A quick essay I wrote on Damon Albarn for nakedpicturesofyourdad:
72. Damon Albarn (1968- )
[Guest post by Conner Habib]
I never masturbated to Damon Albarn, because he’s simply too handsome for it. He’s too clever, too talented, too put-together. Even in his most drunken Suede v Oasis v Blur binges, he always seemed stylish.
The horns and brass and strangely plucked guitars, and then later in his career the fuzzed-out falsetto and cartoons: there’s this curious sense of quality in his music - funny portraits of people stuffed into songs, underhanded messages about society that are terribly danceworthy.
So when I see him I just stare, almost stunned. He always looks so intensely British: a character he’d sing about. I have just enough time to think, “He’s so handsome,” but that becomes a rhythm (“the repetition kills you” he sings in a Black Ghosts song), and there’s no way out of it and down my pants. He’s a song you can’t get out of your head.
Fine, the song is good enough.
And it’s played in Mali, or he’s doing a jump kick on stage, or his face is scruffy and his hair is tossled, or he’s in a track suit, or he’s got a top hat on, or he’s singing clearly or he’s distorted. It doesn’t matter. The music is so varied and bright, that to listen to it makes us almost as clever and as stylish as him. He makes ourselves untouchable.
[follow Conner on Twitter: @connerhabib]