He started off as a young musician, dreaming of becoming a rock star. He and his band slowly garnered success with their fiery, youthful anthems. He became earnest, the tone of his lyrics becoming as serious as the benefit "-Aid" concerts in which he performed. He worked in Africa. He was photographed only in black-and-white. His hair grew long, his clothes shabby, and he yearned to save the world---but the world fired back. Backlash. "You're only a rockstar," they said. "You can't save the world. Just play your music." The pressure mounted, and he and his band nearly broke up.
Until one day, the young singer made a brash decision. "You want a rockstar? I'll give you a fucking rockstar!" The young singer went to a phone booth, dialed a number written in ash, and when the voice answered his call, he made the transaction----he sold his soul to the Devil.
What ensued was sheer brilliance! Irony. Ecstasy. Leather. Mother-suckin' rock'n'roll. His lyrics became pointed. Darker, yet still with the longing for love and life that shone through his earlier works. His band's performances glorified the simple, gave depth to the superficial. And it was a glorious trip! Supermodels, airplanes, all-night parties with booze and clubs, waking up in an apartment in Tokyo unsure of what happened and not really caring. The persona was becoming the man---the date at which the Devil would come to claim the promised soul was fast approaching.....
Enter "Pop." This spent soul, this MacPhisto, delivered the embodiment of his full reincarnation. The album that came forth was his darkest yet. Heavy. Twisted, almost. The earliest of fans turned away, unable to recognize their old hero in it at all. In its glorification of the superficial, it was superficial. At least it was written off as such.
But was it? Through the suffocating technological, soul-less sounds, the final slivers of MacPhisto's expiring soul peek through. The transformation is so close, yet not quite complete. In its final moments, the soul laments the brash decision made years before, looking for its face from before the world was made. Meekly begging: "Mother, am I still your son?" Crying out for help: "Send your angels!" "Wake up, you fucking dead man! Save me!" This is it; this is the end. A burnt-up, spent-out soul lamenting its sins and pitifully offering up its last dregs of hope.
This is the utter beauty of "Pop."
And this is what makes ATYCLB the most perfect successor.
The soul is saved.
Until one day, the young singer made a brash decision. "You want a rockstar? I'll give you a fucking rockstar!" The young singer went to a phone booth, dialed a number written in ash, and when the voice answered his call, he made the transaction----he sold his soul to the Devil.
What ensued was sheer brilliance! Irony. Ecstasy. Leather. Mother-suckin' rock'n'roll. His lyrics became pointed. Darker, yet still with the longing for love and life that shone through his earlier works. His band's performances glorified the simple, gave depth to the superficial. And it was a glorious trip! Supermodels, airplanes, all-night parties with booze and clubs, waking up in an apartment in Tokyo unsure of what happened and not really caring. The persona was becoming the man---the date at which the Devil would come to claim the promised soul was fast approaching.....
Enter "Pop." This spent soul, this MacPhisto, delivered the embodiment of his full reincarnation. The album that came forth was his darkest yet. Heavy. Twisted, almost. The earliest of fans turned away, unable to recognize their old hero in it at all. In its glorification of the superficial, it was superficial. At least it was written off as such.
But was it? Through the suffocating technological, soul-less sounds, the final slivers of MacPhisto's expiring soul peek through. The transformation is so close, yet not quite complete. In its final moments, the soul laments the brash decision made years before, looking for its face from before the world was made. Meekly begging: "Mother, am I still your son?" Crying out for help: "Send your angels!" "Wake up, you fucking dead man! Save me!" This is it; this is the end. A burnt-up, spent-out soul lamenting its sins and pitifully offering up its last dregs of hope.
This is the utter beauty of "Pop."
And this is what makes ATYCLB the most perfect successor.
The soul is saved.