Carly Rae Jepsen, “Call Me Maybe.” This song has been #1 for a hundred million weeks. I hated it the first two times I heard it, but by the third time it had morphed into my favorite song in the universe, where it still is. Somebody on my Facebook page compared it to “Dancing Queen,” and it kind of holds up—a swirling, hypnotic verse mixed with literally the catchiest chorus ever, with some interesting production thrown in. So amiable, genial and likable is this song that it literally dares you to be angry or pissed off during it. You can’t. I dare you to try. It is the exact opposite of a song by Henry Rollins—it is the white that allows his black to exist, if you know what I mean. It is full of guile, sure—she’s not as young as you think she is, and this thing has been tarted up a lot to appeal to the youth of today. But it doesn’t matter, really. We need music like this to exist, if only to provide contrast to more substantial indie rock—if this wasn’t here, Trampled by Turtles would be the LCD, and we can’t have that. Fuck, this one is a huge Hell Yeah, and I don’t care who knows it.
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