Fragments of songs run rampant through a maze of looped guitar solos and displaced lyrics. Some are razor-thin, mutilated beyond recognition and gone before you know it. Others are long, drawn-out and slow ‘mdash; like fat drops of sweat creeping down a hyphy club rat’s face, taking her makeup with it. A little Zeppelin here, a touch of Beyonce there, then ‘BOOTY, BOOTY, BOOTY’ as Bubba Sparxxx kicks down the door and belts misogynistic come-ons to all the ladies in the house.
It’s directionless. It’s unexpected. It’s a little bit wrong. But goddamn if it doesn’t sound like pure magic. And that writhing orgy of provocative sound bytes, subtly mismatched bass lines and fleeting slivers of catchy-ass shit you swear you’ve heard before will envelop an isolated corner of campus this Friday when Girl Talk stages a manic coup d’etat on the 2009 Sun God Festival.
When listening to Girl Talk (aka Greg Gillis, biomedical engineering student turned dancehall messiah), it’s easy to forget that what you’re hearing is a mash-up. His tracks are unbelievably fluid at times: Big-hair rock ballads frolic symbiotically with soulful, gospel-inspired caterwauling, and the Pixies’ ethereal guitar riffs become a distorted car-stereo soundtrack for your midafternoon Compton drive-by. At other moments, it’s like listening to a scratched Huey Lewis vinyl played way too loudly over a broken barroom jukebox that skips unpredictably every few seconds, jumping violently from blues to hip-hop to grunge.
His creations are chaotic and defiant of any form, yet inexplicably melodious. There’s little time to stop and think about all the pieces ‘mdash; the subtle piano chords, the garbled moans, the rapid-fire succession of signature Michael Jackson shrieks. With Girl Talk, there is only the sum of the parts, derived from hours of careful sampling, splicing and mixing, backed by a dual appreciation for sickeningly overplayed pop and little-known indie fare.
DJ Funk’s ‘Pump that Shit’ melts seamlessly into the Cranberries’ ‘Dreams.’ Elton John walks hand-in-hand with the Notorious B.I.G. to the tune of ‘Tiny Dancer.’ Then, without a trace of irony, Rick Springfield wails his love for ‘Jessie’s Girl’ as Three 6 Mafia discuss a partiality toward oral sex.
Girl Talk gives life to an army of fucked-up patchwork ragdolls, exposes them to a pile of radioactive bargain-bin cassette tapes and then turns them loose in a bizarre, brightly lit city populated by washed-up one-hit wonders and chart-topping glam-rap superstars. It’s not quite rock, not quite rap and never quite coherent, but inarguably danceable as fuck. Just don’t call him a deejay.