Male singers who have unfathomably deep vocal ranges always run the risk of sounding like they’ve been chasing Quaaludes down behind pints of Jägermeister, but in the case of Stephen Merritt (the persistent axis inside of indie rock darlings, the Magnetic Fields), that deadpan drawl actually contrasts wonderfully against his peppy, skewered take on pop music; not to mention, dude loved him some drugs for a minute, so it all fits. Upon first inspection, one wouldn’t be judged harshly for presuming that this was just a droll take on your basic love song, “…on the ferris wheel, looking out on Coney Island, under more stars than there are prostitutes in Thailand; our hair in the air, our lips blue from cotton candy, when we kiss it feels like a flying saucer landing…” However, when you factor in Merritt’s unorthodox upbringing and his well-noted sense of misanthropy, another picture emerges out of the second verse, “…in Las Vegas where the electric bills are staggering, the decor hog wild, and the entertainment saccharine; what a golden age, what a time of right and reason, the consumer’s king and unhappiness is treason…” His sarcasm smacks like those old school sourballs, pointing us in the direction of his dilemma over these modern times, not necessarily anti-capitalist exactly, but maybe leaning in that direction. To be honest, I’m very hit-or-miss when it comes to assessing the Mag Fields whole discography, but when things all come together as they do in this song, the sensation resembles rolling naked through fields of warm cashmere Snuggies.
