Pursuit o' Happiness

I was reading Rob Harvilla's Village Voice piece on the inscrutability of Phoenix's lyrics:

I am still happily incapable of extracting a single coherent lyrical thought from Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix. Thomas Mars might as well actually be singing in French... The fuck is a meteor tower, and why is it overrated? How do you tease someone with underage? "The octagon logo had to rip it up"? And, seriously, jugulate?

...and I realized, all the songs that make me happiest are completely independent of their lyrics. (However, all the best sad or angry songs are strongly tied to their lyrical content.)



You ever listen to the actual words to "Hey Yeah"? Me neither, til I accidentally did a couple of weeks ago. Before the insane part everybody remembers ("Lend me some sugar! I am your neighbor!" and "Shake it like a Polaroid picture!"), it's pretty fucking dark.

My baby don't mess around
because she loves me so
and this I know for sure.
But does she really wanna
but can't stand to see me
walk out the door.
Don't try to fight the feelin'
because the thought alone is killing me right now.
Thank god for mom and dad
for sticking too together
'Cause we don't know how.

You think you've got it.
Oh, you think you've got it.
But got it just don't get it
Til there's nothing at all.
We get together.
Oh, we get together.
But separate's always better
when there's feelings involved.
If what they say is "Nothing is forever"
then what makes love the exception?
So why are we so in denial
when we know we're not happy here?

Y'all don't want me here you just wanna dance.

Extra hugs for Andre 300 stat!!!

At the extra-jubilant end of the song, Andre 3000 asks the boys what's cool, and then asks the girls to shake it, completely up-ending the earlier earnestness of the song; he knows we'd like to not hear about his pain, but would rather listen to echoes of masculine bravado and feminine sexuality. Which is pretty fucking sad.

Evidence B in the happy-music-isn't-happy debate: Of Montreal's "For Our Elegant Caste":

Our bodies became what has been him so really turned off -
became a freaky permutation -
something like voltron.
Then I was wrapped in discourse with the magazine reader.
The mutual conclusion was I'm not worth knowing
cause I'm probably dead.
So I'm exposed but no solution
La la la la!

The fuck is that about?

Who cares, long as it makes me dance a little while I'm walking to the breakfast place with the really good spinach eggs?