Branding, Algorithms, Pain in the Arse: Dancing around Ourselves

What kind of music do you play? What race are you? Who did you vote for?


Lord Facebook! Please like me!

Death by Adequacy

We are going to build a neurological association for you, and you are going to be a bastard if you don’t fold yourself and play along. You are going to be a deviant if you don’t offer yourself as a sacrifice to my feeling of ORDER.

A Story That Started With Millennials

Selling to lonely children is much easier. Simple and cynical, as usual.

About Fighting Robots: Basket Rules

Imagine, you have a nice basket. You carry food in it. But then it starts telling you what food to get (using “Basket Rules”).

Being Squashed for Being a Whore, Or…?

On that day, I avoided the path of a linguist / ethnomusicologist turned sex slave by an inch.

Will the New Digital Generation Be Remembered as the Lost Digital Generation?

I think I am having a déjà vu. I think what’s happening to the new, shiny digital generation in the U.S. has already happened to the generation of my grandparents in the Soviet Union.

Loving While Scared

My love goes out to people who are not talking trash, pointing fingers, blaming friends who voted differently or going super macho on them, who are not talking with contempt about family members, who are trying to understand, love, and relate. I don’t care who you voted for.

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Music, the real thing, I almost have no words…

Music, my love…

The other day, I was thinking to myself: Does anybody actually care about truth, culture or dignity?

So, I figured something out… so I say it out loud (the rhyme just showed up…hooray). But does it actually help anybody?

And for the thousandth time, I decided, “fuck it… I am not going to waste my breath.”

And then…

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Observer Effect: Don’t Even Think of Quantifying Me (Asshole)

The 21st century America is a very strange place. Beautiful, bountiful, but strange. It tells me, “I want your music in my catalogue as long as you agree that it’s not special, and I want your booty in my catalogue as if it’s not special, either”. It wants me to line up and lick the conveyor. It wants me to play ordinary. It wants me to march with the crowd and participate in the global sexual act that has been stripped of all magic. The underlying emotion is of disrespect.

What do I say? First, I have no words. Then I cry. I don’t like any of it. It’s counter-everything. It defeats my humanity, my dignity, and my sense of self. It’s a man (and woman) eating machine (I stole it from Grace Jones).

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Tessa is a strongly opinionated singer and musician living in New York. Her background is in classical piano, linguistics, computers, ethnomusicology, and Tibetan studies. She fronts Tessa Makes Love.

Robots are on her shit list, and this blog is about not taking shit from the machine.