Fan Boy

by Madame Psychosis

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Fan Boy and EVRYBDY DIES ALONE are Madame Psychosis's reaction to her first baffling year of on- and offline attention. These tracks are also her commentary on the weird changing media and how it affects artists and human relationships.

credits

released March 27, 2012

rhymes, lyrics, lead vox: Jade Sylvan
beats: DJ LoWreck
hook siren: Trailerella
moral support: Nass T
album art: Caleb Cole

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about

Madame Psychosis Boston, Massachusetts

Madame Psychosis is the hip-hop persona of internationally-acclaimed performance poet, Jade Sylvan. With catchy hooks and rhymes so tight, they're hermetically sealed, Jade uses this project to comment directly on new media evolution and hipster culture.

Madame Psychosis has been called "awesomely awesome," by Boston Band Crush, and yes, her name's a shout-out to author, David Foster Wallace.
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Track Name: Fan Boy
The first thing you say is you saw me on stage,
the second is that you like my Facebook page
and you know how many friends I’ve got
and you quote my old lyrics I already forgot.

Oh, that’s cute. A second-hand suit
cut smug in an indie-rock color.
When your friends see you with me, you grab my waist quickly
and smile, and stand up way taller.

What’s in a name? You’ve mastered the game
of trends, follows, hashtags, and memes.
But with all your feeds burned, you still haven’t learned
that people are not what they seem.


Hoi Polloi –
You’re just a Fan Boy


You’ll never enact what you don’t get,
and holding your hand is an act I regret.
You write about rapture, crazy women, and merit,
if an artist’s a raptor, then a critic’s a parrot.

You get free tickets, reservations at eight,
but while you learned to dissect, you forgot to create.
A song’s just a song, and art is just art.
Most of it’s wrong, and some of it’s smart.

The artist is just a schmuck with a pen.
She has to purge words so she can swallow again
cause when mouths are full, it’s harder to breathe.
Art’s just a reflex, byproduct of me.


Hoi Polloi –
You’re just a Fan Boy.


Loving me for my mind is so superficial.
You’re looking for plot in the interstitial.
I’m only a stack of blood and fat
with some muscle and bone, and a scarf and hat.

Critics are fans who are weak with greed,
and oh, there are so many things you need.
You want me in spandex, writing all bad checks,
drinking to excess, racing down Storrow,

chasing the night to try to shake off tomorrow.
It’s a character that I happily borrowed
but I’m giving it back. It’s all a disguise.
I’m tired of that. Now I look like this, guys.


Hoi Polloi –
You’re just a Fan Boy.


Sorry, but I got shows to stop.
When the corks pop, I’m feelin up my enemies
after a couple a shots, schnapps topped with pop rocks
or hot sauce to cover up the ten benzies.

The tongues are way tamer at this stage in the game and
the shit-talk lulls to a dull disclaimer.
Skin’s thicker than leather, stronger than concrete.
Opinions don’t better what’s already complete.

There you go, down the elevator shaft --
mass grave among the ghosts of Fan Boys past.
I’ll run home and laugh. I won’t look back
till you come haunting me for an autograph.


Hoi Polloi –
You’re just a Fan Boy.
Track Name: EVRYBDY DIES ALONE
It took a couple of years, but I'm on top, for sure.
I'll never be rich, but I sure am popular --
a flock of mail blowing up my inbox,
regular like the atomic clock.

Let's buy some ukuleles, cover "Crimson and Clover,"
cause the days of making money from our music are over.
Staying home from shows is the latest trend,
but boy, everybody wants to be my friend.

A hundred hipsters wanna take me to dinner
take pictures of me and post about it on twitter.
Got a thousand hits on my blog in ten minutes,
but that don't keep me from Jim Beam and Glen Fiddich.

Sometimes I wonder what's the point of this.
We're chasing some idea that just doesn't exist.
We all grew up believing we'd be Lennon or Dylan
but that dream is over, and the daylight's chillin.


In the country, in the city
Everybody dies alone.
All the ugly, all the pretty
Everyone you've ever known

All the kings and the street sweepers
Meet beneath a slab of stone.
The heiresses and the beekeepers
Everybody dies alone.


Another party, I'm in a costume
of some rich dead girl, voguish posthume --
vintage fur and a sequined gown
found at the bottom of a dollar a pound.

Rehashed retread, I'm just a copy
of an old idea, rough and sloppy.
Nothing's original under the sun
when we're all made of zeros and ones.

Everyone wants to be so unique,
obscure to ensure they're beyond critique,
a quirky life lived for a dress rehearsal --
I'm tired of niches, give me universal.

What lies behind all the eccentric clothes?
What empty hunger makes the poseur pose?
You wanted my attention with that hip disguise,
stop posing for a minute, let me see your eyes.


Your colleagues and your families
Everybody dies alone.
Her and him and you and me
Everyone you've ever known.

Hot young bodies will not last
Underneath the skin is bone.
In the future and the past
Everybody dies alone.


This loneliness won't get the best of me.
On the internet all love is <3 --
a testament to fame and celebrity,
the only church with alters everywhere we see.

Zuckerberg's not a genius, or the antichrist,
just a bright child wired with trite zeitgeist.
Right place, right time, Ivy League reflection
of a generation reaching for on-screen connection.

We all grew up looking for love in pixels.
Virginities lost in cyber sex vigils,
just a matter of time before Narcissus showed
and self-obsession bled into computer code.

We string our souls to electronic timelines
starving to entangle with harmonic like minds.
Do not go gently into that dark night,
hold on to yourself and step into the light.


Your followers and friends and fans
everybody dies alone
every woman every man.
everyone you've ever known

Online living will not stop it
neither will your fancy phone
you can't hold it in your pocket -
everybody dies alone.

Your followers and friends and fans
everybody dies alone
gay or straight or bi or trans
everyone you've ever known.

Online living will not stop it
neither will your fancy phone
you can't hold it in your pocket -
everybody dies alone.
Track Name: Fan Boy [Radio Edit]
The first thing you say is you saw me on stage,
the second is that you like my Facebook page
and you know how many friends I’ve got
and you quote my old lyrics I already forgot.

Oh, that’s cute. A second-hand suit
cut smug in an indie-rock color.
When your friends see you with me, you grab my waist quickly
and smile, and stand up way taller.

What’s in a name? You’ve mastered the game
of trends, follows, hashtags, and memes.
But with all your feeds burned, you still haven’t learned
that people are not what they seem.


Hoi Polloi –
You’re just a Fan Boy


You’ll never enact what you don’t get,
and holding your hand is an act I regret.
You write about rapture, crazy women, and merit,
if an artist’s a raptor, then a critic’s a parrot.

You get free tickets, reservations at eight,
but while you learned to dissect, you forgot to create.
A song’s just a song, and art is just art.
Most of it’s wrong, and some of it’s smart.

The artist is just a schmuck with a pen.
She has to purge words so she can swallow again
cause when mouths are full, it’s harder to breathe.
Art’s just a reflex, byproduct of me.


Hoi Polloi –
You’re just a Fan Boy.


Loving me for my mind is so superficial.
You’re looking for plot in the interstitial.
I’m only a stack of blood and fat
with some muscle and bone, and a scarf and hat.

Critics are fans who are weak with greed,
and oh, there are so many things you need.
You want me in spandex, writing all bad checks,
drinking to excess, racing down Storrow,

chasing the night to try to shake off tomorrow.
It’s a character that I happily borrowed
but I’m giving it back. It’s all a disguise.
I’m tired of that. Now I look like this, guys.


Hoi Polloi –
You’re just a Fan Boy.


Sorry, but I got shows to stop.
When the corks pop, I’m feelin up my enemies
after a couple a shots, schnapps topped with pop rocks
or hot sauce to cover up the ten benzies.

The tongues are way tamer at this stage in the game and
the sh-t-talk lulls to a dull disclaimer.
Skin’s thicker than leather, stronger than concrete.
Opinions don’t better what’s already complete.

There you go, down the elevator shaft --
mass grave among the ghosts of Fan Boys past.
I’ll run home and laugh. I won’t look back
till you come haunting me for an autograph.


Hoi Polloi
You’re just a Fan Boy