… is good for at least the drive home too.
Call me shallow, but I really don’t care that I can’t understand a word of this. I actually tried to learn French a few years ago. Rocki and I picked up a “Learn French In 24-Hours” type course on tape at a bookstore while vacationing in Chicago. It seemed like a good idea at the time. We listened to the first cassette too. Then we got bored when it asked us to repeat the phrases back to the unseen man hiding in the car radio. I just couldn’t bring myself to ask for the whereabouts of the watercloset from an automaton in mixed company. Though he did have an outrageous accent.
I liked the accent a-plenty. Which brings me back to Yelle. It’s 80’s dance-pop (with a few updated beats here and there for good measure.) She sings like Stacey Q and raps like Debbie Harry. Shatter this heart of glass!
Come to think of it, it might be better that I can’t understand the words. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cringed mid-step in an otherwise enjoyable moment of self-adulation, dancing alone to one of Madonna’s more recent tracks. Sometimes the words just get in the way.
