The fashion houses of Milan have spoken, and the color of the season is nothing. Not white, not cream, not even taupe with ambitions. Beige. But electric beige, which is six hundred dollars more expensive than regular beige and legally distinct.
This is a song about that. It is the Emperor’s new clothes, except the Emperor charges retail and the whole court claps anyway. It is also a song about a small child who pointed out the obvious and was escorted from the building. We last saw him reflected, very small and very alone, in the Reflecting Pool. We have chosen not to ask.
We mastered it at full volume to compensate for the color. It is loud, it is fast, and it is dressed in a putty-toned t-shirt that goes with everything and pairs with nothing.
