How NOT to write about music – 41. The B-52s

This is so what I want to hear now. Music that bounces and prances. Music that struts and sidesteps and makes weird bird noises every few seconds. Music that’s funky and music that’s chunky. Music that does not make you feel like a flunky. You can taste the sweat, feel the pressure on your feet. You move cos you got to move. Ecstatically, clumsily, wonderfully alert and on edge. Nerves jangling, but at ease. Music that yowls, prowls and sideways scowls. Music with brass, music with class, music that knocks you straight on your ass. Infectious beats, strange rhythmical haircuts. Bongo breaks and sax solos that rightly refuse to stray from one or three notes. Oohs and aahs. Sweat then stretch. Sweat then stretch. Repetition in the music and we’re never going to lose it. Lose it. A cold sweat. A hot flush. A star turn. The B-52’s ascendant and in all their glory. Lost in music. Caught in a trance. Taut, taut, taut. James Brown? James Brown. A song for future generations.

Move along now. Nothing else to see here.

Thanks to Scott Creney.

(Scott comments: “I can’t help hearing the bird in the song as a harbinger of death, and as a result, I find this song terrifying. The first AIDS vigil in the country occurred two weeks before this performance. The New York Times ran its first front-page story on the crisis two weeks later. At the time of this video, RIcky Wilson had less than two years to live.”)