LMFAO are the soundtrack to the Kardashian lives. Their shiny, sticky, tacky brand of Europop shudders blankly round the hangar sized fleshpots of Las Vegas waiting to be anointed by the bootiful ones. Whereas their Euro influences were a charming rag-tag bunch of campy if not annoying characters that seemed to chance upon success (Vengaboys, Aqua…) this is the sound of something more sinister.
It’s the sound of terminal narcissism masked as frivolity (they’re sexy and they know it) and unashamed, naked greed, the cut out and keep guide to plastic consumerism that began with the Black Eyed Peas and will hopefully die this side of David Guetta. They’re every faceless, soulless track that crams the charts these days with alarming regularity. The frat-boy forced-fun bus that’s got the market cornered for every charmless, predictable event this past decade. They’re the new Jive Bunny for these self obsessed, citizen-celebrity times. This song could be any LMFAO single, there as interchangeable as one of Kim K’s suitors and just as dull.