Fantasy Factory is fundamentally fun. It's a dance track. I wanted a song that makes you move. I wanted a song that sounded like a strobe light had a baby with a club’s dance floor. It’s meant to be played loud, driving way too fast, jumping with your friends at three AM. It’s for getting ready, to quell insecurity. It’s a party and a pep talk, filter sweeps, four on the floor, time to rage.
It’s about how authenticity is often met with opposition from those who would rather categorize you in ways that are palatable to them, at the expense of your reality and life’s diversity. Basically, it’s saying “this is who I am, like it or not” which applies to both the concept album's narrative and my own life. Although, in my own life, I’d rather say: “eat it, I’m queer. Sorry if that makes it harder for you to jack it to me. But that was never what I was for.”
Also, this is a not-so-subtle call-out to people, businesses, and industries who started treating me differently after I came out. “Don’t you think I’m pretty anymore?” is a sarcastic, rhetorical question. I don’t care about the answer.
I’m not, and no one is, here to be your fantasy factory. This track also features a sample from Iconapop: "I don't care."
lyrics
Whoops
I got tired of it
Always thinking I would hit and miss
Know you miss me
Cause of what I did
What a pity
I don't give a
Know you miss her
I got tired of it
So I killed her
Reconcile with it
What a city
Know you miss when I was pretty
What a pity, pity
I got this feeling on a summer day
When you were gone
I crashed my car into the bridge
I watched, I let it burn
I threw your shit into a bag
And pushed it down the stairs
I crashed my car into the bridge
I don't care
Baby, I can't be your
Fantasy factory
Think maybe
That's the reason you're mad at me
I'm sorry
That you felt like I had to be
I won't be
Your fantasy factory
Tell me the truth, baby
Tell me the truth, honey
Tell me the truth, darlin
Tell me the truth, baby
Don't you think I'm pretty anymore
Don't you think I'm pretty anymore
Don't I get you going anymore
Don't you think I'm pretty anymore
I got this feeling on a summer day
When you were gone
I crashed my car into the bridge
I watched, I let it burn
I threw your shit into a bag
And pushed it down the stairs
I crashed my car into the bridge
I don't care
Baby, I can't be your
Fantasy factory
Think maybe
That's the reason you're mad at me
I'm sorry
That you felt like I had to be
I won't be
Your fantasy factory
Tell me the truth, baby
Tell me the truth, honey
Tell me the truth, darlin
Tell me the truth, baby
Don't you think I'm pretty anymore
Don't you think I'm pretty anymore
Don't I get you going anymore
Don't you think I'm pretty anymore
Medusa is a "revenge pop" musician based in New York. They're pretty sure they subconsciously stole calling their music "___-pop" from their friend Zand, who coined "ugly-pop," but it's way too late in the game to undo it now.
supported by 5 fans who also own “fantasy factory”
continuing from FIYH, this is blackpilled as all fuck; written and delivered with the raw candidness and self-mocking bitterness of a high-schoolers journal, and set to beats that are laser-focused to keep my distractable mind topped up on angry dopamine. A tight 21 minutes of weaponised disgust. Tom Colquhoun