This is all too familiar to the ear, cross-legged on a sticky floor, cigarette smoke legally obscuring pastel posters and perma-tarred 70’s wall paper, your “uncle" straying from behind the bar, once again, to hand you another Shirley Temple while your caregiver does their thing in the bathroom that always takes for-like-fucking-ever.
A hazy handful of decades later, you cannot recall those recording artists’ names or what language they were even singing in most of the time, but, yeah, that gloriously cheesy, cascading synth-pop will forever run arpeggiated circles around the marrow of your music-worshipping heart.
You, of course, are Saint-Marcus, canonized via French-Canadia as the guardian of nostalgic synthesizer-woven earworms, big hair, and spandex. You are glorious and unapologetic and pretty much imfuckingpossible to ignore when the DJ cranks you up. You are loved both ironically and passionately at the same time; your very essence is an upbeat paradox that no one not actively striving to can possibly deny.
Dance!
and/or
—Jacob An Kittenplan
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