by Jamie Kiffel
The measure of a good guilty pleasure is exactly how much you’d like to be caught doing it. Sugar should be on your very good list. When you let this baby loose in your car, bassline thumping, synths enr-enr-ring, boom-ch’s boom’ch’ing, girl voices whispering, guitar wails echoing… well, work that, because this is your chance to face your techno gods, people. You’ll thrust your chin forward in solidarity with “Unh.” You’ll want to bust a move. You’ll hear Trent Reznor in your hypothalamus. You’ll even puzzle at the jacket photo of some wholesome mall children grinning at a TV (I suspect they’re the ones who send us emails with subject title “hdlkfgzzdfii sukkk biggger,” but I digress). This is the stuff you danced to at that club when you were so fritzed that the lights ran water and you drank yourself dehydrated. But you danced. Oh did you dance. And you could do it again, only if the moment, the music, the guilt was… exactly… right. Well, roll up the windows, turn off the lights, and hide your head, because this it. And it is going to feel so damned guilty, and so freakin’ all right.