- ROB HOFFMAN
- BEYONCÉ
In the wee hours of the morning last week, with no warning or promotion, Beyoncé ruined the productivity of a nation by releasing a 14-song, 17-video visual album titled Beyoncé on iTunes.
The collective freak-out was astonishing—reactions ranged from tears to clothes rending to actual shitting of pants, and with a record this good, all of them were appropriate responses. I couldn't throw my money at her fast enough.
We've spent most of this year watching pop artists jockey for who can be the most shocking and irreverent, with most of them failing miserably. Miley Cyrus's golden grill and pathetic attempts at twerking, Katy Perry's ridiculously racist costuming at the American Music Awards, and Lady Gaga shoving her ArtPop down our throats as a pathway to artistic respectability are no match for Beyoncé's explosion of dance, costuming, ballet, and fire. Instead of big talk and heavy promotion about her unique approach to music, she just throws down intensely beautiful shit and drops the mic. She's not hanging out with Jeff Koons and Marina Abramovic for street cred; instead, she's making mini-movies with Jonas Akerlund about some kind of sexy, demented hotel where TVs flash brain scans, elderly women in white capes hold hairless cats, and goth twins wearing circus-tent-inspired jumpsuits slink around corners. With Beyoncé, it's more of a do as I say and do as I do.