by Jaime Lees
Dear Kid Sister,
I love you, but you need to get off of your ass and release your debut already. I read yesterday that you and your label are holding your album until it feels right "sonically." I don't know what that means, but it smells like caca. I mean, all I wanna do is kick Dream Date at my next house party and you fools are ruining my fun.
And what the fuck, yo? Chicago is not that far away, please come play St. Louis. What's wrong? You've got no love for us? We love you. (See proof here and here). I heard you played Washington University a few months back, but us non-students didn't have a chance of getting in to that show.
Back in the day, I saw you kick it with Flosstradamus at the Town Hall Pub parties up in Chicago, and I know that you're the right girl to get a St. Louis dance party started. I'll even come and pick you up! The damn engine light is on in my stupid VW Beetle and I'd still road trip my ass up there to come and get you. You'd have fun here: We've got mad beauty shops and hella nail salons -- we'll take you to get your nails did! I know you like it.
I saw you at SXSW last year and I gotta say, you were crunk, but your performance was still tight and your style was fly as hell. I sprained my ankle that night and after your show you walked by me trying to dance while still elevating my ankle on a bar stool and you told me I was "workin' it." Damn, don't I know it!
Anyway, I sprained my ankle for you -- you owe me. Any time you want to come to the Lou, just holla at yo girl and we'll get it worked out. Hell, hit me on my beeper.
Jaime Lees and the City of St. Louis