Surprisingly, some women will sleep with Tucker Max…
Charlotte Allen has written a piece on dating – yes, dating – for the Weekly Standard – yes, the Weekly Standard - that will be a gift for gender historians and cultural studies for generations.
Allen central problem? Why do women have sex with giant, over-privileged assholes like Tucker Max? I wonder…
It helps, of course, that there’s currently a buyer’s market in women who are up for just about anything with the right kind of cad, what with delayed marriage (the average age for a woman’s first wedding is now 26, compared with 20 in 1960, according to the University of Virginia-based National Marriage Project’s latest report); reliable contraception; and advances in antibiotics (no more worries about what used to be called venereal disease). No-fault divorce, moreover, has pushed the marriage-dissolution rate up to between 40 and 50 percent and swelled the single-female population with “cougars” in their 30s, 40s, 50s, and beyond. On top of it all is the feminist-driven academic and journalistic culture celebrating that yesterday’s “loose” women are today’s “liberated” women, able to proudly “explore their sexuality” without “getting punished for their lust,” as the feminist writer Naomi Wolf put it in the Guardian in December.
Wolf devoted her 1997 book Promiscuities to trying to remove the stigma from . . . promiscuity. On the one hand, she decried the double-standard unfairness of labeling a girl who fools around with too many boys a “slut,” and, on the other, she lionized “the Slut” (her capitalization) as the enviable epitome of feminist freedom and feminist transgression against puritanical social norms. Wolf’s point of view is today mainstream. It’s the underlying theme of Eve Ensler’s girls-talk-dirty Vagina Monologues, performed every year on Valentine’s Day on college campuses across the country. A chapter from Promiscuities titled “Sluts” has made so many women’s studies reading lists that term-paper mills sell canned essays purporting to dissect it. A group calling itself the Women’s Direct Action Collective issued a manifesto in 2007 titled Sluts Against Rape insisting that “a woman should have the right to be sexual in any way she chooses” and that easy availability was “a positive assertion of sexual identity.” In other words, if people call you a whore because you, say, fall into bed with someone whose name you can’t quite remember, that’s their problem. Of course, if a man mistakes a woman being “sexual in any way she chooses” for consent to have sex, it’s still rape.
Let’s highlight on that final pair of sentences, which are just beyond awesome:
In other words, if people call you a whore because you, say, fall into bed with someone whose name you can’t quite remember, that’s their problem. Of course, if a man mistakes a woman being “sexual in any way she chooses” for consent to have sex, it’s still rape.
I forgot how much cognitive dissonance the idea women should be able to have as much sex as they consent to creates. I mean, it is a difficult idea to accept. Of course, a rape victim was asking for it by having sex before her attack. If only she’d had the foresight to have clear record before her attack.
Let’s remember, ladies, that The Hangover style antics are only for the boys:
Thanks to late marriage, easy divorce, and the well-paying jobs that the feminist revolution has wrought for women, the bars, clubs, sidewalks, and subway straps of nearly every urban center in America overflow every weekend with females, young and not so young, bronzed, blonded, teeth-whitened, and dressed in the maximal cleavage and minimal skirt lengths that used to be associated with streetwalkers but nowadays is standard garb for lawyers and portfolio managers on a girls’ night out. The prelude to the $50,000 wedding these days isn’t just the budget-busting shower—although that’s de rigueur—but the bachelorette party, in which the bride and her BFF’s don their skinnies and spaghetti straps and head to a bar to be hit on, sometimes bride and all, by whatever males are bold enough (the typical accoutrements of the bachelorette party are a $15 “ironic” veil for the bride and a sculpted replica of a male sex organ that’s often brought to the bar).
And, oh noes! Look! All women in NY, NY are sluts!
Urban life, furthermore, turns out to imitate Sex and the City. A survey reported in the New York Daily News around the time of the film’s release revealed that the typical female resident of Manhattan, who marries later on average than almost every other woman in the country, has 20 sex partners during her lifetime. By way of contrast, the median number of lifetime sex partners for all U.S. women ages 15 to 44 is just 3.3, according to the Census Bureau’s latest statistical abstract.
Allen then continues on and on about the “seduction community” – the true winners of the sexual revolution. She ends her long windy exposition on the cultural importance of “The Game” – one can’t help but wonder if Allen has been watching too much How I Met Your Mother uncritically – with this nugget of wisdom:
If it all sounds cheesy, tedious, manipulative, obvious, condescending to women, maybe kind of gay, it’s because it is. But here’s the rub: This stuff works.
Personally, I love the gay crack. The Weekly Standard is so hip. Now, dear reader, let’s be honest here. The sort of pure drunken stupidity crossed with readings of evolutionary biology offered by “The Game” et al. does not work. But, of course, like a good social scientist Allen has evidence at it does! Conclusive evidence at that:
If you think men who peacock look ridiculous and unmanly, click onto the photo-website Hot Chicks With Douchebags, where spectacular-looking babes hang on the pecs of preening rednecks and “Jersey Shore”-style guidos sporting chest-baring shirts and product-stiffened fauxhawks. Watch the video “Learn Enough Guitar to Get Laid” on YouTube (three chords, max). In June 2005, Craig Malisow, a reporter for the Houston Press, trailed 24-year-old Bashev, a Bulgarian-born graduate student in engineering at Rice University and self-styled pickup expert, to a series of bars and clubs in Houston. Bashev had no intention of telling the 20-something HBs he met that his day job consisted of working with multivariable calculus. Instead he pointed to his shoes and informed them that he was a “foot model.” Then he launched into his canned opener: Did they think reality shows were “really real”? Sure, two groups of females on whom Bashev tried that line rolled their eyes and smirked, but three bars (and the same routine) later, he was relaxing in a lounge chair reading a shapely brunette’s palm (chick crack plus “kino,” a Mystery-ism that refers to getting a woman to crave your touch), and soon enough “her fingers were gently grasping the backs of his wrists,” Malisow observed. Within minutes, Bashev had not only number-closed but gotten a date for the following Wednesday.
There is so much pure goodness here, I don’t know what to pull out. I mean she uses “Hot Chucks with Douchebags” as primary evidence for her thesis! The Onion could not make this shit up.
But the best part is her “lived” example of the “seduction culture” in action. Hot pick up artist Bashev had to go to three different bars before he could find some poor souls to fall for his bag of tricks. High success rate there, buddy.
Allen then goes into a long ramble about evolutionary psychology – which I will not repost here. Needless to say Allen falls into the “Men are made to fuck, Women are made to marry” crowd. Easily the most boring part of this whole disaster.
Allen then goes on to blame the sexual revolution and women for the recent spat of horrific violence against women:
Infatuation with killers is extreme and rare behavior (although perhaps not so rare as we imagine—this past summer a 16-year-old Virginia girl developed an online crush on a 20-year-old horrorcore enthusiast who called himself “Syko Sam.” Syko Sam is now awaiting trial for allegedly bludgeoning the girl, her parents, and her best friend to death). But it’s a fair signal of impending social chaos when the prevailing female attitude is dissatisfaction, either mild or intense, with the workaday Joes—the good-provider beta males—whom one has already married or, in the era before the sexual and feminist revolutions, would be planning to marry because chasing alphas in bars was not a respectable option for the female middle class.
Of course! Violence aganist women is the product of the demographic shortage of non-slutty women. Clearly the only solution here is closer regulation of female sexual behavior.
And look! Marriage is falling apart:
Wives have historically reported less satisfaction from their marriages than husbands, but according to the National Marriage Project’s latest report, their discontent is growing: fewer than 60 percent of wives report that they are “very happy” in their marriages, in contrast to more than 66 percent in 1973. (Male marital happiness has declined, too: from 70 percent to 63 percent.)
I didn’t realize that a large majority of people continuing to enjoy an institution means it is on its way to destruction. Though I guess that might be because I find sentences like “Perhaps for that reason, or perhaps because sex outside marriage is now so readily available no one need buy the cow” to be full of shit.
I think I will close this little recounting of pure stupidity wit the real money quote from the last half of Allen’s piece. After quoting from some evolutionary psychology babble Allen proceeds to sum America up:
That’s a pretty fair description of mating life today in the urban underclass and the meth-lab culture of rural America. Take away the offspring, blocked by the Pill and ready abortion, and it’s also a pretty fair description of today’s prolonged singles scene. In other words, we have met the Stone Age, and it is us.
Yep, that’s the full picture of sexual America today – meth ends and 20 somethings looking to score. Except, of course, for the wise readership of the Weekly Standard – they are clearly above such things.
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Quick thoughts: Lost Season Six, Episode One…
Review: Transference by Spoon
The aggregate criticism site Metacritic, forever on the lookout for new ways to crunch data, crowned Spoon as their best musical artist of the decade. This wasn’t an editorial choice; they received the award for being the only band to release four albums and have a critical consensus of “great” for each of the four.
If Spoon’s latest release, Transference, were dropped a month earlier, Metacritic would’ve needed to bump that number up to five. Spoon has managed to make a wholly listenable album that moves the band in new directions while keeping one foot on the signature sound that has made them one of the most distinct and beloved bands in indie rock today. Again.
Girls Can Tell (2001) saw Spoon planting itself firmly onto the indie scene — nothing earth-shattering, but the piano-infused melodies and reliance on the guitar as a rhythmic instrument saw the band building their niche. Kill the Moonlight (2002) defined it, by stripping away the excess and focusing purely on the killer beats, snaps, and hooks that make music infectious. Gimme Fiction (2005) kept those essential song elements in focus but complicated matters by layering chaotic bursts of distorted guitar and more complex song structure. Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga (2007) polished and refined the band’s sound into ten cohesive, distinct, and expertly crafted songs, proving that Spoon had mastered the sound they had been building for the past ten years.
Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga was Spoon’s OK Computer — a commercially and critically successful work from an alternative rock band at the height of their craft. In both cases, nearly perfect albums, completely devoid of filler. Both Radiohead and Spoon fans were left to wonder what to expect next. How to follow up a near perfect album? Radiohead took the most challenging route: changing styles. Kid A and Amnesiac rebuilt Radiohead from the ground up as an electronic band, wandering through ambient soundscapes that often drifted far from what most people would define as a “song.” Brilliant for sure, but hardly as palatable as their earlier work.
Spoon took a more conservative, but still difficult route: Don’t completely break the sound that gave you your success, just smack it with a hammer a few times. Transference’s eleven songs are messier and choppier, deliberately lacking the perfectionist polish of Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga. Spoon swerves in and out of the rough patches just enough to keep things interesting. In a lesser band’s hands this might sound like a rushed effort, but Spoon clearly hasn’t forgotten any of the lessons of their previous work. They’re just keeping the listeners on their toes by liberally applying two new techniques to disrupt initial expectations.
The first, the deliberate use of lower quality recording, appears about thirty seconds into “Before Destruction,” the album’s opener. Britt Daniel’s voice suddenly sounds distant, as if he took a couple steps back from the microphone. The amps are turned down, practically off, so we can hear the naturalistic chop of an electric guitar played acoustically. This technique appears again halfway through the album with “Trouble Come Running,” a short and fun song that sounds like it was recorded in a basement over a lazy Saturday (and I mean that in the best possible way). Few bands would elect to keep the various imperfections in the piano ballad “Goodnight Laura,” but Spoon does. Most bands would also probably use violins the fill in the empty air around the piano, but Spoon instead opts for simple humming. It’s all gloriously low-fi.
The second, disrupting song structure, is not noticeable at first. The listener will likely be short enough of expectations to take these songs at face value. On the second and third listens, it becomes very apparent. Songs will often end thirty seconds earlier than it seems like they should. “Is Love Forever?” and “The Mystery Zone” take it as far as cutting off mid-word. Other songs will continue for another thirty seconds after their apparent end. “Written in Reverse,” for example, briefly springs back to life after a fade out. Throw in an occasional disregard for typical verse-chorus structure, and you have a pretty good idea of the way Transference plays with the archetypal Spoon song.
Spoon has hit a sweet spot in their career arc. They have critical support and a solid fan base but aren’t famous enough to land the inevitable backlash. They are famous enough to sell out two nights at the 930 Club before this reviewer could get his hands on tickets (shakes fist angrily!), but independent enough to be nowhere to find on FM radio. For purely selfish reasons I hope they stay right where they are. It seems to me like the ideal position for Spoon to keep doing what they want and keep doing it damn well.
In the future, everyone will be compared to Hitler for fifteen minutes…
This editorial comes from The Wall Street Journal, but since it’s one of those articles that takes a tenuous conceit that you can build a headline around and stretches the metaphor way past the point of coherence, you’d swear it came from Slate.
Cultural historians are desperately seeking a precedent to the Jay Leno-Conan O’Brien fiasco. They are looking in the wrong places. True, Pat Sajak, Chevy Chase and Joan Rivers all got axed from late-night talk shows after shockingly brief stints at the helm, but none of them got $32.5 million to take a hike. And none of them got replaced by the person they had replaced. And none of them pouted about getting canned for general incompetence while millions of their countrymen—who had not actually failed at their jobs—were unable to find work.
No, the most appropriate parallel to the debacle that has humiliated NBC took place in central Europe in the late 1930s. It happened at Munich.
Jay Leno, much like Adolf Hitler, is a master of making secret demands for foreign territory and then acting like the wronged party. First he pretended that he wanted to annex only the first half-hour of Mr. O’Brien’s “Tonight Show.” Here he was mimicking Hitler, who insisted that he merely wanted to annex the German-speaking Sudetenland, not all of Czechoslovakia.
Then, adopting the craven British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain as a role model, NBC stabbed Mr. O’Brien in the back by agreeing to let Mr. Leno reoccupy the first segment of his old “Tonight Show” slot. NBC’s defense was that Mr. O’Brien had dismal ratings, and the show was a bit of a mess. But the same can be said about Czechoslovakia, a hodgepodge cobbled together after the First World War that never really got its act together.
I guess it says something about my tastes that I was more upset by the author’s unfair claims about Conan’s “pouting” than the hyperbolic comparisons of Leno to der Fuhrer.
“My message to Tiger is, ‘Tiger, turn to the Christian faith and you can make a total recovery and be a great example to the world.”
“The Roman Stoic Musonius Rufus said, Look, there are some things you just shouldn’t have to talk about, and I think sex is one,” George said.
The following is self evident in nature, says Robert P. George philosophe to the stars. It requires no knowledge of the bible or anything else. Any transhistorial person, using “right reason”, can put this together.
Behold:
The same-sex marriage debate, George argues, illuminates an error in our understanding that he blames for most of the ills afflicting modern marriage — infidelity, divorce, out-of-wedlock births. Marriage is not just for procreation, love or sexual pleasure. “People have lost their grip on the true reasons for marrying, so they are unwilling to make all the sacrifices real marriage requires,” he said.
He admits the argument for marriage between a man and a woman can require “somewhat technical philosophical analysis.” It is a two-step case that starts with marriage and works its way back to sex. First, he contends that marriage is a uniquely “comprehensive” union, meaning that it is shared at several different levels at once — emotional, spiritual and bodily. “And the really interesting evidence that it is comprehensive is that it is anchored in bodily sharing,” he says.
“Ordinary friendships wouldn’t be friendships anymore if they involved bodily sharing,” he explained to me. “If I, despite being a married man, had this female friend of mine and I said, ‘Well, gosh, why don’t we do some bodily sharing,’ and we had straightforward sexual intercourse, well, that wouldn’t be friendship or marriage. It is bodily, O.K., but it is not part of a comprehensive sharing of life. My comprehensive sharing of life is with my wife, which I just now violated.” But just as friendships with sex are not friendships, marriage without sex is not marriage. Sex, George said, is the key to this “comprehensive unity.” He then imagined himself as a man with no interest in sex who proposed to seal a romance by committing to play tennis only with his beloved. Breaking that promise, he said, would not be adultery.
The second step is more complicated, and more graphic. George argues that only vaginal intercourse — “procreative-type” sex acts, as George puts it — can consummate this “multilevel” mind-body union. Only in reproduction, unlike digestion, circulation, respiration or any other bodily function, do two individuals perform a single function and thus become, in effect, “one organism.” Each opposite-sex partner is incomplete for the task; yet together they create a “one-flesh union,” in the language of Scripture. “Their bodies become one (they are biologically united, and do not merely rub together) in coitus (and only in coitus), similarly to the way in which one’s heart, lungs and other organs form a unity by coordinating for the biological good of the whole,” George writes in a draft of his latest essay on the subject. Unloving sex between married partners does not perform the same multilevel function, he argues, nor does oral or anal sex — even between loving spouses.
Infertile couples, too, are performing this uniquely shared reproductive function, George says, even if they know their sperm and ovum cannot complete it. Marriage is designed in part for procreation in the way a baseball team is designed for winning games, he says, but “people who can practice baseball can be teammates without victories on the field.”
George argues that reason alone shows that heterosexual sodomy and homosexual sex are morally wrong, just as the Catholic Church, classical philosophers and other religious traditions have historically taught. Unlike marital union in his special sense, he contends, such acts treat the body as an instrument of the mind’s pleasure. As both a practical and a philosophical matter, he argues, the law should not necessarily police such things. But the need for the state to establish a proper definition of marriage is a different matter, he says, because the law has always regulated it in the interest of parenthood and community. “Marriage in principle is a public institution,” he said. “I don’t think it can be like bar mitzvahs or baptisms or the Elks Club.”
Happy Christmas everybody!
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2009 in Review: Music
2009 gave us a lot of success from musical projects that looked like surefire failures. The return from a long hiatus of a band with a deceased member? Check. The supergroup consisting of not one, not two, but three rock giants? Check. A collaboration between the Black Keys and the Wu Tang Clan (among others)? Check. Yet another Jack White side project? Check. Each of these projects far exceeded my admittedly low expectations.
But, much as I enjoyed all the above mentioned albums, none of them accomplished anything truly transcendent. Only one album really blew me away in a way that matched pure entertainment value perfectly with originality and depth: The Mountain by Heartless Bastards. I’m shocked I’ve seen virtually no mention of this album as the year ends and everyone and their mother organizes their opinions into top ten lists.
Album titles rarely carry much meaning, but I can’t think of a more appropriate one for the Ohio band’s masterwork than The Mountain. The album feels both immense and wholly natural. It’s a perfect marriage of conflicting themes; an unhurried pace and weighty emotions expressed through minimal production and loose, natural delivery. The album feels longer than it is, and bizarrely, I intend that as a compliment. It’s an epic accomplished in less than 50 minutes.
To get a feel for the album, listen to the slow, twangy slide guitar of the album’s title track. Or the gospel-like lyricism of “Witchypoo.” Or the mandolin/violin duo on the long but well-paced “Had to Go.” The album has plenty of highlights, but it’s best enjoyed all at once. Don’t expect perfection. A few songs, like “Nothing Seems the Same,” tend to sag under their repetitive structure. But these flaws are part of the charm of an organic album that feels neither rushed nor fussed over.
Onward to my top ten songs:
10. Cage the Elephant — No Rest for the Wicked
This was undoubtedly the weirdest song on mainstream rock radio this year, which is largely the reason I appreciate it. It tells the story of a prostitute, a mugger, and a priest who steals from his congregation, all trying to rationalize their actions. The slide guitar and speak-singing recall Beck, while the cast of amoral characters recalls the Cold War Kids’ first album. Imagine if those got together for a drunken jam session. But there’s something infectious about it. It manages to be catchy even while the lyrics don’t quite match the beat. Its sloppiness is part of its appeal.
9. Blakroc — Telling Me Things
It was a pretty dire year for hip-hop. Brother Ali and Wale were pretty good, but their music covered well-trodden ground. Inexplicably, the most original hip-hop album of the year came from the Black Keys, working with producer Damon Dash and a slew of big name MCs, including Mos Def and few Wu-Tang members. The Black Keys’ instrumentals and background vocals lent far more texture and subtle variation than one might expect over songs with otherwise mostly generic verses. The best example of the success of the project is “Telling Me Things.” The drums snap, the guitar echo with reverb, and RZA has some pretty funny lyrics about a former relationship based on ridiculous lies. (“I told her I was a clone/And there was probably three of me.”)
8. Band of Skulls — Cold Fame
Band of Skulls’ debut album Baby Darling Doll Face Honey was a completely unexpected joy from this past year. I only picked it up because it was ridiculously discounted on iTunes, after hearing the single “I Know What I Am” and reading a review that made the band sound interesting, even if the reviewer wasn’t too enthusiastic about it. Though short, the album progresses from catchy garage rock in the spirit of the White Stripes to acoustic ballads touching on the blues. The lead single is incredibly infectious, and would certainly be a candidate for this top ten, if not for the album’s closer “Cold Fame.” It gets off to a slow start, with soft drumming, guitar notes left to ring, and a vocal duet. It builds into a climax over six minutes without changing the volume much, but rather the earnestness of the singers’ voices and the strumming frequency.
7. Alice in Chains — A Looking in View
Replacing a dead member and returning after a decade-long hiatus sounds like a recipe for disaster, but Alice in Chains fared much better than anyone could have guessed. It worked for several reasons. One, Jerry Cantrell was probably more of a creative force musically than the late Layne Staley. Two, while new vocalist William DuVall doesn’t have the same rawness Staley brought to the band, he’s talented enough on his own and doesn’t sound like a weak impersonation. Three, the new lineup toured for four years before recording an album, taking real effort to establish a new dynamic instead of assuming the old one would remain. Four, the music sounds more like it’s picking up where it left off, rather than trying to recapture the glory days. “A Looking in View” definitely has a late AIC feel to it — heavily distorted metal guitar work under harmonious vocals that runs just a tiny bit too long. It’s an expertly made look back at a sound that’s been mostly absent since the mid ’90s.
6. White Rabbits — Salesman (Tramp Life)
White Rabbits’ It’s Frightening was produced by Spoon’s Britt Daniel, and it showcases the same effectively layered simplicity that has become Spoon’s signature sound. This is by no means a insult — more Spoon is always a good thing. Since nearly every song on the album is at about the same level of quality, I could’ve just as easily highlighted the Clash-referencing “Rudie Fails” or the piano-pounding “Midnight and I.” I chose “Salesman (Tramp Life)” because it’s one of the least spare and perhaps the least Spoon-like. Multiple guitars, distinct bass, and overlayed vocals are juggled expertly, creating a nice subtle escalation without sounding dense. This song’s the one that will make me return to this band in the future, no matter who’s producing.
5. Heartless Bastards — Out at Sea
Tough to pick a “best” track off the awesome and sprawling The Mountain, but “Out at Sea” manages to be the song I return to most often. And who could resist it? The guitar chugs out a few grungy chords while the drums add plenty of flourishes to a catchy and simple beat. Erika Wennerstrom’s vocals are effectively soulful, as always. On an album full of epic and sprawling tracks, the most consistently enjoyable track is this single-worthy dose of barroom rock.
4. The Dead Weather — 30 Feet Tall
In the documentary It Might Get Loud, Jimmy Page compares the escalation in “Stairway to Heaven” to the buildup and climax of sex. There’s a short list of songs that work that same structure truly masterfully, Metallica’s “One” and Lynrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” are obvious choices, but I’d also include Radiohead’s “There There” and Tool’s “Lateralus” (the latter having multiple mini-climaxes over it’s nearly 10-minute running time). After this year I have to add “30 Feet Tall” to that list. Easily the best song from the supergroup, it features a pair of explosive guitar solos from Dean Fertita, Alison Mosshart wailing like a rocker and crooning like a lounge singer, and Jack White impressively drumming on his original instrument of choice.
3. Rodrigo y Gabriela — Buster Voodoo
The guitar-playing duo from Mexico has a truly distinct sound, not very concisely described as acoustic Latin metal instrumental. It was a bold move to ever-so slightly tamper with that for their second studio album, and a massive surprise that it paid off so well. Each song on the album is dedicated to a different artist that inspires the duo — in the case of “Buster Voodoo,” Jimi Hendrix. It’s easy to hear the comparison. While the soloing in the middle still sounds distinctly Latin, the low notes of the main riff (and later, the understated use of the wah pedal) offer homage to Hendrix’s rhythmic crunch.
2. Them Crooked Vultures — Scumbag Blues
Them Crooked Vultures boasts one of the most impressive pedigrees of any supergroup I’ve ever heard: Josh Homme, Dave Grohl, and John Paul Jones. Tackling both lead guitar and vocals, Homme is clearly the dominant force, but Grohl and Jones add layers of depth and polish to his addictive hard rock riffs. The best example of this is “Scumbag Blues,” which nails the same perfect power trio blend perfected in the ’60s by Cream. In fact, the main riff sounds a bit like something Clapton would have written, and Homme sounds a bit like Jack Bruce during the verse.
1. The Thermals — Now We Can See
Sometimes all it takes to write a great song is your classic three-piece band, a handful of major chords, and a hook you’ll be singing along to on your first listen (oh-way-oh-oooh-oh-ohhh). The end result is deceptively simple, but worth so much more than the sum of its parts. This is one of those songs that’ll slap a smile on your face no matter how many times you hear it.
Sanity.
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