A new decade has dawned and Flashion Forward is ready to prognosticate as we gaze at the strange and colorful aesthetic scape fashion and music create when they collide. Let’s frolic about the closets of our fanciest, freshest interviewees and find out if their musical and sartorial styles sing in harmony or clash discordantly.

Today we’re synchronizing with Telepathe.

Telepathe, a startlingly unique avant-garde electro act from Brooklyn, is way ahead of all of us–who better to turn to for thoughts and advice on what to expect in the coming year? Former math-rockers who decided to join forces and ditch all of the boring conventions that can stymie experimentation busted open their doors of expression and now produce the kind of pop that can send anyone into trance. They pour “layers and layers of sound, with girlish vocals woven in as yet another rhythmic element” onto the swooning, sweaty masses, proving that basic arithmetic does add up to a solid foundation one can use for fun things later in life.

Terrifyingly trendy to boot, sometimes it’s hard not to fall under the spell of their “improvised guitar gusts, woodsy chirps, wraith-like Björkian harmonies and powerfully jabbed drums into minimalist baroque.” You’ll be put into the same sort of Pabst-drinking, bad parka-wearing sparkly fog in which we find ourselves wearing purple jeans without a trace of irony.

Best leave it to the experts though. Instead, the rest of us can learn from their rather outré approach to crisis management. Below, check out how Telepathe plans to save us all from ourselves, bears and quicksand.

Ready yourself for the new decade of style and Flashion Forward with UI as we gaze at the strange and colorful aesthetic scape fashion and music create when they collide. That’s right: let’s frolic about the closets of our fanciest, freshest interviewees and explore the zany manners in which artistes express themselves–and find out if their musical and sartorial styles sing in harmony or clash discordantly.

The difficult but fun to pronounce Röyksopp (try dropping an intelligent reference to Röyksopp after a few sips of giggle juice and you’ll see what I’m sayin’) hails from an equally difficult but fun to pronounce city in Norway–Tromsø.

Like most of the extremely wonderful and extremely naughty things in life, Röyksopp picked up their electronic music habit young and never looked back; they played with Aedena Cycle, Alania and Drum Island before reuniting and busting out their own outfit several years later, delivering “languid, elegant and impeccably cool music” that “gives a post-modern sheen to old-school heartache.”

Their often downbeat, serious themes belie a rarely approached level of exuberance and unfettered silliness at public performances. Besides, anyone who can’t appreciate the singular beauty and practicality of a red and white polka-dotted snuggle suit and the occasional need to simultaneously eat one dead fish while feeding another dead (and presumably sated) fish head, is probably not going to buy what Röyksopp is sellin’ anyway.

And really, the boys are all about the fans–them meeting musician’s needs and musicians meeting theirs. Speaking of which, if you want to get on Röyksopp’s good side, consider expressing your appreciation through nudity. They’ve found it’s an extremely effective mode of communication between performers and their audience. Crying jags work too. Check out their tip list below:

Flashion Forward with UI as we gaze at the strange and colorful aesthetic scape fashion and music create when they collide. That’s right: let’s frolic about the closets of our fanciest, freshest interviewees and explore the zany manners in which artistes express themselves–and find out if their musical and sartorial styles sing in harmony or clash discordantly.

The auspiciously named Art Brut (in honor of Jean Dubuffet and outsider artists everywhere) sets itself up immediately as an aggressively outré band–Frank Black was a fan from day one. Dubbed “crudely hooky” and simultaneously “one-shot art-punk” one thing’s clear: for this band, originality is probably as important as execution, though most (even non-art-punk fans) find their “crashing percussion, tube-driven guitar ferocity, and fat bass lines “devasting(ly) addictive.”

At first sound, Art Brut seems like the kind of band that would insist on living in a sprawling, rat-infested loft in Bushwick, Brookyn, subsisting on tofu, sprouts, minced garlic and Schlitz while wearing nothing but third-hand dumpster/salvation army finds. But they actually resemble math nerds who ran into a vat of manic panic wielded by a stylist from TLC who totally hooked them up with her interpretation of what the cool kids are wearing these days. Meta!

Somehow, the mustaches, Bon Jovi ‘dos and bad scarves just make them seem more…legitimate. Like, they’re so into their art-punk lifestyle they don’t have time to page through Paste and figure out that knee-length blazers are totally 2002.

Below, check out their peripatetic approach to the road, touring and travel–and why London’s just a stopover on a longer journey into the night.

Ziiiiiiiip up your space suit and get ready to Flashion Forward! We’re diving into fashion’s future with UI’s wacky space/time/fashion continuum through which we frolic about the closets of our fanciest, freshest interviewees and explore the zany cross-streets where aesthetics and sound colliiiiiide!

Today, we’re headed into the realm of Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson, a name that sounds like it belongs to someone with the ability to write checks with a buttload of zeros. The only thing that’s missing is a Jr. or a series of Roman numerals after his name–guess he isn’t a WASP after all.

But that doesn’t mean dude can’t sting. Miles’ talent is reportedly as big as his name, size of the venue at which he warbles and strums be damned. The musician’s commitment to his audience is practically palpable at shows and on his well-received records. He’s in it for all of us: Some of his songs are nothing less than a “choir of the damned reach[ing] it’s fever pitch on ‘Written Over,’ a desperate plea for redemption and second chances that gathers a host of rawly unfulfilled voices to shout its titular refrain.”

No slouch in the existential crisis department–Miles is like Camus for the urban hipster set with ennui–he, natch, has the style chops to go with doe-eyed deeper-than-thou and I-could-probably-use-some-Prozac-but-I’ll-take-a-Pabst tortured artisté style we all know and love.

Best of all? He shows serious evidence of a working brain-stem, in addition to a tasty physique and envy-inducing talent. Below, check out Miles’ thoughts on the ugly side of American dream. Maybe our generation’s Camus comes with a guitar strapped to his back.

Strap on your snazziest goggles and buckle yourself in for a zany ride into fashion’s future with UI’s wacky space/time/fashion continuum, Flashion Forward. Let us frolic playfully about the closets of our fanciest, freshest interviewees and see what silken treasures hide underneath all of their growly, grating, gaspy gush of sound.

Hurricane Bells (Steve Schiltz) has been resounding quite loudly of late, due to the overnight sensation-style wave of teeny-bopper fans created when the track “Monsters” reared its deceptively lovely head on New Moon’s deceptively lovely soundtrack.

Schiltz–of (relative) Longwave fame–seemed to figure Hurricane Bells was just a side project. But like many seemingly innocuous hobbies and side interests–Grandpa’s penchant for golf, Aunt Marge’s devotion to kitty cats–it’s taken over his life. And he couldn’t be happier. In fact, when describing his newfound popularity with the young, pale ‘n’ posh set, he sounds like a slightly slow fourth-grader who has received a gold star every day this week.

But instead of being tiresome, it’s totally cute. It also helps that Hurricane Bells genuinely began as a quiet, creative outlet–not some MTV-grasping bid for fame. You can now find the band’s debut album, Tonight is the Ghost, at several fine digital retailers.

Schiltz and his cohorts are those rare rock gems who seem (and look and sound) like the type of fun, smart, slightly insecure but totally kickass guys you’re actually friends with, except with better hair and lighting.

Who’s ready to Flashion Forward? Let’s grab our gear and dive into fashion’s future with UI’s wacky space/time/fashion continuum through which we frolic about the closets of our fanciest, freshest interviewees.

Today, we’re headed into Basement Jaxx’s pimped out den of iniquity to see what they’ve got. The UK house music duo got their start at a night club in Brixton in the mid’-90s, but by the turn of the millennium, their shizzle was landing in commercials and on the soundtracks of cinematic tour de force’s like Bend it Like Beckham.

So does that make them, like, totally lame? Mmm, not so much. Especially if you take their various forays into po-mo land with collaborative installations at London’s Tate Modern museum and their work with the likes of Yoko Ono and Lightspeed Champion.

Their maximalist musical style, boldness and simultaneous ability to evoke “potent sadness…open-hearted plea[s] for affection and understanding” amid a potpourri of “fun, uptempo party tunes” summarizes their raison d’etre.

At first glance, they look like suits who are ready to sell out to the highest bidder–but after about, oh, one second of careful concentration, you realize they’re flipping the bird at that concept (literally in some cases).

So who, and what, are they–really? Just two regular hipster dudes who liked Metallica when Metallica was still cool. Oh, and they may have a slight addiction to video games. So, yeah; two regular hipster dudes.

Before we officially strap on our feed pants for the holidays, let’s slip into our pimped out time machine for one more Flashion Forward. Your hypothesis is correct, Captain: It’s time to strut our sartorial stuff and dive into fashion’s future, as well as the closets of UI’s fanciest, freshest new interviewees.

Today’s musings begin with Michael Cerveris, a polymath performer who is as comfortable on strutting his stuff on stage with a guitar as he is sans–a rock ‘n’ roller who does Broadway. Now before you whip out the barf bags, consider this: Dude got his start in the TV series “Fame.” Wait…It’s not as inauspicious as it sounds. Well maybe it is, but all’s well that ends well, right?

When he’s not busy being nominated for Tony Awards for his performances in “The Who’s Tommy,” “Sweeney Todd,” “Assassins” or “LoveMusik,” he’s fronting the Brit band Retriever, playing in Bob Mould’s band or cranking out solo albums with guest appearances from Norman Blake of Teenage Fanclub, members of Sleater-Kinney, Steve Shelley of Sonic Youth, Kevin March of Guided by Voices and many, many more.

But what really makes Cerveris awesome is not his highly laudable film, stage and musical career. No. It’s much deeper than that. Cerveris, a pale and pasty fellow who sports eclectic pinky rings, favors wacky, dark-colored ensembles and bears a rage-tinged, yet soulful gaze that a loving, slightly delusional mom might describe as “intense,” fully groks the connection between vampires and the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle.

It’s more than aspirational goth–it’s the desire to rise late and wreak havoc late into the night; it’s an insistence on grappling with the dark side of life, come what may; it’s intravenous drug use; it’s an almost instinctively spot-on Zeitgeisty fashion sense! Check out Cerveris’ well-thought out diatribe below.

And if nothing else, I hope you take in FF’s lesson of the day: Perhaps in 20 years Miley Cyrus will have an awesome fashion sense and a kick ass, hipster-approved career!