As you might be able to guess, this video is just a wee bit NSFW…
[Video][Website]
[5.67]
Jer Fairall: As big fan of the first Dresden Dolls album, I obviously know that Amanda Palmer is far wittier than those Lonely Island dudes and certainly a much smarter songwriter – hell, a much smarter human being — than Mike Posner, but I’m trying to find an angle to look at this in which it is somehow not every bit as immature as “I Just Had Sex” and “Bow Chicka Wow Wow” and I’m coming up with nothing.
[3]
Alfred Soto: Potentially a fantastic smut-pop dance tune, this doesn’t go anywhere beyond synth squiggles and a slogan.
[5]
Anthony Easton: Palmer is often obnoxious, her politics are crude, and when she missteps, she missteps spectacularly. However, the conflation of sexual and media representation might be naive, but it is so fucking fun, so entirely cheery, so much of an ear worm that for once, the implications and the politics fall away and I find myself yelling obvious metaphors of female genitalia to random folks on the street.
[7]
Katherine St Asaph: Amanda Palmer has done pretty much everything in the past year or so to lose my goodwill short of coming to my house and stabbing me. The Evelyn Evelyn fiasco, sure, but also the growing sense that she really believes that her every brain-blerp is True Art, worthy of being tweeted ten times an hour. So it is with great sorrow that I report this is a decent song; cheapo-electro works better for her than the often-ponderous material on Who Killed Amanda Palmer. But the lyrics rankle as is increasingly usual — we get it, you’re singing about your mons pubis, the radio will balk, how transgressive of you, but scoffing “oh my gawd” like you’re leading into “Baby Got Front” and dressing up in Van Gogh merkins is still mockery. But then again, you can’t help showing off your map of Tasmania, from a purely anatomical standpoint, when your head’s this far up your ass.
[5]
Josh Love: Shamefully, I’m pretty much wholly ignorant of Palmer’s work in Dresden Dolls and solo, though I definitely plan on rectifying that blind spot after hearing this terrific track. The Vagina Monologues set to a tune, it’s half unsettling and half hilarious, staring you down without blinking but still dead-set on having a blast. Best of all, the music’s not just a prop for the agitprop, but a wonderful Slits-with-ukelele-plus-wiggly-beats marvel all its own.
[9]
Martin Skidmore: Willfully quirky vocals nearly always put me off, and this is no exception, despite a resemblance to post-punk acts I liked 30 years ago.
[5]