. issue XIV : iii .

. artist : ylvis .
. album : (single) .
. year : 2013 .
. label : n/a .
. grade : zeitgeist .

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As the advent of a viral music video debates comparison content sources as maudlin machine music mattel modern (Rebecca Black’s “Friday”) to the warehouse laser of an eighties with a nineties moon rising fever power pops (Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna”), (CONNOR SEZS: Those are projector beams, three laser beams: crimson, cerulean, cadmium), the present moment paraded before life modern a Europop government funded television spot of synth … “What Does the Fox Say?”

This parody song fulfills all aspects of being a proper earworm, adding incongruity in gutteral expressiveness lent more to a yoga class phlegm expulsion netti potting (Joff-tchoff-tchoff-tchoffo-tchoffo-tchoff!) than accompaniment pilgrimage desperation this torching gingerly tender song builds into. Bringing sexy back into awkward also ends up with a possible concussion, not the sniffing about of laws and certainly no suits, as the Eleventh Hour foxes {our male leads [Seneca and Zeno (Vegard and Bård Ylvisåker)]} take this party from the confines of their luxury forest retreat cabin to the woods where Robert Palmer kits line dance and the Princess Bride storyteller universe parallel timelines trading sampled autotune howls.

A hit like this stays in the cultural consciousness like wedding receptions or football tailgates when someone asks “What is that song?” Overlooking the largest misstep of “What Does The Fox Say?” (the poor sad fact of an unmarketed direct mimicry; a dance move) it has sailed directly into common parlance and…what exactly?

“I should communicate by morse.”

The fox has, technically, been speaking since September third. Bootlegs could’ve been available, but much like Kimmel’s twerking easter egg, Vegard and Bård Ylvisåker have lit a fuse somehow dynamiting song of the summer into the very very end of the season itself. The hole in the space time continuum for dance music never settles quite on the prayer but more the meditation. “What Is Love Baby Don’t Hurt Me & I’m Blue.” The made for television production gives enough creedance clear channel audience participation as the ease of information disseminated; the perfect music video was created because it was supposed to be the perfect music video. The audio track is relegated to an entirely different sound department, institutionalized with a large working staff of people and modern equipment. In this case the video came standard and was an evolutionary system; faced with the pleasing packaged newsworthy minutes of interest (x<5) the image we are faced with to complete the story imparts significance without fail; it was created as a whole, and lot of nonsense at that.

The soul search and stamina of research these men go into, alleviated eventually in costume pulley system inna woods (steps from the wright place) with central casting 5’7” females to wear white collared shirts and blackties and story of O masks without humiliating masochism or crackly leather sadism. Like, oh my god, there is no sex to the song at all, and a part of it doesn’t even have any charisma or interaction. The line dance light choreography of an achy breaky blurred boys and girls hey macarena mambo number five; a top 40 past slowly escaping a steam hiss over the fictional fabric of the new global watercooler, wondering if what plays on this great salt lake also pertains pacifically or engines anti-freezing all over, or only leans life.

Lettuce, mayonnaise, draw these small specimens magnified: “What is Love” (1993) has the salad of words and vowel chorus, while Haddaway’s haunted house with a cast of furious dancing archetypes differs from the school uniform masquerade chorus line. 1999’s Eiffel 65’s “I’m Blue” and the Hamsterdance song (“Whistle Stop” by Roger Miller sped up by Deirdre LeCarte ) draws foxy comparison in the realm of nonsense; the song carries a reliance on the visual completion of the song for completion of context as mondegreens abound and still helped. (CONNOR SEZS: If I was green hamster fry, if I was green hamster fry (I would die), but it also could’ve been like a sponsored holiday special occasion).

The internet age has taken the pop song and given it an undead warranty by making the parody instantaneous. Interpretation’s flattery finds foundling attempts to rewrite and imagine the text, as homage enters grasp (“What Does Redd Foxx Say” and Marching Band sheet music for The State Buckeyes: personal favorites) gripping the multitude mailbag from coast to coast. The plaintive wail of the singer in accented English (the snowy autotune of de rigueur instead of the synthesized enunciated amphitheatrical) seems a heartfelt catalogue of cacophony, a mantra menagerie mailing list. The trivial thought, dissected at a low level of research and introspection, has made a bit of the music that becomes a proper earworm.

Of course, the fox isn’t saying anything about any of this and that’s something to make a fuss about.

by Perkus Tooth