he has to offer. Prone to disappearing, however, since a curse has him transforming into a cat as an occasional side effect of casting magic. He’s found this useful, though -- something injust he won’t stand for is afoot in this kingdom, and nobody suspects a little black cat of eavesdropping! 

Reiji is a court jester who loves, loves, loves nothing more than to make you smile! Much of the court takes his good cheer for granted, and even more underestimate his prowess in tough/delicate situations, but the most powerful folks know he’s just as sharp as he is goofy. When he’s not doing his job making people smile, he’s often helping or promoting his family’s pub or bugging his friends from outside the royal court. His flashy performances and maraca-shaking have been shaped into a great conduit for spells of transmutation, though he tends to use them to put on a great show more than beat ass.

Ranmaru is the eldest son of the disgraced Kurosaki nobles (whose power and legacy were ruined by the Jinguujis and Hijirikawas as per usual) but he decided to bear the brunt of the damage in wake of his father’s passing to spare the rest of his family. Shouldering massive debt, Ranmaru disappeared and re-emerged as the gambler prince of the underground, now incredibly powerful in his own right. Not-so-secretly a big softie, he’ll swindle and ruin the lives of those who take advantage of the helpless, even operating out of a pub owned by an old couple that needed some protecting from loan sharks. Ranmaru wears special runed gloves that store mana when he plays his bass, letting him cast a set number of fire evocation spells before his next recharge. 

Ai lives in woods on the outskirts of the city. Most regard him as a hermit, but a couple know that Ai is actually a homunculus that has been refining his understanding and performance of humanity and needs frequent breaks to “recharge.” Nominally a ranger, Ai’s skills lie in his powerful patience and observation moreso than his bow and arrow, though he and Reiji have an arrangement where he helps hunt and forage ingredients for the Kotobuki pub. Ai is beginning to grasp his own unique sense of humanity and is ready to take grander action to realize it. He fights with arrows of a special alloy that react to an instrument at home; they are tempered by the sound and blessed by the wind to never miss their target should the wielder be skilled enough. 

Camus is an assassin that lives in shadow. Nobody’s quite sure of his intentions or allegiances, but the few times someone does see him in the open, he’s as haughty and demanding as ever. Rumor has it that he lives in the royal castle -- certainly, their enormously increased sweets output would imply such, and it’s well-known in the castle that unexplained cello music is usually his doing -- but he’s such an evanescent and terrifying presence nobody’s quite sure (and is too scared to ask). His assassinations are almost impossible to track, as his blades of ice melt, disappear, and leave no trail to follow. 

Typical route stuff goes as you’d expect -- you progress the plot, you get closer to your chosen boy, some political intrigue things probably happen, some heart-racing events etc. etc., and before you know it the two of you are very close and realize that your arts cast wildly powerful magic when put together. Slowly, you gather more friends (a selection of the other boys + Haru and Tomo) and find that together, your work amplifies in power to unprecedented degrees. It’ll vary from route to route how you get there, but eventually, you all come to the same conclusion: it’s time to kick some demon king ass. And you do! 

The ends vary from angsty (like the player or the chosen boy is mortally wounded or dies) or fairytale fluffy (go off and spend a happy life together) or something more power fantasy-feeling (like you and chosen boy revolutionize the whole kingdom for the better in wake of the demon king’s defeat), etc. -- but no matter what you know that your art + your boy + the power of friendship kicked more ass than anything Shining Kingdom has ever seen! 

#shining quest au #shining quest #uta no prince sama #utapri #headcanons

[aion-rsa]

The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 7 Review: Three Dreams Denied

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This The Simpsons review contains spoilers.

The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 7

The Simpsons season 32, episode 7 carves the turkey a little thin for a pre-Thanksgiving offering. “Three Dreams Denied” has all the makings of a full and funny meal for the whole family. But a half hour later, you wish there was more stuffing. The ballooning game hunters even miss the flying turkey in the opening gag, which ends with the couch so exasperated she tells the family to sleep on the bed.

Comic Book Guy’s “Comicalusa” experience is a wild ride from the moment the patronizing pilot taunts his passengers with Superman sightings. The owner of Springfield’s only comic book store then sets about doing what he was born to do, paying the mockery forward on every aspect of the things he loves most. Who was the Joker, he asks, before dismissively concluding none of them.

If only someday people like him could make fun of people like him for working at a real comic book organization — not DC, but a real one — he would be transported to a superheroic fate. This week’s featured Springfield resident’s question, the best question ever asked at a comic book convention, is quite good — Superman-origin-story good: Are comic book mythologies the new religion, and if so, shouldn’t comic books be tax-free? He earns a celebratory pretzel for that.

Comic Book Guy’s dream costume should be standard issue at any convention, it allows him to alternate bites between a choice of beverages, fries, hot dogs, and tacos, which loom large in his legend. A Krustyburger 100-taco-for-$100-weekend is the stuff of Doctor Who marathons, and here he is riding escalators with the Who’s Who of Doctor Who. But Comic Book Guy’s real dream is to work at Marvel — to be plucked out of a crowd of complaining fanboys and lord over the fate of the Avengers.

“Comicalusa” is Burning Man for nerds, twice removed because Burning Man is also really just for nerds. Here he is with his idols, creative geniuses who have all blocked him on Twitter. And Comic Book Guy freezes up. It really is unlike him not to at least give an impromptu ultimate nerd variation. He had two steps to get it together when he stepped into third position. It feels, though it’s not said, like self-sabotage. It is sad that Comic Book Guy is ultimately saddled with the “worst question ever” title, but it is a worthy comeuppance for the man’s whole back-storied attitude.

This isn’t Comic Book Guy’s first humiliation at the hands of his, for lack of a better word, peers. He’s been outclassed by competitors, guest panelists, wise-ass kids and people he’s actually trained. He ultimately is redeemed by the only person who could never outclass him because he barely knows the meaning of class, or homework or the difference between arts ‘n crafts glue and oatmeal.

Ralph Wiggum, coming off a loss for first triangle to an empty chair, is like a sticky-fingered Baby Yoda, offering inscrutable answers to Comic Book Guy’s universe. It is really a very subversively touching scene because what Ralph brings back up in Comic Book Guy is the bile which he malevolently bestows on kids just like Ralph on tap.

Lisa’s crush is presented quite musically. She gushes in the key of Eeee. But the fight for first chair is best played in a minor key, regardless of the seemingly meat-free-sweetness of her blue-eyed boy. But Blake’s (Ben Platt) adorable blue contact lenses are as fake as the vegan BLT he was bragging about.

For a final insult, his four-note honk in competition for the first chair saxophone part is a deliberately humiliating bad run which is only marginally better than Lisa’s. We don’t actually even know if he can play. He seems like he might be such an evil little boy that he will continue to throw hot dog water on anyone who dares to out-reed him, whether he can play or not. Lisa, whose love of the music can inspire mall stores to close for jazz appreciation, is addicted to playing for free.

Surprisingly this subplot has the most satisfying payoff, even though it’s the only one Lisa estimates cannot be fixed. The song that plays during the closing coda is an inspired variation on the song “Anything You Can Do (I Can Do Better)” from Annie Get Your Gun. It says so much more and ends with a big whoop. It is a highlight.

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We all know how much trouble the voice actors have been to the networks when it comes to The Simpsons, and the writers have some fun with it through Bart’s introduction to the game. “Who knew it was so easy to become a working actor?” the young vocalist says admiringly as he rakes in more money in one day than Homer does in a year. This isn’t the first time the boy has out-earned his father; it happens at least once a season.

While Comic Book Guy is away at the convention, he leaves the store in the hands of a veteran voice actor. The guy’s got a great repertoire from Christopher Lloyd in Back to the Future to Scratchy from the “Itchy and Scratchy” cartoons. When he seals the deal with a classic, the rules of Cider House, Bart is floored enough to admit if he knew what that was he’d be even more impressed.

This is such a perfectly Bart line that it cements the character and leads to the chance to mock the network’s treatment of The Simpsons. Homer doesn’t believe a check from Warner Bros. Animation is any good. Bart is still getting his head around how any show which takes longer than a day to do a cartoon is trying to milk their studio dry.

Bart’s gender neutrality could have been mined for more comic possibilities. The mini-arc of him getting beaten up for playing a girl to proving how rad it is to be a unicorn-riding action figure who kills every adult on his show hits all the proper notes, but will it get him on a float on Pride Day? His accent is inconsistent, and his hetero normative tendencies freak out the bullies.

Fight as they often do, Lisa and Bart share some of the warmest moments of the series. Whether hugging as co-losers in hockey games or gaping in awe as Homer gets something right, they work best as a unit. When Lisa tells Bart he’s brave and should be proud of what he’s doing, it registers, but it feels more like he appreciated the dangerous aspects of playing a badass Queen.

The episode has its share of quick sight gags. It opens with Bart stuffing a chocolate bar into the cryogenic-plastic covering of a priceless comic. Martin Prince can be found shoved in the Springfield Elementary trophy case towards the beginning, and again hanging on a clothesline. When Comic Book Guy sees the opportunity to snatch and sell the rare, unopened, Radioactive Man toy he covers up his shrieks of pleasure by chortling into unsold Hulk hands. Good thing his girlfriend isn’t there to see that. The music teacher has to drown out the discordant cacophony of his band with noise canceling headphones and fistfuls of CBD gummies. The bum-not bug zapper is also an inspired visual.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

The Simpsons are always self-referential, but it gets very subliminal in “Three Dreams Denied.” Yeardley Smith, who voices Lisa, made a guest appearance on last week’s episode, “Podcast News.” She was very adamant about not mentioning the voice she’s most known for. This week, Bart is playing a voiceover actor. I’m sure Professor Frink could come up with some reason this somehow flays the laws of animation physics. This is probably why the episode falls short. No one episode of The Simpsons can handle the voiceover click-track continuum, smooth jazz and the ultimate question to ask at Comicalusa. It’s just too much.

In the past, The Simpsons could have borne the extra weight. They’ve always had cross plots, subplots and occasional mini-arcs which play out under the radar. Each of the three stories are strong, funny and have the pathos or peril needed to make them great. In that sense, “Three Dreams Denied” is very much operating in The Simpsons early mode. While the journey flies by without too many bumps, the episode lives up to its title.

The post The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 7 Review: Three Dreams Denied appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

[ifuckinglovestvincent]

St. Vincent Is Telling You Everything

“I told you more than I would tell my own mother.”

September 10, 2017, 10:34 a.m. By Laura Snapes | BuzzFeed Contributor Reporting From New York, New York Annie Clark was reconfiguring some older material for her upcoming tour when she realized how alien it felt to play it. She could adapt the arrangements to her harsher new sound — the sleazy, acid aesthetic of Masseduction, her upcoming fifth solo record as St. Vincent — but the writing’s proggy complexity was cockblocking the emotion. “In so many ways, I thought I was being completely transparent and brave in every record, only to realize that they are very oblique,” Clark told BuzzFeed News. She cackled and looked delighted. “Who knew! I had no idea.” Clark is much too self-aware for this to be completely true. But the difference between her polite, guarded Texan past and confrontational present is colossal. When I first interviewed Clark in 2009, she nervously pressed her pendant against her lips and face, leaving a red lipstick pox on her insane cheekbones. By 2014’s St. Vincent, Clark’s public persona would be imperious. But these days, she’s a playful freak who revels in showing the tightness of her grip, a disposition aided by long, straight eyebrows that dance like Memphis squiggles. In late July, she appeared in the lobby of New York City’s Marlton Hotel, her temporary home during the making of Masseduction. She had come from pilates — which she likes because it makes her sing better and “come a lot harder” — and disappeared to change out of her leopard-print gym shorts. When I mentioned a recent paparazzi photo of her looking like a sexy detective in another skintight leopard-patterned getup, she asked twice, with predatory delight, whether I’d looked at her camel toe. (No! Okay, maybe!) The only time her control slipped was when the hotel’s stereo started playing “Who,” a knotty song from the album she made with David Byrne, and she shriveled like a salted snail at hearing her own voice. Self-possession like hers is often interpreted as pretentious, or pathological. But over time, the confidence that the younger, anxious Clark had to fake has become bracingly real. You can hear it in Masseduction, a record of pop fluidity and queer possibility. It’s the best thing she’s ever done, and there are no bad St. Vincent records. It’s partly harsh, heady, erotic synth-pop visions steered by her diamond-sharp guitar, and while Clark has written plenty of ballads, there have never been any as brutal and gorgeous as these. Its lurch between apocalypse and ecstasy mirrors how it felt to be kicked in the head by the past couple years. In a way, Clark was right about the obscurity of her past work, filled with archetypes and distanced observations — emotions through a stained-glass window. If not a clear pane, then Masseduction is at least a peep show on heartache, fucking, addiction, destitution, and suicide. And her relatively new life as a very public figure, thanks to relationships with Cara Delevingne and Kristen Stewart, gives it an extra frisson. Tabloids will rush to find the former, the famed British supermodel, on an album littered with wasted bodies, especially on “Young Lover,” where Clark finds someone overdosed in the bathtub. She recounts the night with terror but also arrestingly ugly indignation. “Oh, so what / Your mother did a number / So I get gloves of rubber / To clean up the spill,” she sneers. “Scenario has to rhyme, babe,” is all Clark said about its veracity. She was bemused at being asked to explain the lyrics. To her, this record is butt-naked. “I told you everything,” she stressed. “I told you more than I would tell my own mother. It’s right there.”

Annie Clark Nedda Afsari Masseduction started out with three tenets: It would feature programmed beats and pedal steel guitar, and examine power and seduction. “What does power look like, who wields it, how do they wield it — emotionally, sexually, financially?” Clark ticked off her fingers. The album was properly born over a creative first-date dinner with Jack Antonoff, the Bleachers frontman who also recently produced and wrote with Lorde and Taylor Swift. Clark was looking for a teammate; they told each other everything that was going wrong in their lives and decided that total oblivion was the only way out of their heads. “It wasn’t, ‘Hey, let’s make a record together, that’ll be fun,’” Antonoff told me. “It was, ‘Let’s absolutely go all the way and find the absolute best thing that exists here,’ which is really the only way to work on things.” That grit is Clark’s MO. Until recently, she claimed to have taken approximately 36 hours off in between returning from touring 2011’s Strange Mercy and starting work on 2014’s St. Vincent. The concerts for the latter were bonkers, starting the run as avant-garde, meticulously choreographed deconstructions of a traditional rock show, and ending it with exorcisms that entailed Clark crumpling down a 10-foot pink plywood pyramid like a drunken horse. She often stole objects from the crowd: a pair of crutches, someone’s dinner. The spectacle of her murdering the thing she’d trained for was addictive.

St. Vincent during the 2015 Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival. Frazer Harrison / Getty Images “Touring became a blood sport for me. I mean, I was born with a whip anyway, and touring became this self-flagellating exercise,” she said, clenching her jaw and lashing each shoulder with an imaginary strap. “And I was seeking that kind of physical exhaustion; I was seeking the pain.” She doesn’t know why, and she’s okay not knowing why, though eventually she did accept that her relationship to touring was a form of delirium. On the new album’s “Sugarboy,” a dystopian, post-Moroder disco banger, she describes herself as a “casualty hanging on from the balcony.” (She literally climbed rafters in some theaters, kicking away security guards.) This hysteria is one of the reasons she considers Masseduction her saddest record. “I lost my mind, I lost people, I gained people, I stopped touring,” Clark said of that period between 2014 and 2017. “It was just a lot of a lot, you know.” After the St. Vincent tour dates ended, Clark had to learn to construct and value life away from the road — she had been on tour since age 16, when she worked as an assistant for her aunt and uncle’s jazz group. “And I still love that,” she said of touring, “but it’s more like a component of my life now rather than…my life.” Back home she indulged in a “period of bacchanalia,” and briefly got into self-medicating, an experience she turned into the lunatic track “Pills”: Imagine the Stepford Wives lost in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory (Kamasi Washington guests on saxophone; Delevingne sings on the chorus). She’s transfixed by the forces that can swallow us — “You know, drugs, sex, and rock ‘n’ roll,” she winked. “So corny. Kill me! Kill me dead!” Though sometimes she uses those themes to dress up more mundane relationship dynamics. “Savior” explores the unhealthiness of mutual projection through a funny S&M parable involving nurses and nuns and our tediously prosaic concepts of kink: “You put me in a teacher’s little denim skirt,” Clark moans on the song. “Ruler and desk so I can make it hurt / But I keep you on your best behavior / Honey, I can’t be your savior.” The album’s self-destructive dynamic comes out on the title track — “I can’t turn off what turns me on,” she wails over twisted guitar — and her protagonists never stop annihilating each other for their own benefit, whether for carnal kicks, or for the mothers who “milk their young” in the song “Los Ageless.”

The album cover for Masseduction. Loma Vista Recordings And then there’s the heartbreaking “Happy Birthday Johnny,” which sounds like a snowflake but crushes like an anvil. It calls back to the title track of her 2007 debut Marry Me, about “John” who’s “a rock with a heart like a socket I can plug into at will”; and to “Prince Johnny,” the decadent downtown royal from St. Vincent. She said she feels compassion and hopelessness for his self-destruction, but can’t judge because she’s just like him. Maybe he’s also a cipher for the way humans use each other — Clark flatly refused to talk about him. “One thing I have learned in six records and 10 years is that I’m not obliged to answer any questions — a lesson I more or less only recently learned.” She stared into the bar, fixing a grim expression through her orange aviators. “Next question.” At any rate, the song is a whole story. Once conspirators, her and Johnny’s literal fire-starting days are behind them, and now he lives on the street, calling up Clark at New Year’s for “dough to get something to eat.” She demurs, and he calls her a queenly miser who’s sold out for fame. “But if they only knew the real version of me / Only you know the secrets, the swamp, and the fear,” she pleads. It is deeply tragic, being shamed — perhaps rightly — by the person who once understood your shame. Antonoff theorized that she’s mourning a past on the record. On the forthcoming Fear the Future Tour (named after a new song, and to resemble a Jenny Holzer maxim), Clark said she probably won’t be flinging herself around stages as much because “I think I’m emotionally throwing myself around a lot more.”

A still from St. Vincent’s “New York” music video. Alex Da Carte In late July, Tiffany & Co. announced Clark as one of the faces of its fall advertising campaign. Diamonds and waspy Americana are a weirdly prim contrast to the freaky propaganda aesthetic that Clark is calling “manic panic” — the Masseduction album cover is a photo of a nice ass in a leopard-print thong bodysuit. But like any savvy propagandist, Clark’s image will be everywhere this year. Having directed a short film, The Birthday Party, as part of the horror anthology XX, she’s now due to direct a feature-length, female-led adaptation of The Picture of Dorian Gray. (“The most rich text I have ever read: transgression, modernity, society, repressed queerness.”) There’s also a multimedia performance as part of October’s Red Bull Music Academy in Los Angeles, and an upcoming art exhibition in New York. A coffee table book. Essays. (She calls art “a fountain of youth” that’s given her everything and everyone in her life, hence her urge to make everything.) And that’s just the exposure she has control over. Celebrities like to pretend that their success is the result of some cosmic fluke, but Clark has said quite openly that the best part of becoming more famous thanks to her love life is “just getting the opportunity to do more work in different fields,” which nobody ever admits! (Though her 2015 Grammy for Best Alternative Album and overwhelming critical acclaim probably helped, too.)

St. Vincent, Zoe Kravitz, and Zosia Mamet at the Tiffany & Co.-presented Whitney Biennial VIP Opening in March 2017 in New York. Mike Coppola / Getty Images One of Clark’s best-known songs, 2014’s “Digital Witness,” is about social media voyeurism. “I wonder if, in the future, privacy will be something that only the 1 percent can afford,” she told Rolling Stone that year, which now seems beautifully naive. From the second she and Delevingne were spotted together at the 2015 BRIT Awards, the UK’s pervy yet ever-scandalized tabloid media went nuts that their hottest young model was dating a woman, and pursued them so staunchly that the couple once took revenge by firing water pistols at the paparazzi. “She really is so famous!” Clark said of Delevingne, feigning hammy disbelief at the attention they received. “That shouldn’t have been shocking to me, but it was shocking to me in the sense that she’s such a sweet, really, deeply kind, unspoiled person. She has more compassion in her little finger than—” She waved her hand around her torso with a grim laugh. (The pair reportedly split last fall, but Clark would only say they were “never not close.”) Clark’s self-assurance helped her to perceive the tabloid aggression and celebrity weirdness as baffling rather than distorting. She was too classy to run with my suggestion that attending that Taylor Swift 4th of July party must’ve been an interesting anthropological study. “That was, I think, in the midst of a game of Celebrity,” she said of a photo of her wearing the same stars ’n’ stripes onesie as Gigi Hadid, Karlie Kloss, and Ruby Rose. She took a long pause. “I was very bad at it!”

From left: Cara Delevingne and Annie Clark Schiller Graphics But she was disturbed by dangerous high-speed car chases from paparazzi in pursuit of photos of the couple; she thinks the gossip industrial complex relates to a wider societal disparity. “The biggest problem was that the value system of it is all based on aspiration,” she said with genuine concern. “It’s wealth aspiration, fame aspiration. But if the government, if the world was just generally a more compassionate, empathetic place, people wouldn’t be aspiring to…that. They would be more fulfilled with their own lives if the wealth gap in general wasn’t so insane.” Admittedly, it was hard not to want to look at them, in matching sharp suits and laser-cut Burberry, queering the archetype of the male rock star dating the young supermodel, watching the context around an established artist mutate in front of you. There is the kind of halfway-benign personal invasion where paparazzi follow you and your girlfriend around an airport. But then there is the kind where the never-not-creepy Daily Mail doorsteps your older sister at home in Texas and calls up your well-meaning uncle to sandbag him into revealing that your father went to prison in 2010 for participating in multimillion-dollar stock fraud. Although it is grotesque to treat the paper’s muckraking as a puzzle piece, it did illuminate part of the story behind Strange Mercy, which Clark had — understandably — only ever vaguely attributed to an overwhelming period of loss. “Suitcase of cash in the back of my stick shift,” she sang on “Year of the Tiger.” “I had to be the best of the bourgeoisie / Now my kingdom for a cup of coffee.” (She cowrote the song with her mother, Sharon, who split from Clark’s father when she was three.) “Everybody has their personal tragedies and their crosses to bear,” Clark said in a clipped tone. She calls her father’s 12-year prison sentence “a horrible tragedy. On so many different levels. So absolutely heartbreaking.” She — an adult — could handle it. But her younger half- and stepsiblings on her father’s side are still teenagers. “And I specifically would never talk about that or have ever mentioned that in a myriad of questions about Strange Mercy because it seems like an incredible betrayal of my family. But most specifically, my youngest siblings who are innocent children. They were kiddos.” She described the Daily Mail story as “faux concern,” and reiterated that the paper couldn’t find any dirt on her, no matter how outrageously they tried. “I’m not ashamed of my family,” she said. Then I asked her whether her father going to prison had spun her own moral compass, or made her reconsider any values of right and wrong that he may have instilled in her. She was momentarily confused, and then let rip a massive, absurd, demonstrative laugh. She kept going. “I love my father,” she said eventually, still tickled. “I love my father very much, as any child loves their parent. He’s very intelligent and erudite and a good writer and incredibly well read, and those are all things that I value and I’m glad that he instilled in me.” She paused, and kept on laughing. In the run-up to announcing Masseduction, Clark was Instagramming absurdist junket-styled videos, in which she wears a hot pink skirt and a transparent rubber top the color of ash, and takes questions from an off-screen interviewer. Her answers were scripted by the musician and comedian Carrie Brownstein, who is also her ex-girlfriend. One video poses the question of whether Annie Clark and St. Vincent are the same person. She pauses to consider. “Honestly, you’d have to ask her.” What’s it like being a woman in music? “Good question,” she muses, as the camera zooms to her black and yellow fingernails, which spell out “FUCK OFFF.” These films might factor into her upcoming tour, but the answers were also written for journalists. Earlier in July, in London, Clark found alternative ways to conduct interviews for hours at a time. She invited some female journalists to get massages with her (too weird with men, even though she was face-down on the table the whole time, avoiding eye contact). Other writers were invited into a 10-by-10-foot pink wooden box that was constructed in a North London studio especially for the occasion. Her interrogators had to duck through a low door to enter the blacklit space. “Not full-on crawl, because that’s a little heavy-handed,” she clarified. Inside, she looped a pedal steel recording and lit a Diptyque candle that struggled to mask the paint fumes.

St. Vincent / Via Instagram If anyone asked her an obvious question — like where the name St. Vincent came from — she planned to play prerecorded answers and “check my email, or stretch, or zone out for a second,” she said, sounding almost disappointed that she didn’t get a chance to enact her schemes. She insisted she wasn’t being antagonistic. But sitting opposite Annie Clark for two hours is often intimidating enough without the added fear that she’s about to make fun of you to your face: It is a gigantic power play! “Oh, deeply so,” she said, affecting a wryly elegant tone. “But then also not at all because I was the insane person stuck in a box for eight hours!” If critics and fans are bored of this sort of thing — see Arcade Fire’s recent album campaign — they are clearly not as tired as the artists who have to smile politely at writers who don’t know how to use Google. Plus, Arcade Fire’s hijinks felt cynical; Clark’s feels like a rejection of the idea that women artists are meant to be relatable, having endured a career’s worth of inane juxtapositions between her pretty face and gnarly shredding like it means anything. The point, she said, was that putting ourselves in a totally different, slightly strange context can produce interesting results. (She and I were meant to do Pilates together — before an oversold class spared me the indignity.) Why not make everything thoughtful and curated? If the stakes are already high, why not aim even higher and put yourself in extreme circumstances to see what happens? If Clark has done two things for the cerebral indie-rock world that she’s long outstripped, it’s teach about sex (thank god), and expose its low-risk complacency for a con.

Nedda Afsari Of course, in some people’s eyes, this makes her a phony, a manipulator. Earlier this year, legendary cultural critic Greil Marcus wrote an admirably dim-witted column for Pitchfork where he compared Clark to the slippery Father John Misty, aka Josh Tillman, claiming that they “perform as artists of such pretentiousness you couldn’t possibly figure out how to talk to them. … There’s no way to address a saint: To be a saint you have to be dead … Such characters allow themselves to appear as if touched by God, which is what they’re selling, and laugh at you if you’re so square not to know who they really are: to join their club.” If Marcus had read any of the million interviews that Clark is parodying in her high-concept clips, he would know the name is rooted in humiliation and squalor — the hospital where Dylan Thomas died — rather than divine aspiration. “And I have never, nor would I ever, put the kind of trapdoors and booby traps in my music to make the listener feel dumb,” Clark told me in response to Marcus’s theories. “I have enough hubris not to kill myself, but I actually have such a deep respect for the listener that I have never tried to pander. Songs and arrangements were complex and convoluted at times, but they were sincere attempts at connecting.” She hoped there will be no mistaking her intent with her new record, which “is so first-person and sad.” But if anyone does, she knows it’s not her job to correct them.

A still from the “New York” music video. Alex Da Carte A still from the “New York” music video. If you want to use Masseduction as a treasure map, then this is what it tells us about Annie Clark’s personal life. She experienced a complicated kind of heartbreak. Sometimes that makes her crazy and neurotic: “I won’t cry wolf in the kitchen,” she swears on woozy opener “Hang on Me,” but threatens to jump off her roof “just to punish you” on the vengeful, cracked opera of “Smoking Section,” the last song. Sometimes a mental safety net stretches out when she might otherwise get hurt. “Slip my hand from your hand / Leave you dancing with a ghost,” she sings on “Slow Disco,” the most tender song she’s ever written. “Don’t it beat a slow dance to death?” a forlorn and disembodied voice repeats as it fades out. Her world is changing, and that’s unsettling. “Too few of our old crew left on Astor,” she sings on “New York,” a song about lost heroes. On “Fear the Future,” she belts the title as the song reaches a pyrotechnic cataclysm that sounds like a truckload of fireworks being dumped inside a volcano. But if you respond in kind to Clark’s vulnerability, then these are the more meaningful revelations that we can take from Masseduction into our lives: Relatability is a crock, and sincerity doesn’t take a single form. “I refuse to seem less threatening, if that’s how I’m perceived,” said Clark. “Ultimate freedom is not caring whether you are liked, because you are making something you really love and believe in.” On Masseduction Clark tells us that all the good forms of desire — love, sex, art — are self-destructive. But at their best, they create just that little bit more than they consume, and can eventually alchemize anxiety into total power.

#I’ve gotta try that Pilates #st vincent #annie clark #Laura snapes #interviews