This cd, Pop-up by Yelle makes me want to commit filthy acts of Max Ernst-style Frotage on Le Metro. I want to secretly rub up against everyone! Crusty little shit pigs with mommy’s credit cards hidden in their brassieres, those closeted queers who hide well worn copies of books by Michele Houellebecque, the boys, the girls, the quiet but decidedly evil Chinese immigrant stuffed away in the corner reading the London Times, EVERYONE!!!
Pop-up is another well placed sucker punch delivered by my bitch ass boyfriend “straight” to the solar plexus. What a cock! Once again, my bitter half has nabbed yet another sparkling diamond hidden in the mounds of human excrement that passes for pop music these days.
It’s all in the language of The Frog, but these little French twats will make anyone with a discerning ear for camp or The Pop Aesthete jump on a twelve hour flight and wind up at the front steps of The Queen on The Champs-Elysées, tossing a twenty pound Euro at the doorman and heading straight for the dance floor.
They are the French equivalent of Japan’s Pizzicato Five and the UK’s Saint Etienne. They are late night car rides with champagne and blowjobs. They are late summers, crashing out on a riverbank. They are scoring coke, good coke, good coke that still gets even me high, on the ninth arrondisement, winking at an old bird as she goes by with her shopping.
Pop-up by Yelle is a party record for those nerdy enough to get it and even worse…dance to it. If you listen to this cd and do not dance…then you are not alive. FUCKING DIE ALREADY ASSHOLES!
emile
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