KIMYA DAWSON AND ANTSY PANTS
Maybe it's the dorky dad in me, but I'm coming 'round to Dawson's so-cutesy-you-wanna-puke Children's Television Network-ish sing-alongs. My son isn't two yet, so he can't parrot stuff like "The turtle wished that it could fly, really high into the sky," but I'm psyched for the day when he and I can giggle-warble this together. Likely Appeal to Juno aficionados: Appears on the soundtrack, so, duh.
FLO RIDA feat. T-PAIN
Congratulations, Sunshine State—now you've got your very own Nelly/Chingy doppelganger! Same Southern-rap fascination with extended "r" sounds, same single-minded eagerness to pantingly objectify women, etc. Will be huge in strip clubs forever, will stop mattering to the rest of the populace by late April. Also onboard: T-Pain, for those who didn't get their fill of him last year. Likely Appeal to Juno aficionados: oh, come the fuck on.
Remember that lady reporter who, near the end of High Fidelity, is sorta scamming on John Cusack's character? The one with the brunette bob and adorable girly doodles on her notebook? If she were a real person, she'd end all her mixtapes with this song, which feels like a buttery, flaky spin on Cub's "New York City." Likely Appeal to Juno aficionados: like, so, so high.
Oh, put those Doc Martens back on, will you? Electroclash remains as dead as the dodo; frankly, I'd rather have a mummified dodo on my mantle than this cold, electronic monotony rattling my foundations. (But: Peaches, we love you! Always will.) Likely Appeal to Juno aficionados: zilch.
TIMES NEW VIKING
"Post Teen Drama"
This Ohio trio used to record for Siltbreeze, and they sure sound it: simplistic, youthful day-glo racket refracted through ass-canned production suggesting that live's the best way to experience whatever songcraft they're capable of. Here, Jared Phillips's chicken-scratch guitars claw the central melody so madly that Beth Murphy's vocals register unspecific frustration more than anything concrete (to say nothing of her panicked keyboard jabs). Drummer's a non sequitur; you can barely hear him. Likely appeal to Juno aficionados: low, as the majority has outgrown this sorta art-rock punk-noise.
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