My ex-girlfriend recently pointed out to me that my reviews have increasingly become more and more sexual. She was alarmed. Massages, foot sucking, chest rubbing, phermone wipes, jimmy hats, and PVC pop up in my reviews with greater frequency than pimples on Dawson's cheek. I explained to her it was all for the entertaiment of the Internet masses and that I would try to turn it down a notch.

So now Ryan Pitchfork sends me the new Momus record, featuring the tongue- and- other- body- parts- in- cheek ditty, "Coming In A Girl's Mouth." The song is catchy as hell, but somehow I can't picture cheerleaders jeeping to squad practice, cranking the FM, smacking gum, swaying back and forth, singing along with the insightful line, "With a fluid the consistancy of honey, tapoica, and motor oil." However, I bet Momus, the horny Scotch bastard, can picture this scenario vividly. With his boney frame in back holding onto the rollbar, giggling and goggling the girls with wide eyes through designer sunglasses smeared with a gossamer of splattered gnats, Momus daydreams new songs ideas:

Momus: "So, lassies, what do you think of me new record?"

Dumbest Cheerleader: "It's, like, really sorta catchy but, like, sorta... like, weird in that Beck way or that, like, early '80s way. There isn't enough guitar. I, like, like a lot of guitar."

Smartest Cheerleader: "I cringed at seeing the cover, on which you describe your newest music as 'analog baroque,' which I suppose beats 'moog rococo.' However, I'm still flashing back to my step-dad playing 'Hooked On Classics' in his Impulse. Half of these songs twinkle with pansy-ass Casio harpsichord sounds. It'd be better off as spoken word."

Dumbest Cheerleader: "What's up with the powdered wig? You look totally like Kip Winger's grandpa."

Momus: "I had a bad eye infection and watched 'Amadeus' in the hospital."

Smartest Cheerleader: "Your lyrics are very intelligent. The bitter tales of twisted love and pleasureless sex, juxtaposed to the intentionally programmed, banal toy-pop, drive home your theme-- social satire delivered in the most watered- down, common music of the society you're poking fun at. It's totally like "Scream 2" making fun of bad slasher flicks even though it totally is a horrible slasher flick."

Momus: "I hope it's not like that."

Dumbest Cheerleader: "Hehe! Oh my gawd! You say 'cock' in this song!"

Smartest Cheerleader: "Okay, it's more like a 'Red Shoe Diaries' written by Vonnegut. Take 'Walter Carlos,' for example. That's a song about a guy who has a sex change. You speculate about his female form travelling back in time to marry his older male form."

Dumbest Cheerleader: "Eww, gross."

Momus: "Walter Carlos is a real person. Er, I mean, Wendy Carlos. She's suing me over that song."

Dumbest Cheerleader: "Punk rock."

Smartest Cheerleader: "I don't know, Momus. This album will be big in Japan, but I'm afraid only girls dressed in plastic barettes and Keroppi tees, and Anglophilic boys with Tamagotchi keychains will get into this in America. You're John Waters cult level. Coy cosmopolitan pop produced by a randy eccentric just isn't quite radio- ready in the USA. At best, jaded music critics who read Conde Nast magazines on the crapper will go ga-ga over this stuff."

Momus: "That's okay. I'm big in Sweden."

Smartest Cheerleader: "You're terribly clever. Perhaps too clever for your own good. The karaoke contest is brilliant. I love the way you supply instrumental versions of each song for fans to karaoke over for possible inclusion on your next album! That's marketing. It's all so very post- whatever. Unfortunately, you dangerously tread into the shallow waters of novelty. The Little Red Songbook is all brains and no body. It's pop genius brains in a tupperware tub. For someone so into sex and bodies, it's ironic that you don't realize that music too needs to be a complete package. Our American ears like to be fucked by sexy chords and chiseled, curvaceous rhythms. All the genius lyrics and karaoke ideas would just be frosting and gravy."

Dumbest Cheerleaders: "We like Beck! Where it's at! Where it's at! I'm a loser bay-bee!"

Momus: "Drop me off at the first Lufthansa ticketing agency please."

-Brent DiCrescenzo

"Harry K-Tel"

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