Iggy Azalea’s vagina isn’t a bonus extra with her CD.

Iggy Azalea’s vagina isn’t a bonus extra with her CD.

Iggy Azalea has a new CD out and she want’s you to know when it arrives from Amazon it won’t be delivered by Iggy begging you to fingerbang her poon.

In ‘Gross, what is the world coming to‘ news, Iggy claims that she had to stop crowd-surfing at her concerts not because it’s a surefire way to break your nose, ribs, head, and have all your jewellery stolen, but rather because her fans kept sexually trying to sexually abuse her.

Iggy and her non-moving forehead stopped by Hot 97  to casually and explain  how fans plan to show up to her shows specifically to try and finger her, which she rightly says is a ‘violation’ and shockingly enough that she ‘doesn’t actually like that stuff’.

I will get lurk tweets for like a week before my show, like “I’m about to go to the Iggy Azalea show and I’m going to finger her,” and I’ll see it and be like, please don’t! That’s a violation. I don’t actually like that stuff.

Like, they think I’m real slutty, like “Oh, she got a song called ‘Pussy,’ I know what she wants. She wants these two fingers.” Why would I want a stranger to ever finger me? Buying my album for $12 doesn’t mean you get to finger me when I come to your city.

In a charming twist the DJ’s handles the topic with the sensitivity that sexual assault would typical command – by recalling a time he may have anonymously fingered a girl at a keg party, before moving onto discussion about Iggy’s ‘puffy butt’. When Azalea say’s that she is “Not going to be intruded” the DJ performs a master-stroke in classy linkage by throwing to

Well you are currently being intruded by an NBA Player. Your boyfriend.

Later in the interview the DJ’s ask that if, due to her ‘risque’  lyrics and ‘big ass’ as well as propensity for twerking and wearing short shorts on stage , that this makes her a porn-star in the bedroom who’s dirty and nasty.

Again definitely appropriate question for a female guest on to discuss her new music. When Azelea rebounds the questions about her sex life again and again, the DJ chides her for appearing bashful when she ‘gets on stage with her ass out’.

The fact that Azaelea had previously mentioned at the start of the interview that she’s frustrated and annoyed at sexually inappropriate moves made on her because of her sexualized branding is obviously totally ignored by the DJ’s who essentially conducted an interview tantamount to a verbal equivalent.  The DJ clearly considers Iggy fair game to discuss sex despite her obvious discomfort because her music, he implies, is asking for it – if she likes it or not.

If the rest of her promotion tour is anywhere near as dedicated to its treatment of Azalea as a piece of meat as this interview (whom, for the record, never gets to talk about her music once in the ten minute interview) then I guess we shouldn’t be awfully surprised if her second album is sung from a nun’s convent.



Avril Lavigne’s new music video is just…wat.

Update: It appears Avril removed the video from Youtube AND Vimeo, the above is a fan uploaded video.

I think we can all agree that 18 year old’s singing songs like With You isn’t unimpressive.  By the same token, it can be said that a 29 year old woman singing songs like “Hello Kitty”  is most definitely unimpressive. Im kind of at the stage of thinking Avril Lavigne is the new Michael Jackson in that she’s never growing up and is always going to live in a hot topic wonderland as a gothic Alice.

Avril is sporting a look which says ‘Madonna fucked a cupcake and then fell onto a razor’, and she’s singing a song which I can only describe as one of the worst things to happen to pop music since, well, ever.

What makes this song an even greater travesty is not the fact that Avril Lavigne chose this as one of the cuts from what is actually a relatively solid pop album, (if you like your pop served by a grown-ass woman acting like she’s a slutty 18 year old) but it’s the sheer embarrassing ridiculousness of her music video.

Like, it’s the visual equivalent to chucking up pepto-bismol all over a dish of Wasabi. That is to say, it is not a very good music video.

In fact, it is so bad that Avril herself even looks uncomfortable, probably wondering how it came to this. A promising career as  the next Alanis Morisette ends up with a bit of her head shaved off whilst she wears a patent cupcake dress and sings about a Japanese craze which, for all intensive purposes,  became irrelevant about four years ago. Kind of like Avril herself. Le sigh.

Britney Spears’ last album wasn’t all sung by Britney Spears

Britney Spears’ last album wasn’t all sung by Britney Spears

The practice of big artists beefing up their vocals on tracks with a veritable chorus of backing singers is not a new one. Almost every major recording artist is guilty of this to varying degrees, and one who’s always been a notable adopter of softening her…distinctive vocal style with a symphony of other voices is Brit Brit.

After the debacle of her last album’s release cleared – that being intense fan dissatisfaction, questions over authenticity of vocals, outrage at poor autotuning and much more – one of the remaining questions swirled around backing singer Myah Marie.

Marie has made a name for herself in recent years as a backing vocalist for Britney essentially because she sounds exactly like her. For Britney fans, mentioning Myah Marie’s name is like hitting a giant RAGE button to unleash this.


Gig Review: Agnes Obel at the Barbican

Gig Review: Agnes Obel at the Barbican

So occasionally I take a step away from the thrilling throngs of reporting on entertainment media and pop culture (and I use ‘reporting’ in the loosest possible sense) to go see a gig.

Agnes Obel at The Barbican

{Above: This is Agnes live at Au Grand Rex, Paris}

This weekend I saw a performer I’ve loved and respected for any number of years. Agnes Obel, best known for her appearances on soundtracks for the likes of Grey’s Anatomy and Revenge to most of the world, but known within the European music scene as probably one of the most exciting and respected new artists of the past ten years.

Support Act: Melanie de Biasio

melanie de biasio

I always feel a bit rough for the supporting act, but it’s usually a great opportunity for a band or artist to gain wider exposure. I have found recently though, that supporting acts are wildly misjudged in terms of the audience and lead act.

Belgian import Melanie de Biasio was probably the best fit for Obel at a supporting level she was going to get. She’s talented and lyrically mature enough to warrant her spot on the Barbican stage, and with an enchanting voice from the get go – things seemed positive.

Soon though, it became apparent that performing with a flute and bass guitarist alone was an error for de Biasio. Her enchanting vocals quickly gave way to fatigue of her looped breathing, and without other instrumentation to distract the audience, the similarities of her songs became painfully clear. It’s the kind of music you can imagine playing if you were having a dinner party for swingers. That sort of Nu-Jazz meets sensual songwriter that I’m sure the patrons of The Barbican will appreciate more than I.

De Biasio can be best described as an older man’s Lana Del Ray – a little more lyrically talented, but suffering from the same problem in similarities of delivery and content.

Agnes & Co.


When the lead act arrived on stage, Obel received a huge round of applause from the sold-out concert hall. I, clearly, wasn’t the only fan there.

Her rise to success with a mysterious, enticing brand of alt-pop lies in her ability to entice with a delicate yet haunting voice layered in compliment with strings arrangements filled with melancholy. The lyrics are never too heavy handed and imagery carefully avoids lazy metaphors. Listening to her effectively transports you to the cold and mysterious worlds she conjures up with music  painstakingly crafted from her heart,  then arranged with peers who understand the benefits of subtlety and restraint.

With a three-piece of cello, violin and piano, Obel and her band produced volume and intricacy you might expect from an 8 piece. Shy and softly spoken, she forewent canned stage banter to instead deliver music in heavy doses along with  German Anne Müller on Cello and Candian Mika Posen on Violin.

At one stage Obel plays an ‘embarrassing diary song from my high school time’ which sounds like a piece any classical or pop music performer would happily call their crowning glory. Such is the strength of the material in her set, where throughout the evening there was never a weak link, nor a boring moment. Unlike her supporting act – Obel has a substantial linking sound but notably  distinctive songs.

With a retro and sparse set , her bandmates often performed in the warm orange glow of stage lights, with the olde-worlde cinematic lights behind them gently firing up to punctuate moments when the cellos violent interludes would shake the room. Everything about the set, lighting and presentation spoke of the same level of precision and restraint that goes into her music.

Most importantly, Obel delivered an absolute one two punch in the field of live vocals.  I entered the concert almost certain that some sort of digital effects must be at work to make her voice sound so  affecting and ethereal. Alas, aside from some basic echo and layering effects, her voice is essentially ‘as is’.

Cuts from her initial recording ‘Philharmonics’ are represented in the set, but given the ‘Aventine’ treatment, that is to say a darker, more textural sound than their initial incarnation. The presentation of songs is almost Einaudi like in Obel’s careful composition, and that is, to say, a huge compliment.

Many were in tears throughout the near 90 minute set and her highlights included her most famous song ‘Riverside’ and the ground-shaking outro from ‘On Powdered Ground’ and the beautiful ‘Words are Dead’. The cello constantly tugging at heartstrings throughout, and the violin occasionally breaking into uplifting interludes.

Obel returned for an encore of course, with plenty on their feet as she walked off stage from the final bow.


The Barbican is a grandiose icon of London’s dedication to renovating ugly concrete mistakes of 70s and 80s architecture into vital, relevant art spaces inside. It remains a beautiful, interesting space  with a startling lack of toilet facilities in favour of expensive and overpriced wine bars for the upper crust arty sorts the space attracts.

Where The Barbican fails in critics eyes is that it produces a relatively dry audio quality in it’s concert spaces, meaning sound is often not enjoying the reverberation it aims for- and subsequently you can easily differentiate instruments from one another – potentially problematic for orchestras, who’s ultimate goal of course is to create a symphony of sound.

No such problem afflicted Obel  who’s music often focused on three very distinct layers of sounds, which almost are designed to fizzle into the dark abyss around the performers. When an aching echo was required, the performers suitably produced it. Deep bass shook the hall to it’s core from the cello with the huge lights behind her flaring up on the number ‘On Powdered Ground’ to incredible effect and rapturous applause.

In Agnes Obel The Barbican probably hit the bullseye on the perfect kind of act this space should accommodate. More than a one woman show, but not large enough to encounter the orchestral sound problems that have been publicized, the beautiful hall is entrancing when light is projected against it’s layered acoustic walls – and this was one audience member who was entranced from start to finish.

Well Played, Ms. Obel.

And Now: Some Sad confused clowns crying.

Because having your face look like a slab of ice-cream that has been left in a freezer for too long is totally hot right now, here is a bunch of clips from Jezebel of Real Housewives leaking from their eyes, which in some cultures where additional facial expressions accompany such physiological reactions is known as crying.


Get DAT MONEY, Prince!

Get DAT MONEY, Prince!

Twenty years ago I was six and so my engagement of entertainment news watching ZZZAP! and seeing if that evil annoying bitch Daisy Dares had dared the handymen to throttle her yet.

Accordingly, I guess I wasn’t aware of this shit, but apparently Prince had a HUGEEEEE wine-throwing falling out with his then-record label Warner that was so epic he called himself a slave, changed his name to a symbol to piss them off then released some shitty albums to fulfil his contract.

But since we live in a tough economy and sparkly platform shoes don’t pay for themselves, Prince has decided artistic integrity and the whole point he made such a big fuss about making isn’t so important any more, and has just signed a mega-deal with Warner to re-release all of his old albums.

Translation: Prince is GETTING DAT MONEY!!!

Honey Boo Boo

Now, a lot of you might be sitting there thinking ‘Prince is such a turncoat sell-out’ or ‘Prince might as well just be Jennifer Lopez at a dictator’s birthday party!’ and that may well be, but looking like a gender confused explosion of MAC concealer isn’t cheap, nor is a lavish wardrobe of spandex catsuits, so give a guy a break.

Prince basically entering in an agreement for Warner Brothers to re-release all of his old material is his way of saying “Yes I had standards. Yes I bitch and moan about people hearing the same stuff over and over again, and Yes, I still hate Madonna, but fuck it, I’m going to get even more filthy rich…i’ll spare a thought for integrity whilst I replace my loo roll with $100 bills made with Madonna’s face on them!”

I always wondered why he had that squiggly ass symbol for a name, but like most of my ignoramus generation I had more important things to focus on, like writing about Kim Kardashian.

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