Does Your Pop Music Suck? Nothing Good To Go Bad.

/This post commandeered by guest blogger Don Bito/

I drove into work today without the slightest idea of what I would write about this week.  I hadn’t heard anything new and noteworthy, one way or the other, and I had my doubts about how many weeks I could get away with writing about not-necessarily-recent songs that I just happen to like, and still have you all believe this was a topical pop music review column.

Approaching my desk, a lone tear swelled and dropped from my eye, a single gleaming reminder that the illusion would soon be shattered, the velvet curtain pulled back, that my days as a member of the pop music intelligentsia were now numbered.

And their number…was one.  I was sucked into a greased downward spiral of hopelessness and despair (even more so than I usually am at the start of my shifts).

BUT LO, FROM THE VILLAGE OF INBOX THERE SHON A DIM BUT CONSTANT LIGHT.

Could this be? No, surely it was a figment of my imagination, a momentary hallucination created by my reeling ego to engender false hope and eventually sharpen the pain of my inevitable failure.

YET STILL THERE SHON THE LIGHT.

Oh readers, it WAS true! Not only was I to avoid ruination (this week), but it was none other than the Philly Grrl who had thrown herself upon the seldom-bestowed mercy of my haphazard musical tastes.

A MERCY SHE WOULD NOT RECEIVE. And here’s why…

Because this song friggin’ sucks.  I’ll be honest, readers, I have to keep listening to it over and over again while I review it because there isn’t a line or note in there worth remembering.  It’s literally like my brain recognizes that this is all completely useless input and refuses to retain any of it for any length of time.

It’s like Cobra Starship had some vague hope of making this into a Timbaland-level dance hit along the lines of the fabulous The Way I Are, but really they’re just a bunch of barely-pubescent kids dancing in front of the web cam in their underwear thinkin’ they sound like Mariah Carey (and speaking of amateurs, how in the eff does Leighton Meester have anything to do with this? And why do her parents hate her so much? Unsolved mysteries.)

I mean, never have the same twelve bars on a loop sounded less like music. Pop should be like cotton candy, melting easily in your metaphorical mouth and leaving behind a little bit of sugar. Good Girls Go Bad disintegrates in your mouth and leaves behind a little bit of bile.

And seldom is so very littled conveyed in 3 1/2 minutes worth of crowing (not to mention egregious “I-think-when-I’m-singing-this-is-what-I’m-supposed-to-do-with-my-hand” gesturing).  Take a moment, if you dare, to review the lyrics.

For those of you who don’t have the time, or who are taking notes, let me wrap up by distilling those down to a neat, bullet-pointed summary for you:

-He makes them good girls go bad.

-He knows you.

-You’re a good girl.

-He makes you go bad.

-Good girls go bad.

-She knows him.

-He is a bad boy.

-She was a good girl with an apparent hormone imbalance who, overwhelmed with lust, has succumbed to his indescribable undescribed charm and is now bad. At the time the song was recorded, she has not yet had the pleasure of vomiting up the drinks he bought her while wondering why, exactly, she would sleep with someone just because he liked to hang out in a dark corner of the club [Editor's note: This never works for me] and taking the bus to the nearest CVS for a morning-after cocktail of Plan B and refrigerated Star Bucks espresso shots.

- He makes them good girls go bad.

-Completely uncalled-for cheer sequence that Gwen Stefani couldn’t even pull off, what are you even trying to DO TO ME??

-Good girls go bad.

The only thing left to say is, Really, Philly Grrl? Danceable? …Pshaw.

/Send you pop dreck to wegotthebits@gmail.com and you, too, can have your spot blown up on the internets next Friday.//