Jukebox: Goldfrapp

Listen up, fanboys and -girls. Goldfrapp is coming out with a new album in March called "Head First," and you know what that means: more dancing girls with sparkling horse heads, yay! I must say, I wasn't terribly swoony over the 'frapp's last album Seventh Tree. Too much toothless hippy-harlequin balladry and not enough songs about fucking robots. But the word on the street is that the new one is a return to the glittery Goldfrapp of old, and to celebrate the reemergence of our Alison in the queue for the club, sitting atop a wispy white horse and holding a riding crop in her teeth, let's revisit the first time we ever saw her on the teevee.

It was, what, 2002? Conan O'Brien still had a show, and Jay Leno was easily ignored. It was a time when one could turn on the television after 12:30 and be assured of seeing a masturbating bear, a horny manatee, or at least Max Weinberg. Into this late-night circus dropped Goldfrapp from Bath, England, dressed for Halloween. When I first saw the band I thought, who are these Swiss Miss weirdos who've just been beamed in from a Weimar-era opium free-for-all? Then Alison opened her mouth and I thought, wow, that's a great Maria Callas sample. But it 'twasn't! 'Twas actual singing! I spent the next five minutes melting. Jimmy and I saw the band play a few years ago here in NYC and that bitch hit Every. Single. Note.

Watch until the end when those high notes just fly out of her open mouth like a flock of seagulls escaping an awful 80's hairstyle.

Fun fact: It was this guy on the violin who inspired me to always wear my lederhosen when playing my viola in public. (To distract the public from my playing, duh.)