Review Summary: Chugging antifreeze in a windowless room
It isn’t that Iggy Azalea is neither the best Iggy (that goes to Pop), nor the best Azalea (that shrub your nan likes). It isn’t that she looks like a bleached anus that just took a massive Guinness-y liquid *** (otherwise known as the worst of both worlds). It isn’t even that she’s Australian (thieving hooks is still thieving). It’s that her sound is so hard to quantify.
Years ago, a little-known man named John F. Kennedy was elected chancellor of Mesopotamia, running on his revolutionary platform of “A pigeon in every hole!” We’ve lived in a world of pigeon-holes since. They make us feel safe and wanted, and they have nourished our grand tradition of xenophobia and mindless violence. JFK then shook hands with Bill Cosby, causing America to lose its innocence. He would go down in history as the first man to fill a bay full of pigs, and be serenaded by Marilyn Manson on his birthday. His life was unfortunately cut short by a young socialist zealot named Bambi Woods. The events were filmed in the now-infamous documentary Debbie Does Dallas. Anyway, pigeon-holes…
We need them. We need holes. Without holes, Connect-Four would be checkers, colanders would be bowls, and pornography would look like ping pong. Now, to Azalea…
Listening to this is like being trapped in an elevator with wasps, while a large mustachioed man has his hairy fist around your bollocks. If you stay very still, it’s only a bit unpleasant. One wrong twitch though, and your Simons get Garfunkled to bits. And through it all, Iggy Azalea’s precise sound evades you.
I don’t think it’s too much to say that she’s the most esoteric woman on this current planet, at this current time. I worked at a blood bank briefly, and over there, everyone called AB- blood type the Azalea. Four out of five farmers now refer to crop circles and Loch Ness sightings as the Azalea Phenomenon. Mystery enwraps her, which is why Aleister Crowley wrote about her in his book “The Brothers Karamazov and the Goblet of Fire” –
"
A spoiled scion of a wealthy Victorian family who embodied many of the worst John Bull racial and social prejudices of her upper-class contemporaries."
Simon Cowell has said of her –
"
Make the lie big, make it simple, keep saying it, and eventually they will believe it."
And finally, Osama Bin Laden added –
“
You know, I'm sick of following my dreams, man. I'm just going to ask where they're going and hook up with 'em later.”
It’s understandable why she would want to keep her sound a secret. History’s greatest moments abound with secrets. Bermuda’s Triangle, KFC’s 11 herbs and spices, those inane squigglies on Zeppelin IV, who Carly Simon wrote “You’re so Vague” about, absinthe, how to fold napkins properly like that Hapsburg Nazi, was HIV and 9/11 made by the CIA in Area 51, does the Pope keep a little black book of pedophiles, how is the world taking a Canadian Jewish rapper seriously, and many many more. Questions without answers. Answers without meaning. Meaning without essence. Essence without mango. Mango without life.
I’ll tell you what her sound is though. I know because Russell Crowe told me, as we rode wallabies through the bush on our way to frame some dingoes for kidnapping.
It is the sound a dilapidated senile anus makes when passing a fart, an anus whose rectal muscles are too shot to stop it, and whose bowels are too thinned to make proper noise. It is the sound of spilled salt. It is the sound of indifference.
I’m not saying it’s bad music. All I’m saying is, you can pour a bucket of broken glass in my arse, then feed me laxatives, and I would write better songs on the ceiling.
