There are two versions of the MIA myth. Myth the first: Back in 2005,
into a world increasingly obsessed with revivalism, a techinicoloured
terrorist emerged from the streets of east London dressed like sonic
the hedgehog at a basement rave and ripped UK music from limb to limb.
Then, armed with neon thread, this visionary stitched it back together,
creating a patchwork of rave, raga, rap and rock. She stretched time
and space until they snapped, slinging any dilapidated concept of genre
into the cosmos to be gorged on by a trio of luminescent hip-hop
phoenixes.
Myth the second: In 2005, into a world of genuine musical visionaries
(Dizzee Rascal, Arcade Fire) a fluro idiot crawled inexplicably from
beneath the nails of the zeitgeist. Backed by an incomprehensible
melange of execrable sonic affectations, this bourgeois Londoner sang
the praises of questionable military struggles in some of the poorest
countries in the world while being dressed by the hippest designers in
the west. Her unbearable vomit music was something forged in the flames
of a thousand meaningless fads and she herself was destined for the
pyre of fashion once her 15 seconds were over.
Here's a video of a track from her previous album:
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