“I just changed my mind,” I told my boyfriend last Thursday night. “I want a baby.” We were standing in the balcony of Metro, and singer/rapper M.I.A. (nee Maya Arulpragasam) had just finished a whirlwind set with her boyfriend, Diplo, who provided the beats, and her friend Cherry, a hard-bodied beauty who sang backup and danced. M.I.A.’s a firecracker live, demanding that audiences be explicit about what they want–“Don’t just say ‘yay’!” she yelled.
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A screen behind her showed her own neon stencil animation: a tiger running, bombs plummeting, helicopters swarming over bright pink asterisk explosions. Her hair was a rat’s nest and she wore a short-sleeved sequined pantsuit printed with blue and yellow diamonds, triangles, and polka dots, giant gold earrings, and laceless Converse low-tops. She danced like a slut–hiking up a leg, stretching out an arm, and humping the air–and she was cute as hell.
My boyfriend laughed when I told him this, which I found encouraging. “We’ll just raise it all crazy and fuck it up in just the right ways,” I continued, “teach it about politics and art–”
Half flattered, half mortified, I hemmed and hawed, complaining that there were too many people and I was embarrassed. The camerawoman got aggressive, grabbing my hand and leading me to the bathroom; Frischmann followed. Inside, Frischmann serenaded me with the camera in my face, goading me to strip. She took her shirt off, like “See? It’s OK.” I think I gave them a little something–I may have lifted up my skirt–but it wasn’t the show they’d hoped for.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/Matt Carmichael.
