Colours and dreams, bold and vivid.  Ms. Monae speaks in terms of pigments and intensities. On stage she is often known to arrive furnished with an easel equipped with white paper and tins of paints in clashing hues. She paints using brushes, fingers and her palms which work in unison to the vigor in her words and pitch. As the words increase in intensity, the colour of paint becomes much bolder, along with the strokes. This is one way Janelle Monae comes alive on stage. The other is through her infamous dance moves that pay homage to the great James Brown; an artist she believed to have untouchable super powers. We saw traces of the late James Brown in Monae’s 2007 EP, Metropolis.

The freshly devised album entitled The ArchAndroid is something savoury. You can’t define her sound; nor does Janelle like to label her shit. For the production of The ArchAndroid, Janelle travelled to diverse margins of the world gathering individual sounds, and kneaded it into a symphony, as the same time experimenting with her own voice.  Janelle pries on eighties music and those that came before her. “I love funky music; music that is out now wasn’t inspiring to me. I went back and studied artists that still had that mystique about them.”

Her cosmopolitan, capernoited style tells a story within each track, pushing the listener deeper into the mind cavity of Cindy Mayweather, the ArchAndroid character. Janelle has created a world of afro futurism and science fiction, dressed with characters, a plot, a harmony, and a purpose so fictitious yet believable, because she has weaved real concepts into the core of the story. After all, Janelle is a real human, not to be confused with her alter ego Cindy Mayweather. We are still talking about music. This music is full of literature.

Her story is;

• Janelle is from the year 2719
• Her genetic code was illegally sold to a body snatcher
• Cindy Mayweather is an ArchAndroid, a mediator between the androids and the humans, created and cloned from Ms. Monae’s DNA
• Cindy Mayweather has been sent to the metropolis to lead the people to freedom, to allow them to love openly and liberated themselves from classification.

The android is known as the other. Janelle declares that there will come a time when we will live with the others (exterritorial life forms) because technology has come so far. Janelle mulls over questions like; how will we treat the androids, will we look at them in a humanely nature most importantly, can we all unit. Excavation alone can’t answer the questions that linger in Janelle’s gut, she believes all will be revealed, in all due time.

As time shifts Cindy Mayweather will draw on three infectious elements; love, music and art, to bring together the-haves and the- have-nots. Love, exclusively, is something Janelle, the artist, does not think is or can be fabricated, it’s fluent and touchable, in a world of surrealism that pushes and pulls on her heart strings.

Each track was inspired by a very specific feature on a fictional or nonfiction character. For instance; the first single Tightrope off the new album was inspired by James Brown’s infamous cape, which was commonly draped over him at the end of his performance, before being escorted off stage. In the song Tightrope, James Brown the singer and entertainer is channelled through Janelle, we hear Janelle morph into Brown lucidly. We hear her work her vocals a little harder to receive that final standing ovation before the song fades down, just as Brown did, before the cape was put on. 

The track Suite III Overture was inspired by Fantasia, Mary Poppins and Peter Pan. With the absence of lyrics the beats carry you through a land of imagination, bringing you back to a time of glee and innocence, that is only found in children.

In terms of appearance, Janelle rocks her trademark, polished tuxedo which serves more than one purpose. The tux is her work uniform that signifies her connection to the working class- she like them needs to sweat to make ends meet. She also rocks it to empower woman with options; sending the message that we don’t have to wear skirts to be sexy and certified, suits work for females as they do for men. And, by dressing in a black and white timeless tuxedo, no one can identify which era she’s from, she wants to triumph through all time periods.

 “I think I’m cool, I’m definitely in tuned with the things that make me unique and I use them as my secret powers,” says Janelle. “

The secret self of Ms. Monae is publicized in her second follow up album The ArchAndroid. And if you listen to the lyrics carefully you’ll realize were presently living through a time Janelle foresees in our future.

And when I look into the future I see danger in its eyes. Hearts of hatred rule the land while love is left aside. Killing plagues the citizens while music slowly dies. I get frightened, I – see, I get frightened, I …Locked Inside lyrics.

I’m trying to find my peace. I was made to believe there’s something wrong with me
And it hurts my hear. Lord have mercy ain’t it plain to see …Cold War lyrics

It’s such a pity that the city’s just a danger zone. Atomic blues bombing hearts like Iraqis in Babylon
The droid control will take your soul and rate it. Berate, slay it. You hate it and debate it but you don’t get caught. And outlaw outrunning the law, ha …Neon Valley Street Lyrics

Mushrooms and roses is the place to be. (Smells like love to me).Where all the lonely droids and lovers have their wildest dreams. (It’s the sound of the). The golden door of our emotions opens here. We’re all virgins to the joys of loving without fear …Mushroom and Roses lyrics.

http://www.myspace.com/janellemonae

Why is my generation, one of privilege and wealth, experiencing higher rates of depression than any previous generation?

Could it be because there is so much information spewed our way that there are not enough cubbyholes in our brain to store it all? From the hoards of subliminal messages that teach us to inhale shiny, tangible objects, to the more obvious manifestations that train us to believe happiness and money have a fifty-fifty relationship.

Too much information means too many choices, which is fucking with our mental outlook, our ability to decipher toxic information from valid knowledge. We are an overly sensitive bunch of vaginas who don’t know how to hold our own, or stand on our own. With so many choices we can’t form an opinion so we look upon someone or something else to make those choices for us.

We are told what to eat, how to eat and how to cook our meals. Hungry Man dinners, (the name in itself is chauvinistic) have been telling people how to eat for 35 years! Remove film, microwave for three to five minutes and voila, you have yourself a voluptuous meal! A swollen, springy steak, a wimpy stack of potatoes and soiled greens heavily processed with extra salt and grease, to compensate for the taste.

We need instructions for almost every facet of life. Who the fuck are these instructions police, you ask. I know. They are the aggressive, brand power peddlers that tell you what to do, which order to do it in and how to do it.

Telling us how to attract the opposite sex, how to wash our clothes, how to stay rich or how to stay poor.

And we are the twat generation that grants them the power to do so. Whatever happened to setting the tone of our own plot?

There are even a plethora of books that address the problem of having to deal with having to make too many choices.

Are we really that spoiled to the point where we are incapable of making sound decisions for ourselves? I think so; I also think we are a mentally fucked, melancholy, melodramatic generation?

Modern day living allows simple decisions to morph into complex ones. From which toothpaste to use, which olive oil to cook with, which beauty products will make us look and feel younger, to which antiperspirant will last longer. With so many er’s comes too many choices. 

Were losing logic and increasing doubt, anxiety and depression. We care too much about our extrinsic selves that we have a dwindling relationship with compassion, kindness and love.

Panic attacks are overrated and yet they’re very common partly due to the fact we’re overloaded with liberties and our obsession with getting approval from others.

Or is it that my generation is just bored with life?

We learn to appreciate when something is taken away. Yet, when this something is within reach its value is camouflaged.

I do support the idea that there are things in life that should be camouflaged to disclose its negative value.

Hoards of advertisements instinctively come to mind. 

If thousands upon thousands of advertisements that have seized secure spot in the minds of gluttonous generation were to be dissolved, then perhaps our current generation wouldn’t be labelled as the architects of the gluttonous epoch.

Perhaps we would bring back the idea of individuality. A concept so many interpret as following the clingy outcast culture, set against a backdrop of flashing lights and moving cars, and everything stale and clichéd.   

So I ask… Dear counter culture denizens of the world; yes, you Hipsters, Bohemians, Punk Rockers, Hip Hop heads, what are you trying to manifest?

With your magnified swag and style, your fire engine, red plaid shirts and your shrunken jeans, with your floppy hats and your lengthy, floral printed dresses, your eyeliner and black studded jackets and belts, your fur trimmed hoodies and your constricted baby tees.

What is it that you want to verbalize, not with your voice but rather your prosaic vanity?

I think you want to say you represent an emotionally intense force driven by energy, danger and bravery and shouldn’t be fucked with. That you can conquer bureaucracy with your American Apparel, Apple Bottom Jeans, Ed Hardy, Gap wearing asses. 

But what you really are, is a global phenomenon, a walking, talking price tag, part of the brand addict bullshit crew. Born under the advertising industry, feeding the flesh eating, brand power mother fuckers of the universe, at the same time filling your brain with toxins.

You’re not just a style, you’re a lifestyle.  

You’re sad, and debatable and have done a fine job of butchering your self identity.

The anarchy generations is who you crave to be, but you already sold your soul to the media, so I ask, who are you now?

Even though, I watched her fall into a spider web of horror, where the hands of death grabbed her by the arms, legs, gut and intestine, dragging her to hell, I wanted to be her, not just part of her hardcore life. I followed her as she decayed and I tagged along as she soared, flourishing intellectually; learning about people, herself, and her space. She no longer thought about living, but truly, whole heartedly lived. I always knew she was cut from a different fabric and when I tell you her story you’ll see why.

She was about a quarter into her grade nine English final, concentrating on the words in her exam booklet, when she noticed the words began to bounce off the page and magically disappear. As the words dispersed into thin air, she too forgot the words just as quick. Nothing seemed to register; despite the fact that English was her strong suit. This made her concentrate harder, causing sudden troubles in vision to surface. She was losing balance sitting in her sturdy chair connected to the desk. She felt pain. The pain that penetrated in her brain, she described as worse than having a baseball bat swung at her head. She screamed in class. Clasping the sides of her temples, hoping to cut off circulation, more so, hoping she would become invisible, while others would become invisible to her. The shrieks grew painfully louder. Loud enough to catch the attention of the teachers to the left and right of the room, and beyond. This carried on for thirty-four seconds, to her it felt like thirty-four minutes. The pain gradually diminished but never fully went away. She was escorted out of the classroom; waiting in the front lobby till her mom came to gather her.

In the ten minute car ride home, she asked her mom to pull over at least ten times, because the feeling of vomit was swallowing her stomach. That day, it took twenty minutes to get home.

The rest of the day she was restless, staring into space or watching senseless T.V. Her mom wasn’t sure what had happened, or what to make of the situation, since she wasn’t there to see her daughter destruct.

The next morning, her alarm clock went off, routinely as it would, for any other school day. She slowly got out of bed, walked towards the bathroom that was down the hall. Still not fully awake, she toppled…over nothing. Another few step and she toppled again. By the time she made it to the bathroom, she felt woozy, and that’s all that she remembered.  

Below, her mom was making herself busy in kitchen when she heard a thud from hell. It was distinct from a drop of a vase, it was human thud. Mom raced up the stairs to find her daughter foaming at the mouth. She later learned her daughter was undergoing a stroke. Not just any stroke, but a rare one, where the left side of the brain produced the blood clots, which happened to be the same side of her paralysation.

This fifteen year old girl said:

That moment when I woke up from anaesthesia, in the hospital bed, completely unaware of what had happened, and I saw tubes, connected to my hands, arms and thighs because I was unable to produce enough blood from just one source. Not to mention, the monstrous tube that ran from my nose down to my stomach, combined with seeing every family member that I was ever attached to, staring at me, eyes full of tears, is a feeling that will never escape my memory. Never.  And, on top of all that, I tried desperately to make a sound to ask ‘what happened,’ and nothing. I didn’t own a voice. My vocal cords were shot to shit. So what did I do next, I started to swell up and join my family in an orgy of tears.

She began to write more, since this was her primary way of communicating now. She was adjusting to the hospital environment. The smell of sick people made her sick no more, because she was one of them. That smell was now coming out of her own pores. Jell-O was something to look forward to in the day, visits from friends and family became routine and pee soaked beds were no longer humiliating. Most of the time she felt like an old woman trapped in prepubescent girl’s body, since, she was only fifteen, new to the period cycle yet used a walker to get around. 

Slowly, mobility in her legs came back, so did her voice and the blood clots drifted away with ample help from blood thinners.

They say you never forget your first. She never forgot her first major scare.

This was only the beginning. A series of other health terrors followed; kidney stones, ovarian assists, Crohn’s disease, anaemia, urinary tract infections, numerous blood transfusions from gastrointestinal surgery after surgery, addiction to prescription drugs, and lastly, a small bowel obstruction, at the age of nineteen.

She attended university, moved away from home, got a taste of university life, got a taste of university boys. Had a few more health scares that she never told her parents about, received an honours arts degree, and was ready to do something life altering. She never wanted to live as a shadow behind her problems; she understood that she invented that shadow.

She embarked upon an untamed adventure that took her to Shanghai, China; a city completely foreign to her, until she created a life there. For this reason, she spent a lot of time trying to fit into the city, as one amongst the twenty million that clog the arteries of this particular metropolis. She spent even more time trying to get to know the personality of the city. Her fondness for communication led her to acquire a working knowledge of Mandarin Chinese, enriching her with four languages thus far; Hindi, Punjabi English and now Mandarin. She secured a job with Microsoft, Shanghai, moving up from junior to senior editor for the content team, within three months. This served as her main source of income. However, Microsoft has its own language where creativity took a backseat, and she was creative. This led her to discover a second job and her new found passion for writing. She quickly landed a gig as a freelance writer for a leading Shanghai magazine, City Weekend; a bi-weekly guide most expatriates consider their bible to the city, since it covered everything to do with enjoyment.  Her contribution to the magazine was to primarily review newly established restaurants in Shanghai. This position whisked her away into a food lover’s paradise. She was able to artistically write about food as much as she enjoyed engaging in conversation about it. From there, her published work was syndicated by one of China’s top news portals, Chinadaily.com., and her work was recognized on a national level. 

While living in Shanghai, she journeyed extensively through China and Southeast Asia; uninterruptedly being exposed to the extremes of poverty on one hand, while also witnessing cultures so lost in superficiality on the other.

Back in Shanghai, she too got lost in the glossy lifestyle. Living in the margins of urban society, in a land of perfectly manicured lawns, cloned condos and defeaning silence; a sort of modern utopia. Her first home in Shanghai was a lavish, high rise penthouse fit for the elite. A panoramic view overlooking peasant dwellings, oversized windows, double stainless steel sinks and a dishwasher. Furnished with three flat screen TV’s, Harman/Kardon stereo system, twenty-four hour surveillance and the list goes on. Two maids came twice per week. She even had the luxury of paying locals merely a few cents Canadian, to deliver Starbucks coffee right to her doorstep. She was making roughly the equivalent of 1800 dollars Canadian, a month, when the average Chinese teacher was making fifty-five. She realized for a twenty-four year old, she wasn’t living realistically. She became out of tune with her surroundings, with the Chinese culture, disconnected from the locals and the city’s vibrancy.

At the end of her first year, she was ready to swap in her fantasy life for a more humble existence, doing away with almost all monetary benefits she was given, and worked for. I’m not sure if it was vexation, kismet or a quest to find the meaning of life, or a combination of all three, that led her to live a frothy experience on the flip side. I did know she wanted to make it clear to herself that money was never the hero.

It started off with moving out her dream like enclave to a tiny, rat infested, one room apartment, sans an elevator. The twelve by fourteen foot room managed to squeeze in a bathroom, two burner stove, single sofa bed, a plastic table and little closet space. She still lived in Shanghai, although living in much poorer district felt like living in a much poorer province. Her new shanty, six storey building must have been at least seventy years old. Both the interior and exterior were falling apart and it smelled like piss all the time. The rundown metal staircase connecting each floor was dominated by rats. Her actual dwelling was not. Although, these rodents would pay her a visit every now and then, just to let her know she was never alone. The senile old people that populated the building and controlled the area spent their days by rummaging through other people’s garbage. These people found it bizarre that a foreigner would ever step foot in a place like this, much less take up a permanent residence here.

Next, she gave up her job at Microsoft, putting all the money she had saved in a bank and pretending it never existed for the next four to six months. She still however kept her less than part-time writing gig. This way, she was making basically what the average Chinese person was. She slowly started giving away her clothes to bare bottom children that strolled down the poorest streets in the city. Other clothes she sold to street markets for almost nothing. In the end, she owned five pairs of pants, five tops, three sets of shoes, two jackets and put all her valuables in storage. From there on, she hand washed her clothes in her bathroom sink.

She gave up her subway pass and opted to walk everywhere, unless the walk was longer than two hours, then she took the overcrowded bus. She ate day old bread, bananas (because they cost one cent Canadian per banana), five cent noodles off the street, along with other local goodies, and indulged in cheap beer and cigarettes when she thought she could afford, and/or, deserved it. Every now and then, she would enjoy a nice meal when she was sent to review a new restaurant. Her reviews became a lot more interesting to read because her new, not-so-rich appearance brought out a side in the restaurant owners and staff that confirmed fair treatment is an idea that was hardly imposed.

It’s all a game she noticed. A game of opinion. The poor populace judge the rich and vice versa. Humans in general are a judgmental race, but the Chinese especially are champs at this game. She was being judged everyday because of the building she walked out of every morning and went home to every night. Still, she adjusted well to her new life and found herself genuinely happy more times than not, because she saw passed the cosmetic surface of just being.

She spent her days sitting in public parks and benches writing, reading alternative media journalism and people watching. She noticed firsthand how human beings are becoming less human and more brainwashed and shallow, due to the effects of mass media, especially in Shanghai, a city oversaturated with shiny everything.

Going from riches to rags, she saw the deteriorating relationship people have with their physical and cultural environment. It was evident that thousands upon thousands of commercials had seized secure places in the minds of the wealthy, creating this high power voltage that charges them, energizes them, attracts them to consume copious amounts of brands. There was no sense of individuality here anymore.

She wanted to live as far away as possible from all the consumerism, brand addict bullshit and monetary tension, to live as simple as she could in a commercial city where glamour and glitz crowd your space. This simmering experience was a study in itself, to see if she could survive with the basics. She did. I did. I was there the whole step of the way, because I am her. It just took me a minute to figure it out. I felt as if I was undergoing an out-of-body experience, where that girl who had everything at her fingertips was now living in the shadow of the girl relishing in the modest life. And along the way I mastered the art of storytelling.