Oppressors are denying your right to party, censoring your fun, and even removing several hours of the day just to keep you from having a good time, says Top 40 radio.
“Happiness is a constant struggle,” the popular format says.
The dwindling enjoyment of parties is the theme of will.i.am’s “Scream And Shout,” featuring Britney Spears.
“I want to scream and shout and let it all out,” says will.i.am in a normal tone of voice throughout the song, suggesting that those who would keep him down have won. Spears herself strives to be noticed on a conveyor belt, representing the temporary and fickle nature of fame. She is dressed like a dowager from a “Mad Max” movie and sings with Madonna’s discarded accent, calling her audience “Bitch.” Will.i.am is dressed like a Spike Lee Halloween costume from “Do the Right Thing.”
“When you and me [sic] party together,” will.i.am neither screams nor shouts, “I wish this night would last forever, because I was feeling down; now I’m feeling better.”
Still, he complains of it going “on and on and on and on,” which it does.
Will the pain ever stop? When will they get to actually scream and shout? Never. The song is over.
“This is the night,” sings special guest Ray Lewis on Macklemore’s “Can’t Hold Us,” a song about pushing against the ceiling of people who would endeavor to keep you from having a good time, “this is the moment, I am the guy, you are the person, this is our house, these are our pets, that there’s my car, here is the sidewalk, they are your uncles, here are your shirts, ours is the speedboat, Don’t be a hater.”
Once Lewis sings about all the things that are, there is nothing left but sorrow. Macklemore is forced to rap from the deck of a whaling vessel.
A non-English speaker would have a hard time understanding Miley Cyrus’ “We Can’t Stop,” as it seems to be a lament, rather than a declaration of rights about a party.
“It’s our party, we can do what we want,” intones a voice that sounds like a protected witness in a mob trial. “We can smoke what we want, we can kiss who we want.”
Future archaeologists sifting through our ashes any minute now will doubtless determine that so many restrictions placed on Miley Cyrus’ partying was the tipping point for the swift decline of our civilization. How many parties was she forced to attend in which she couldn’t say what she wanted? Thousands? Once she was finally allowed to attend a party with furries, she and her friends could not stop. They literally could not stop, so the world ended.
“Take back the night,” suggests Justin Timberlake in a song of the same name, exposing what others were too scared to acknowledge: that the night has been stolen—probably by haters—and must be retrieved.
“Take back the night,” Timberlake says again, a lot, but the song ends before he can specify from whom.
