vengaboys we like to party top of the pops

Someone in Arcade Fire - let's face it, the piano player - is going to wind up with carpal tunnel syndrome playing this every night. Pounding away in martial half-beats like Elton John's car alarm. It starts and ends with a chattering piano. If not, and assuming he hasn't already, he should definitely put it on his business cards: 'Pitbull (rapper) - I can make anyone sound good, without even clearing my throat.' Even if the song is already running on minus goodness, so that it drags down the reputation of all music ever just by existing, there are always further depths to plumb, and clearly we have found the man for the job.Īctually, IS that his job now? To act as a kind of instant reality check for struggling producers who can't think how to improve their masterwork? Does he get asked to appear on people's records so that the all the bits which had previously sounded a bit rubbish suddenly appear to have the gravitas and quality of Beethoven's fifth? There really is no musical endeavour, no matter how astonishing, no matter how great - or at the other extreme, no matter how half-cocked, ill-thought-out or just plain lyrically lazy - that Pitbull can't make a little bit worse. You can't really have a good hot bath like this without the means to wash yourself properly, really get into the hard-to-reach areas - like right inside your ears - and the rhythm sponge, while vital, just won't cut the mustard.īefore you ask, no there's no musical loofah. It's the only thing which is missing from what is otherwise a perfect bathing experience, and its absence is starting to grate. Oh how we will miss that flannel (which in this slightly overcooked analogy is the tune). And then flail around under the surface, to try and locate the melody flannel, which slipped down beneath the harmoniously bubbly waves, never to be seen again. Wade through the murky organ (no jokes, it's only a bath) and whispering steam, sounding as close to a human voice as you could imagine, so close you could swear there were actual words. Marvel at the intricate way the guitars mesh together, like the intertwined metal on an ornamental soap dish. Oh this is a deep hot bath of a song, isn't it? Feel the sumptuous depths in those drums, pounding away distantly as if from the inside of some creaky old copper pipes.

Vengaboys we like to party top of the pops