Honeymoon

The song Honeymoon, by French rock band Phoenix, is so, so freaking awesome. This is maybe the sexiest song I, as a white person, am capable of hearing.
What it’s got:

  • An earnest French vocalist smoothly delivering empty-romantic lines like “My mind aches/You bust my real thoughts” and “Feelin’ without knowing the other/Tonight, let me handle this affair/Let me handle this affair.” I know, what the fuck does he mean? His American accent is so polished, you forget he’s French and you start wondering what he’s talking about, and about twenty seconds into wondering, you realize he doesn’t speak a damn word of English and he’s not saying shit. “I watch the fireworks/It’s no matter of time/I feel the midnight crush.” What the…fuck?
  • A harp that arrives in the second verse and starts arpeggiating your very mind; in the bridge, the rest of the band drops out and lets the harp solo. Wise move. I’m pretty sure it’s a harp, anyway. Otherwise it’s one harped-out guitar. Hugely sexy.
  • All kinds of miscellaneous sex-appeal, reminiscent of Van Morrison or Marvin Gaye — not in sound but in feel, in vibe. In steez. Not the horny sexuality of your Madonnas or your Bloodhound Gangs, but the relaxed, sex-is-good-and-it’s-assured-so-there’s-no-reason-to-have-an-anxiety-seizure variety.
    Roughly a minute into his first listening of Honeymoon, Michael Tapper opined in one or another Caribbean accent, “Ooo, mon! Girl come in my space, this song on da discmon? Me she gon’ get dat happy time!” He didn’t put it quite like that, but the gist is all his.
    This is a feel-good, sensual-ass song. It plays in the elevator as you and your prom date – fingers entwined, gazes meeting shyly in the mirror walls – rise toward the 17th floor, toward room 1706, which for about 8 minutes will be the center of the known universe.