Radar Detector is a song by Darwin Deez. Not since the invention of the microscope, or the pioneering early days of parasitology has man gazed into the rectum of his own existence with such indefensible freshness, or groped at its spongy caverns with such un-calloused fingers.
Twee indie pop sang by ungainly adult-children is an unprecedented new breed of disgustingness that reminds us of the amoral, animalistic, mad and corrupt heart of reality. This could almost be considered a redeeming quality - that is, if there was any obvious kind of will to this end on the part of the musicians. I don't know, maybe there is.
It is all somehow the same as this: http://youtu.be/MMRHGW_K-M8
The Paula Deen video records proud, unflinching gluttony in a climate where poverty and starvation are impossible to ignore. It‘s vulgarity. Radar Detector elicits a psychic response in me that is so uncannily similar to the one elicited by Paula Deen’s Ghetto Breakfast Sandwich that I find it impossible to distinguish between the two. I have no problem, as such, with the general concept of a beef burger, a fried egg and some bacon being sandwiched between two sugar-glazed doughnuts and forced past the dislocated jaws of a salivating demon into the trash compactor scene of Star Wars: A New Hope, but the fact that it is the basis of a television program seems a bit much. A bit too much (ghetto breakfast sandwich) to swallow. Something this ugly shouldn’t flounce so unsubtly.
Radar Detector and the Ghetto Breakfast Sandwich are so close to masturbation that similar rules of conduct must apply when in public areas.
If Laura Deen is vulgar in her capacity for self-indulgence through food, Darwin Deez is vulgar in his capacity for self-indulgence through saccharine naivety in the face of despair. It is a special, child-like (but not of children) form of naivety. It’s dissention into fantasy, the voluntary stupification of ones own faculties, and the opting out of human suffering. But you can't opt out...err...Darwin.
Radar Detector is also a song. Listening to it is like having your body smeared across a continent by a nuclear explosion, laying there in disseminated paralysis for five-hundred years, then having the motes of your existence pieced back together by a team of annoying little elves who have each slept with your first and best-loved girlfriend.