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The thing about DIY popstars that makes them a million times better than regular pop stars is sincerity. No, it’s not. It’s naïveté — let’s be honest. The sincerity is just the delicious sweet milk of the fat wonderful boobs of innocent belief that bounce insouciant from every frame of such folks’ media’s representations. Not the cynical, manipulated naivety of a crafted pop-singer in pigtails or faux Neo-soul hat that creaks under the pressure of critique– if it can even puncture through the self-delusion–and results, the critique, in therapy, more dance mixes, duets with rappers. No. To truly believe that you can and should be a massive star (and devoting your life to this dream) despite having no talent of any discernible kind AND without any sort of publicity machine to shield and guide you through the possibilities of attaining the stardom you so derivatively desire AND AND despite a global culture that allows the instant dissemination of your products to folks who can and will make horrific comments about you directly to your face or simply ignore you entirely despite ample opportunity for them to love and support you, that, that madness is indeed the most potent and unlearnable superpower of the modern age.

Let’s start with this video by aspiring DIY pop-star (and ostensible straight person ) Sky Smith.


Formerly a high school teacher, Sky moved to LA from Florida last year to pursue his interests in music. He has songs about being cold , duets with his father ( an Elvis impersonator who has uploaded nearly 400 videos of himself doing karaoke) and warnings about the influence of drugs.

This one may be his masterpiece (make sure you make it to 1:55 in for the fight scene):

He’s just as god made him, sir.

But sadly Sky’s twitter page has been left barren since October. His videos run out about the same time, just before he proclaims that he has a whole album’s worth of new songs. Though Sky is utterly useless as a singer, dancer, choreographer, lyric-author or actor, I do not want him to give up. I want him to become at least as successful for being ridiculous as Tay Zonday. He’s like a dead-serious puppy standing guard against a shadow–the insanity is only disturbing himself. You laugh at him, not out of superiority, but out of envy–I wish I could be so sure I deserved the unconditional worship due as birthright to a natural celebrity. Watching him preen or curl with bathos while intoning the total devastation of his total love, irony disappears, self-doubt disappears, every higher level judgmental-type facility shunts down, into the blank hole.

Via (via)

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