You know me.
That nondescript, short brunette. The one in the light blue raincoat, with the messenger bag strap across her chest. Look at me walking by. There’s music in my ears. It’s plugged straight into my brains. That song, it’s got me strutting, swaying my hips with each new step, head help up high, a toothy grin splitting my face. It’s good to feel the energy, the mojo really, flowing from ears – to groin – to toes.
A.M. is on each of my mobile devices. It has both of what I consider the hallmarks of a perfect LP, namely the capacity to be played over and over and over again without ever triggering boredom, and the fact that over time, my favourite song changes, usually more than once.
Arctic Monkeys, you glam scoundrels, thank you for infecting me with your wondrous riffs: they make me feel young, and strong, and restless. Do I Wanna Know sweeps me off my feet every single time – that’s about twenty times a day; but where you really got me, caught me off my guard, it’s with your finale.
I Wanna Be Yours, not albeit but maybe a little bit because of its cheesy lyrics – you don’t really want to be my – or anybody’s – vacuum cleaner or coffee pot, do you? You perv! (although an electric blanket would be nice) – where was I? I wonder what the word for being emotionally involved with domestic appliances is… I said that aloud, didn’t I?
I was saying that I Wanna Be Yours is one fucking great sex song. And I don’t mean a sexy song, but a piece of music to make love to. Try and stop your hips from rocking gently to the rhythm if you can. See! You can’t. I told you.
Sex, drugs – Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High – and rock ‘n’ roll, you guys gave me all I could ever want but had forgotten I needed.
And stop asking! I’ll be yours alright, at least my ears will. As for the rest of me, sorry pals, it’s not mine to give away anymore…