Every sentence is a pretext for sex, sex, sex, sex
The wildly talented and wildly wild Nellie McKay gets the extended words-upon-words New York Times Magazine treatment:
"A jaunty, almost rollicking number called ''It's a Pose'' belies its tuneful jollity with a casually vicious indictment of the entire male sex:
Every sentence is a pretext for sex, sex, sex, sex
God you went to Oxford
head still in your boxers
but you're male so what should I expect?
The procedural by Daniel Menaker, executive editor in chief of Random House, continues: "McKay lives out of an apartment on Amsterdam Avenue in Manhattan, north of Columbia University. It's a small first-floor studio crammed with books and nearly toppling towers of CD's and two robin's-egg-blue hard-shell suitcases and clothes and a piano with musical composition paper on which composition seemed... to have temporarily given way to doodles of a happy kind. This all sounds messy (to be fair, on another visit the place was much neater), but it spoke of a coherently romantic existence—the old-fashioned archetype of a young artist's life, heedless of appearances, with creativity disdaining order, volcanic energy scattering debris all around it."
"A jaunty, almost rollicking number called ''It's a Pose'' belies its tuneful jollity with a casually vicious indictment of the entire male sex:
Every sentence is a pretext for sex, sex, sex, sex
God you went to Oxford
head still in your boxers
but you're male so what should I expect?
The procedural by Daniel Menaker, executive editor in chief of Random House, continues: "McKay lives out of an apartment on Amsterdam Avenue in Manhattan, north of Columbia University. It's a small first-floor studio crammed with books and nearly toppling towers of CD's and two robin's-egg-blue hard-shell suitcases and clothes and a piano with musical composition paper on which composition seemed... to have temporarily given way to doodles of a happy kind. This all sounds messy (to be fair, on another visit the place was much neater), but it spoke of a coherently romantic existence—the old-fashioned archetype of a young artist's life, heedless of appearances, with creativity disdaining order, volcanic energy scattering debris all around it."
