Screw the mashups of the year-whatevers-DJ-sick-bEaTz. Take me back to the days when songs didn't require three collaborators or a dirty thumpin' beat to be successful.
I will take a hair band with men in leather pants and eyeliner over those gimmicks any day. Yes, it's wonderful that the top 40-ers of our time have learned to play nice on autotune for the sake of selling a single on itunes, but I want a goddamn brass section. Hey big spender, give me the trombones and trumpet that made you so damn irresistible. I crave poison. I need nothin' but a good time.
I'm sorry Guys and Dolls, I've been on a showtunes/oldies/classic rock binge as of late, so sue me(sue me, what can you do me...)
I will stop with the totally obvious allusions now.
Only these gems on high volume in a pristine upper east side apartment could adequately complement an all-morning dish washing session. Complete with dirty dancing, the twist, and Aretha Franklin-style belting(I helped dry).
There is a recording of my sisters and me running around(Sue). The type of shenanigans one might find occurring in our living room on a lazy Saturday afternoon.
Or we might be running(with the Devil). But that's more of a Saturday night type of deal.
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