Is she rebranding herself? Is she Doja Cow now? She disavows cats in the chorus. She does not meow.
I love this so much because it’s so fully fleshed-out by one person in a bedroom. The question she asked herself is “if I was a cow, how would I own it?” “Time to re-purpose Luda and Kelis with a bovine twist.” From there, she said “I have a laptop and a green screen, how do I film the music video?” “Let me look in my closet for cow-like, farmer-ish outfits.” “Order a burger? Sure, I’m hungry!” And she floats through it all with her charisma and confidence. “Bitch, I’m a cow” never felt so powerful. Been lowing “mooo” all day in both positive and negative tones.
After playing her this song, a friend suggested we watch the YACHT “sex tape” with neither of us knowing the twist. (I am willing to watch pornos with friends for academic purposes, never prurient.) That video in tandem with this video (“what IS the Red Hot Chili Peppers?”) has me convinced there’s no funnier indie band. Not to mention this song is cutely sensual and catchier than it has any right to be.
Hess makes a quick but compelling (and fun!) argument that there’s a reason doggos are the internet’s favored sons right now. And she does it in a way that proves she was there when it all went down, which can’t be said for most of the pundits. Or even most of my friends.
Massive role model vibes from Alex Cameron. Highlights are any clips of him dancing, like the hotel parking lot or the strip mall parking lot or the Vegas sidewalk with his saxophone boy Roy Malloy. I’m left with one question: for such a scummy life, how does he keep those white jeans spotless? Dude’s torso is entirely spots.
I mean, c’mon, it’s just a slideshow of the most endearing sneer. I already featured this song in last month’s playlist, but you can’t hear cotton candy ombré, can you?
Back in college, during the heyday of this site, I was far more liable to track down music videos for my favorite songs. Over the past year I’ve realized that, even approaching 30 years old, it remains as much fun to watch them with friends and banter, jumping between recent faves without a through line beyond that.
As I fear I might become Mr. 10pm Bedtime myself, there are all these flickering reminders that I’m still enjoying the same conduct as Mr. 6am Bedtime. That, and the fact I can’t stop projecting perfection onto GIRLI. Grimes is dead, long live GIRLI and her dedication to the rumpus and her post-rave trash-fairy genius. I’m getting a magnetic labret to facilitate kissin’.