You've bought all our records, haven't you? We're Mileece, Anne Laplantine, Mira Calix, and Colleen. We're the new wave of laptop girls. We make music that sounds like plant cells dividing. And we're hot.
But is that why you bought our music? No. You didn't even buy it because it's fantastic. That would be too straightforward for a twisted fuck like you. No, you bought it because you felt this big wave of guilt when you noticed that all your electronica records were by men. Not just men, but bald Canadians in lab coats.
So when you saw us barefoot in forests, hugging trees—fresh, righteous, young, and sexy—you got this big rush of relief, didn't you? You unzipped your fly and reached for your wallet, didn't you?
But let me tell you something. Just because we're female, it doesn't mean we're any closer to nature than a Canadian in a lab coat. And just because we walk barefoot across pine needles in billowing white nightdresses, it doesn't give you the right to project your sick "nature child" fantasies onto us. Mw'kay?
Look, pervert, just because I'm called Mileece, which sounds like "my leaves," and have a debut album called Formations on Leaf Records, does that give you the right to tie me up with all that "noble savage" and Walden shit, all that "blood and soil" stuff the Nazis loved so much? It doesn't, fuckface.
Just because my sleeve has a fractal twig diagram on it and my record sounds like chlorophyll bubbling in a wok, that doesn't give you the right to pen a review saying that "electronic music put in the hands of a woman becomes a more sensual and poetic medium."1 Fuck you! One minute you're telling us we're ethereal, the next you're trying to grab our ass.
Even if you bought our records for the wrong reasons, you have reason to thank us. Electronics used to be chemical yellow. Now they're leafy green. Computers used to be nonbiodegradable. Now you can hear them rot. Music used to go "clacky clacky clack." Now it goes "burble burble bubble." Your record collection used to be made with Froot Loops. Now it's made with fruit. You used to jerk off to a bald Canadian posed against a brick wall in a ghetto he didn't even live in. Now you jerk off to me, naked in a forest.
[Note: Just so you know and we don't get sued, this piece isn't by some quasi-human conglomeration of multiple women. This was written by Momus and what he's used in this piece is a "literary device." Christ. He even wanted to use a pseudonym. In fact, we'll still let him.]
JASMINECONE
1 http://www.themilkfactory.co.uk/reviews/colleen_answers.htm
