I recently learned several things about LMFAO (creators of “Party Rock Anthem”) that changed the course of my life. Specifically, I now need to join forces with them because everything about them is amazing.
Some pearls I scooped up from their official bio and their Wikipedia entry:
- The group’s two members are an uncle and a nephew. WHAT? I assumed that those guys had simultaneously spawned asexually from the Jean-Ralphio character on Parks and Recreation and willed themselves into real life. Redfoo, the uncle (the one who looks like Justin Timberlake in an afro wig), is eleven years older than Sky Blu, his nephew (the one who looks like Jersey Shore Yanni). Awesome.
- They were originally called Sexe Dudes, but their grandmother thought that name was dumb. She wasn’t wrong.
- Redfoo is the son of legendary Motown Records founder Berry Gordy. Which makes Sky Blu Berry Gordy’s grandson. Which makes the fact that their music sounds like something a robot composed for other robots to make out to all the more ironic.
- LMFAO does not claim to be a band. Redfoo uses the term “Music Designers.” That is the most pretentious way to describe a music duo, except to say that they see themselves as “Sound Kafkas.” Incredible.
I think that alongside Redfoo and Sky Blu, I would be probably the greatest Music Designer in history. In fact, I have already legally changed my name to Josh Gondelman, MD in anticipation of the success of my first single. I have designed it in hopes of joining their music-creating group. Consider this sonic blueprint my application for employment, LMFAO. Submitted for your approval: “Party to Death.”
The pulsing sound of helicopter blades dominates the soundscape. Scattered machine gun fire is audible. Terrified shouting in German. As the sound of the helicopter grows quieter, so do the screams. A synth riff starts off, quietly at first, but growing louder measure by measure. Eventually, the ambient noise is drowned out as the synthesizer reaches a crescendo.
I bellow: “TONIGHT! WE PARTY! TO DEATH!”
The snare drum kicks in. It’s fast and syncopated, like someone opening a bag of marbles down a spiral staircase. Celebratory shouting commences, also in German.
The bass drops into the mix. It’s loud and thumping. Picture someone banging a washing machine with a wet mop. Yeah, that’s it.
A smooth R&B voice croons the hook.
“Gonna party ‘til my heart stops/
Gonna party ‘til the ball drops/
Gonna party ‘til my head explodes/
Gonna party ‘til I’m dead whooooaaaoohhh”
The synth loop stops.
Sixty-five classically trained musicians play the theme from Rocky on kazoos.
Kazoos stop. Synth loop starts back up.
Over the synth loop, I rap in a stilted, self-conscious manner. It’s the off-kilter flow of someone who has no flow and is doing damage control by not trying very hard.
“The party’s startin’ up, tell your sister and momma/
My poems go straight to your dome like blunt force trauma/
Don’t worry if the jam’s on the hook… it’s off/
This party’s sick like lupus or whooping cough/
Go ahead and ask your doctor, he ain’t got no answer/
My diagnosis is the dopest, makes you terminal dancers/
I rock harder than Campbell’s chunky soup is hearty/
Until the coroner declares me “Dead By Party”
The music is replaced by an irregularly beeping EKG monitor. Voices of confused doctors in the background: “We’re losing him!” “He’s too funky!” “I told him not to party so hard!”
The EKG speeds up. The doctors grow more frantic. Then, three slow beeps. Nothing. Silence.
“We’ve lost him.”
“No, there’s still time! Give him 40ccs of party, stat!”
“Doctor, you’re insane!”
“SHUT UP AND THROW THE SWITCH!”
Crackling electricity. Screams of agony. Silence. The bass drum starts up again for five seconds and then drops out abruptly.
My voice, triumphant: “THAT PARTY SAVED MY LIFE!”
All instruments come back in. The synth. The drums. The helicopter. The Germans. The electricity. Barnyard animals. Fireworks. Swordfight sound effects. Lasers.
The chorus repeats for roughly one minute over the cacophony. The music swells.
In the background: “I can walk!” We understand this voice to belong to FDR.
One final pulse of music. Silence again.
The helicopter is heard in the distance. The Germans are safe.
Me: “See y’all next time!” Then I give a Will Smith-esque “HaHA!”
Sound of transporter from Star Trek: The Next Generation.
End of song.
So, guys… am I in? If I don’t hear from you, I’ll just assume yes and buy my own leopard vest and giant sunglasses.
See you at band music design practice!