Experimental

The Crowd (A Study of the Popular Mind)

Pornographic dance fight beautiful dirty rich

Glamophonic, electronic, d-d-disco baby

We got a red light systematic

Rub that glitter and grease around

I like you a lot, all we want is hot

But we got no money

Oooh la la

I want your disease

Your bad romance

We are the crowd

I’m your biggest fan

Like chewing on pearls I like it rough

It’s a little too rough

Fold ’em let ’em hit me raise it baby stay with me

Stop calling.

I don't wanna think.

I left my head and my heart on the dance-floor

Boys, boys, we like boys in cars

Buy us drinks in bars

We love them

Let’s go see The Killers

Bang bang a bang bang bang

We’ll be higher than ever

Not psychotic or dramatic

Daddy I’m so sorry, I’m so s-s-sorry

I touch myself and it’s alright

Love it when you call me legs

While we’re all getting shit-wrecked

But we got no money

I’m in the bedroom with tissues

I want your love

And I want your revenge

I don’t want to be friends

I wish you the best on your way

Then I met someone

Things got so compliqué

Eh, there’s nothing else I can say

She’s got to love nobody

I am sick and tired of my phone ringing

Biographical Statement

I was born a little precocious baby my mouth a recording megaphone to turn culture towards culture if they know what that means it’s no wonder I turned out Jackson Lauper rips that Ariel Pink Upper Lower East West Side would be Italian American proud of my birthday suit is my power dressing I’m multi-talented and theatrical oh yeah “I’m a ham today” yum yum

“David Bowie made me, Madonna pre-empted me, Eddie Mercury made me realise that dust is poetic mass spectacle but fashion is everything I met Donatella and she gave me a hat I didn’t know Peggy Bundy but she is everything to me now I’m an artist my favourite philosopher wrote ‘In the deepest hour of the night, confess to yourself that you would die if you were forbidden to write. And look deep into your heart where it spreads its roots, the answer, and ask yourself, must I write?’ must I, I must, must, I die every day like Alexander McQueen it is tattooed all over my arm and dripping in my blood some say already dead a thousand times over a gushing ecstasy of dying underneath it all transgendered hermaphroditic and can I say fucking? a robot crashing into a pupae crashing into scrap metal motorbikes black widows and stick insects from the 1970s or 80s”

Art is me my art is accomplished out of piano ballads from age 2 to 23 I’ve been non-stop powerhouse of eccentricity and private schooling “the CD shows great resilience” my loving spoonful was sweet sugary poison and that’s what I’m giving the world a poisoned ear pop culture world a non-stop party world sound this is your lifestyle buy my record it all goes to charity pop songs that rockers would like but what we all want to fathom is whether love or success or both? that is the question my hair grows fast I dyed it blonde because I was being stopped like twenty times a day with people asking me if I was Amy Winehouse so so Louis XIV

Performance art complete with stilettos hot pants and Beyoncé Knowles (“Z100 PAYS YOUR BILLS” - I never miss Elvis Duran) this is one authentic daddy fucker doing it all for oneself “I did it all myself from bootstraps to backslaps bombed a hundred clubs and hurled myself from the rubble into this my fall my rise my reason to want to die if the answer cannot spread its roots just by working hard” adding with twinkling gimlet eyed charm “change the world one sequin at a time” a reinvention of a non-invention intentional and performative a trio of 747 jets a death dive joy ride I never sleep I watch Bond for hours undead I am speaking immorally extramorally birdcatcher and alive Harley said one more twist and crunch my representative says it’s “ridiculous and untrue”

Alasdair Menmuir

Alasdair Menmuir is the editor of the experimental section you're reading now. He probably shouldn't be such a self-publicist, but the other editors let him get away with it.