It’s really not my bag

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Stephin Merritt, the forced-upon possessor of the moniker ‘Eeyore of Pop’, has dragged (shame on my slapped wrist) from the grave of themes the classic ‘boy-loves-boy’ who isn’t thematically a boy but a girl who isn’t herself real and so said protagonist must lay his blooming love at the cat-flap of impossibility. “I’d sign away my trust fund / I would even sell the Jag / If I could spend my misspent youth with Andrew in drag.” This is fantastic stuff. It really is. To exaggerate, there is nothing more romantic than the hopeless pining for of the unattainable. It’s the most utterly compelling story of a universal truth, shared blood. “Andrew In Drag” is love for the unresisting and so the non-existent. Of course, what he really wants is to shag Andrew, or whatever Andrew might then represent, to an end, prancing about slovenly licentious in a half-fitted dress. The grab and pull of love, some might call it. Or lust. And who could blame him? “So stick him in a dress and he’s the only boy I’d shag / I’ll never see that girl again, he did it as a gag.” But in this here story not even base desire should be fulfilled. In early March the Magnetic Fields will allow Love At The Bottom Of The Sea its day of public consumption and it would be a good idea to bring it into your life. [The Magnetic Fields.]

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