Call me samey?

“One of the greatest of all time.”

“It’s not one of the greatest of all time.”

So began 20 or so minutes of intense debate. The office came alive with claim and counter-claim. There were raised voices. There was moderate profanity.

A definitive conclusion did not arrive. But I’m goddamn supplying one now, and I’m goddamn sharing it with the worl…erm, with the four or so people that’ll read this blog post.

Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Call Me Maybe’ is one of the greatest songs of all time.

I’m not even sure it requires analysis. The song is adored. ADORED. People young and old love the song. It will outlive us all. Even Keith Richards. ‘Call Me Maybe’ will outlive Keith Richards.

It makes you happy. It brings life into your bones. It’s essentially aural sunshine, with the added benefit of not forever fucking up your skin.

If it doesn’t make you feel like this, why not? It’s not meant to be rocket science. It’s 3 minutes 30 seconds of fun. It’s a rollercoaster. It’s a firework. It’s the first swig of a Cherry-Coke. Don’t overthink it. Just run with it. With a stupid, dumb grin on your face.

Actually, let’s overthink it. Let’s pick at its torso like a unnamed extra in The Walking Dead. Makes no difference. It’ll still be great.

Strings: Some pop acts like sticking an orchestra in an otherwise bobbins song. They think it gives them gravitas. It usually doesn’t. It just gives them a bigger catering bill. ‘Call Me Maybe’s strings are different. You barely notice them. But they’re there. Adding drama. It’s a fizzy pop song, but with an almost imperceptible element of suspense. That’s the violins, that is.

Plucking: Still with the strings. What modern pop songs start with pizzicato violins? This one does. Good on it, I say.

Story: Yup, still with the strings. The story is slight — girl sees boy, girl fancies boy. That’s it. You could say it’s simple. It’s not. It’s economical. It gets right to the heart of teenage crush, teenage frustration and teenage drama. The violins help. The sharp, bold strokes of the bow across the strings adds urgency to the song, as they would if you lifted them out of the track and plonked them into the soundtrack for Friday the 13th Part 242: The Stabathon.

Even with such a slight story though, it works. It’s relatable. Cross-generational too (another reason the song will outlive you, I and Keith Richards). And it doesn’t resolve. It leaves you hanging with a sense of ‘what’s going to happen next?’ I love stories like that. Neat endings suck balls.

Hooks: Everything’s a hook. Everything’s melodic. And you get that excited, upward rush into the chorus from the verse (“wheredyathinkyouregoingBABY?”). Way catchy.

Lyrics: Dumb and clever. Like Donald Trump and his wig. ‘Call Me Maybe’ does a nice turn in seamless transition from the lyrical (“I trade my soul for a wish”) to the trashily contemporary (“Ripped jeans, skin was showin’”). Good for paradox too (“Before you came into my life/I missed you so bad”).

This girl can: Carly’s not moping around here. ‘All the other boys…try and chase me”. She’s not submissive. She’s being impulsive. She’s taking a gamble. So, y’know, whatever.

Sweetness: It’s a charming musical throwback, in an age of Rihanna and Beyonce f-ing and jeffing. It’s like walking into a classic ’50s prom night.

Brevity: It’s joyous and short. Utterly unlike this blog post, in fact.

You could disagree with all this. Or, you could take three minutes and 33 seconds to get a little sunshine in your life. Maybe.

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