Solange: Losing You
Like a perfumed ghost of the 90s it rose from the ether, a rush of glowing familiarity followed by the strangeness of its sharp coolness. Its blank simplicity and dour repetition exposing the black magic of heartache, like blinking into the sunlight from the sour daydream of the once warm lovers embrace. It is the indulgent beauty of romantic sadness woven into a shimmering musical fabric of Iberian skylines, crowded dancefloors and the hope of a question not yet answered.
Lana Del Rey: National Anthem
No-one requests a fist full of realism from their pop music, well, that is, unless you’re some kind of joyless musical crank (or Gary Barlow). It’s the epic, widescreen glamourous glory of this that makes it a dangerously addictive feast to routinely gorge on. From the moment Madame Pouty-Face half-whispers her own Molly Bloom response, you are thrust head long into a chorus that tumbled out of the best American films, a chorus populated by cheerleaders, skyrockets, ticker-tape, shiny white smiles… The fact that this ebullient mass of thrills was co-written by ex- Fame Academy rat-fink David Sneddon only goes to show that in pop music anyone can rewrite their own fairytale once it sounds like a hit.
Cheryl : Call My Name
Shut up. Shut up everyone. Yes, it is just an extra bit that fell off ‘We Found Love’ that Calvin discovered down the back of the couch. Yes, Cheryl sounds absolutely knackered half way through it. Yes, it’s the aural equivalent of a hungover take-away… but it is utterly perfect. It’s the shiny, bounce of Saturday morning pop, the kind that can propel you from bed to bouffanting your hair to a frankly terrifying size in the merest of bleeps.
Carly Rae Jepson : Call Me Maybe
Carly Rae Jepson, Barley Mae Jetson, Rarely Bean Crepson. Who cares? Who cares who she is, what her name is or what she ever does ever again, for she is just the siphon, the vessel for this one-hit-wonder sledgehammer to the synapses. Her generic nature just added to the jackpot formula that sounded like it came directly from the Max Martin School of Infectious Hits. It would never have worked as well with some toothy star trying to add muscle and weight to the fluffy, ingénue-esque, Taylor-Swifty mush of the lyrics. There may not ever be a follow up which will have such an impact on the cultural zeitgeist, so for this one perfect pop moment in time thingamabob, Call Me Maybe, we salute you.
Madonna: Girl Gone Wild
Haters gonna hate and haters mostly hated all over Madge for the whole of 2012. How dare she STILL EXIST. Damn her and her gyrating crotch, her irrepressible spirit, her rampant ego, her opinions, her age, her face, her boyfriend, her music, her live shows. So MDNA didn’t deliver on its clean-slate promises but it did give us tracks like this to scream your lungs dry to at 3am whilst you bang your crotch into a sweaty stranger’s face, how many Katy Perry songs can you say that about?
Originally published on fanny.ie