I Don’t Feel Like Dancin’, Scissor Sisters

 

 

 

Well. With this one there’s no question: it can’t be afterwards. It has to be during. This is the thumping, driving rhythm of murder: exultant, defiant and above all else, campy fun.

The question really is, who is murdering who for this song, and how?

I imagine a frustrated young man, entering his high school disco (or prom, if you’re so inclined) with his grandfather’s arsenal. Salvo after salvo, gunfire and strobe lighting, cake splattering everywhere, the girls’ dresses ruined by indelible, ruby-red death.

Or: a sixty-year old man (hunched defensively, white hair, stern expression) seems to ignore the taunting of the younger, leather-clad drinkers. He places a coin in a jukebox. He staggers across the filthy bar in near-silence while the record sets itself up. He lifts a pool cue in one hand and a near-empty bottle of Jack Daniels with the other. He downs the Jack triumphantly as the intro kicks in, smashes the bottle, and lunges towards his tormentors.

Or, dental torture sequence.

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