Generally,  I can do without drunk Nancy Sinatra: I get enough of those hanging around on my shoulder any night out.  I hang, well, with a rather mercurial crowd.  They look at me longingly and dish dark days of their diaries, because I listen.  I’m never going to deny your attempt to be human in my arms, I have no idea how many chances you get. Plus, I’m sure, somewhere swirling around the heartache chapters of the story they tell me, there is some desire to touch my peen, which saddens me. People always confuse emotional intimacy with ‘that spot on the floor sounds like a nice place to send you to the moon’. But, you know, holy Jesus at a pancake breakfast  even if the equipment worked I wouldn’t exploit rawness.

And that’s pretty much how I feel about drunk Nancy Sinatra: her songs are my weekly conversations, which doesn’t mean I have any desire to listen to them. But this Datsik remix is so frenetic with anxiety–the same energy that always simmers under the surface of her songs but never actually surfaces–that I’m fucking addicted.  There is no drawling downers shooting through your veins in an attempt to connect you with the track–it’s all high stakes emotions. Here’s my cards, there is no goddamn poker face. It’s sexuality wrapped into a fierce, wounded growl.

This love, this feeling, this trove of tenderness I’m opening for you is ultraviolent. My emotions are punches to the face. My nose bleeds while I sing and I don’t even fucking care.  I’m going to exhume all of this, I’m going to stab myself and open a hole to my world for you to see. And you’ll see that I’m human and all of this drunk Nancy Sinatra shit I do is because I’m damaged.  A remix like this can rectify a career.

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