Having been assured by the shady, moustachioed cabal who run the internets that my readership is exclusively audiophilic, intellectual, suave, sophisticated and usually intoxicated, it’s probably the juncture to celebrate a facet of indie disco goodness that, in lesser company, we’d probably dismiss with a flick of our learned fringe. The combination of considered words and recorded sound usually point to a hallowing approach; a turn of phrase doesn’t necessarily have to steeped in reverence, but momentum is geared (almost by default) toward tunes that carry meaning. Tracks loaded with texture, evocation, gravitas, even worthiness – because let’s face it, excavating 500 words on Twisted Sister’s ‘We’re Not Gonna Take It’ whilst keeping a straight face isn’t going to be easy.
And yet there’s something intrinsically nutritious about music that celebrates its own inherent sense of the dumb. Songs that disregard narrative-driven contemplation or pseudo-philosophical navel-gazing in favour of a loud + raucous celebration of being alive. Whilst contemporaries are busy assimilating French existentialism or wry cinematic references or deconstructing that whole requited/unrequited love dynamic, these are songs that hang around behind the bike sheds, smoking, blowing huge Hubba Bubba bubbles, not giving a flying fuck beyond anything that very instant – and in many way, it’s this heady seam of “fun, right now!” that defines the energy pop music thrives upon.
Which isn’t to suggest that all disposable music is by its nature worth listening to, or that a decent tune needs to be seared in frippery before it qualifies as k’pow. But for those of you who appreciate it when that exquisite Beaujolais is accompanied with a brake-fluid chaser, worthiness is multi-faceted, and youth, vitality, adrenalin and shouty-pouty sentiment (not to mention the catchiest of choruses) can be a very splendid thing indeed.
This blog is guilty as most of eulogizing records for qualities dexterous. The sinuous lyrical wordplay, of the multi-layered and the cerebral. And yet sometimes the only course of action is to scream “fuck it”, to crack open that bottle of brake fluid and go hell for leather for Go Kart Mozart records. For early Bis, for Shonen Knife, for the Mighty Boosh singing about the unconfined joy of bouncy castles. And maybe even this, joyously dumb record…
Gonzales / Take Me To Broadway