Charli XCX - "Club Classics"

Charli XCX is really on some Susan Sontag type beat shit, where the medium is the message, but the medium is yourself, which means the message is too, because that is so often all that women are reduced to: not even the self, but a distorted reflection of said self, that remains trapped in the perpetual pubescent purgatory of the mirror phase until you shatter the fucking windshield and splatter your own brains on the canvas.

Because if you keep going this hard and this fast, they will probably splatter your brain on the pavement anyway, by choice or by force, because that is what they always do to women who dare to turn our voices into more than musical instruments, but weapons of self-defense.

I’m literally like *so* Julia lately, because I will gladly cut any and every bitch, nonchalantly sharpening my words like nine inch acrylic nails.

“Club Classics” is tremendously smarter than any male music critic who has dared misunderstand Charli in public, but without taking itself nearly half as seriously as any of their pseudo-intellectual patter. But more importantly it just fucking bangs.

You never thought a music review could actually make you shake your booty: even when James Murphy tried to do critical analysis on the dance floor, it fell flat, much like his middle-aged ass.

"Club Classics" constructs a contemporary canon of modern club hauntology, while it effortlessly deconstructs a member of that canon's place within it. 

Charli handed you the syllabus for free, without making you actually enroll in the class, and she served several cunts while doing it. You should thank her.