This is a weekly series of genre descriptions. If you disagree with my descriptions, you’re probably wrong. It’s OK. It happens to the best of us.
Week one is over here.
It’s like listening to a Big Band-era lounge singer crooning along with an orchestra that has secretly been replaced by robots.
It’s like listening to Alvin and the Chipmunks singing, while Animal from the Muppets frantically beats a drum kit like it punched his mom. Then, the Tasmanian Devil runs in, playing an auto-tuned vacuum cleaner.
It’s like listening to to the previously described Chipmunks, Animal, and Tasmanian Devil band, except they also angrily worship Satan, and “fuck” makes up approximately 25% of their lyrics.
It’s like listening an OCD guitarist who must play each minor chord four times quickly before he can move to the next one, while a homeless Scandinavian screams himself hoarse inside of a wind tunnel. Also, there’s a church choir being eaten by a gremlin in the background.
It’s like listening to an orchestra riding atop a fire-breathing dragon as it battles an army of orcs. During the fracas, the dragon banks hard, throwing the orchestra into the clouds, where they scream and pour their last few moments into weaving The Perfect Coda. The dragon, hearing the The Perfect Coda, sweeps back and catches them. Together, they escape into the night’s sky.
It’s like listening to the lone surviving member of a choral version of The Hunger Games. His vocals are rough from the trials, but he is victorious and defiant. His song echoes in the crystal prison of living lightning, which is furiously careening off of all of the facets of its cell, desperately seeking freedom.