Drake: "This that Slumdog Millionare, Bollywood flow." Wayne: "Skinny pants and some Vans/Call me triple-A, get my advance in advance." Only you can put a stop to this bullshit, you know; stop copping their joints on iTunes and paying 'em lip service on your blog. Marquee idols convinced that they've got nothing left to prove are a bigger threat to Western civilization than terrorism, inflation, and Lindsay Lohan combined.
Nothing says "Damn, girl, I am hot for you but I'm staying over on this side of the house party" like click-track drums (or are they?) and keyboard Velveeta. "I haven't even thought about Austin Powers, so I guess I'm really crushing on you," singer Josh Boyd blushes. Given this L.A. band's knowing sophomoric bent, "Fuck the Party" registers as unusually sensitive—until the irreverent, Boyz II Men-referencing second half kicks in and you realize you've been roundly punked.
It's not even the rhymes with Roots, it's the sphincter-tight, dudes-going-for-broke-in-a-Philly-basement vibe of the instrumental performances: seductive, head-knocking, cavalier. You won't care how they got over; you'll wonder how much they had to rehearse to sound this loose, this swinging, this louche.
This is where I crack a joke about how U2 and Phoenix have a love child, and you clamp a hand over my mouth, and the two of us just ride this sweet guitar smoke out into the sunset like it's a magic carpet.
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