Admittedly, no month has been as orgasmic as September 2009. The disco infused jazz electronica placed aside video collaborations similar to that of a taxidermy nativity scene can simply not be beat. In fact, if I hear one more La Roux, spiked hair, sparkly pants sensation, I might just have to revert to wearing Led Zeppelin crop tees from middle school and declaring the death of digital releases. Thankfully, through the waspy pack of irritatingly simple synth beats, a handful of melodies have shook me to the fruit fly core (which, when cracked open, releases pearls and blue sapphires).
Munk Back Down (Cut Copy Remix)
I first discovered this track in early October while brushing my teeth with the computer perched on the side of my toilet. I spit my Crest onto the mirror and grooved naked for a total count of 12 minutes. The obsession did not stop there. The layers. The build. And oh, the percussion! I have recently taken a liking to songs that highlight an accompaniment instrument. Whether it is the bongos, the bass, the triangle…the drums and guitar are so yesteryear. The minimal vocals cascading over the fervent keyboards transcend simple dance music and build a webbed dome of pale pink pipe cleaners and silly string. And lets not even talk about the visuals. “Vogue” meets Rupaul drenched in tar.
XX Night Time (What Kind Of Breeze Do You Blow Extended Edit)
For a while I thought I hated XX. Constantly on indie playlists and a favorite of my mother’s, I pushed them into the category of Fever Ray molded into Blow Up (yawn). I will be the first to admit that I was wrong. The extended mix allows the song to birth and ascend through a lifetime, as her vocals shake the melodies and create static whispers. I of course have my favorite seconds, and at 2:20 when she adds the extra syllable to an absent beat, I flutter.
Stephane Pompougnac Latin Cha Cha
I stand alone on this Hotel Costes track. I have yet to meet a fellow soul who too gyrates to the Latin-fused rhythms. Picture tamale verde being served with a shot of Jose Cuervo as you sit upon wooden benches on the coast of Uruguay. You wear your grandmother’s belted muumuu with a straw hat and white oversized sunglasses. Inebriated by noon, the song relinquishes hesitation and suddenly you find yourself in a congo line reaching from one Spanish speaking country to the next. Sweaty bodies of ripe minors thrashing on the creased backs of elderly tourists.
Memory Tapes Run Out
A loofa of sounds, washing clean my mind jumbled with a cacophony of to-do lists. I can only refer to this song as a personification of a perfect shower. Clean. Trickles of water upon bare shoulders. Bubbles. Pruned feet. Warm and then cold. Cold and then warm. Same routine, yet varied amounts of time scheduled. This is not a bathe. This is not timed relaxation. This is a necessity that provides ultimate release.