I should be ashamed. Goldfrapp is a silly name and Alison is a known nutjob among extroverted train wrecks. I can relate pretty well, so that explains why I really enjoy singing along to “fascist, baby, utopia” from “Felt Mountain”. That is a weird album among trippy electronic records from the turn-of-the-millenium. She’s credited as the multi-talented instrumentalist whistler and warbler, accompanied by rusty furnace motor and accordion with peanut butter jammed keys. Since we’ve agreed to abandon rational production concepts this is actually really catchy and I compulsively play this on my upstairs neighbor thumping stereo all the time. I’m ashamed after seeing “Hard Candy” with Ellen Page (the title teenager in “Juno”) who lured a nice, decent predator into thinking she liked Goldfrapp too, then strapped him down, iced his oysters to numb the pain of impending orchiectomy, and crushed him with the truth that she HATED Goldfrapp.

Maybe there’s someone out there who has let themself slip further into depravity (I still shower most days, I have zero cats) that can explain what is so alluring about that record. During normal working hours I can see through clearly that she is a lot more like the toxic travesties Celine Dion, Mylene Farmer, Madonna (obvious), Kylie Minogue, and train wreck. At night, with the the lights down low, the wisps of patchouli incense fogging my mind, it kind of feels alright. The drive from A to B you thumb a pop-record ride for ends up dropping you off at purple. If you think she has sold out by now and made her message accessible, think again. These days she chortles to leaf monsters in her pajamas.