Last week, Ryan and I were kicking around in the Pitchfork office (read: apartment). As I worked on my laptop, Ryan jammed on his dinky keyboard. Suddenly, I heard a familiar riff tweet from the tiny red piano. I couldn't put my finger on the song, but my sub-conscious mind bounced to the melody. Then, in a flash, I filtered my hours spent watching The Box through the deductive strainers of my brain and realized it was Destiny's Child's recent R&B; chart- topper, "Bills, Bills, Bills." Ryan played the harpsichord and guitar hook on one hand and Beyonce's sliding vocals with the other. (He's quite good).

Now, I'd told Ryan how insanely addictive this song was a few weeks previous. The hilarious refrain, "Can you pay my automobills," is oft muttered in my apartment when rent is due or when we just need to borrow some cash (lamentably, we have no automobiles). Apparently, the disease (topical to the booty) had spread to Ryan as well. Go ahead-- listen to that song. I guarantee you'll be bobbing your head and spreading your grin no matter how jaded, rhythmless, or indie rock you are.

Don't deny it: you enjoy TLC's "No Scrubs." The hook taps into a universal pleasure zone that everyone from the Queen Mum to the Rammstein guy can't escape. "Bills, Bills, Bills" is even better! As much as one might legitimately dismiss the vast majority of modern R&B; for its monotony and narrow vision (i.e., "Girl, let me freak you all night long/ Like nobody ever has/ Because I'll love you forever/ Lay your body down in my shower/ And I'll rub your bubble bath back god damn girl/ Mmm, damn, girl"), the brilliant choruses of "No Scrubs" and "Bills, Bills, Bills" transcend the genre.

"But Brent," you say. "You're a jaded critic! You dissed my favorite band, Wolfie! How can a serious music critic profess joy for such disposable studio pop?" Hey, have you heard "Bills, Bills, Bills?" Acoustic guitars and harpsichord pluck over bubbling beats and intermittent bass throbs. The track sounds remarkably like a hybrid of En Vogue and Aphex Twin's "Windowlicker." And the rest of the upbeat cuts off The Writing's On the Wall sound similarly crossbred from polished samples of nuevo flamenco schmaltz king, Ottmar Leibert, and sound effects from Capcom's "Bust-A-Move" and "Mega Man" games.

Yet the real workhorse behind Destiny's Child is the inhumanly sultry and passionate voice of Beyonce (Rhymes with "fiance." As in, "Damn, girl! Won't you be my fiance?!"). Despite the fact that she leads the jailbait sweepstakes at age 17 (!) with the likes of LeeLee Sobieski from "Eyes Wide Shut." Beyonce can make you sweat seductively with a simple "Whoa- oh- oh."

The massive opening thumps of "So Good," propelled by accelerated acoustic arpeggios, provides a suitably intense backdrop for Beyonce's joyous wailing. She boasts with orgasmic stutters, in the best possible way that "orgasmic stutters" can come across: "I'm doing so- so- so- s- so- so goo- g- g- g- goo- good!" For a teenager to have a voice like this is just sick. She blows away the over- rated Lauryn Hill and her little ponytails. Her vocal chords are ceramic jet engines, both blasting immense gusts of soul and gently lifting your ass towards the stratosphere.

Thus far, I've basically discussed the first two songs of the album. The rest of it never lives up to such standards, but occasionally comes close. "Bug A Boo" pulses with locker- room- and- arena shaking intensity as Beyonce ridicules a stalking chump. "Hey Ladies" pours buttery harmonies over the ubiquitous grand mal 808 beats of modern hip-hop. "Jumpin, Jumpin" is custom- tailored for the car stereo of a Celica- load of available femalez heading to a club. But the album slumps during its obligitory slow- jams. "Now That She's Gone" and "If You Leave" both use that cheesy "bass zipper" from every slow- jam ever. You know, that "doooo-reert" that opens every Barry White and Keith Sweat freak- your- body workout. The highly predictible cover of "Amazing Grace" is a little unnecessary, too.

I don't really expect many Pitchfork readers to go out and add Destiny's Child to their stack of Flaming Lips, Superchunk, and Belle and Sebastian CDs at the local indie store. But, wouldn't it be great if we could all loosen up a little bit, shed our petty intellctual hipness and drop tha funk? We'd probably get our freak on a lot more.

-Brent DiCrescenzo