A good musical parody can make you hear its target in a new way. A great one replaces it entirely.
Take Kyle Gordon’s video for “Mr. Jambo,” an infectiously catchy spoof of Paul Simon’s “Graceland” album (primarily) that dominated social media scrolls over the summer. Wearing a Mets hat and tie, Gordon brings the Upper West Side to sub-Saharan Africa. He dances in front of giraffes and interrupts a stranger who doesn’t speak English before turning to the camera with a look of newfound wisdom. “I didn’t speak his language. I didn’t understand a word,” Gordon sings in falsetto. “But I knew his meaning was what I decided I had heard.” Cue the swelling chorus.
This satire of American cultural tourism bares teeth not seen since “The Book of Mormon” mocked “The Lion King.” But this song’s earworm craftsmanship and precise details also reflect a clear affection. Now I can’t think of Paul Simon in the 1980s without the delightful cringe of Kyle Gordon (“jambalaya living in your soul”) getting in the way.
The Brooklyn-based Gordon has been called the millennial Weird Al, but the comparison isn’t quite right. His meticulous spoofs are not as broadly silly. They have a nerdy edge and polish, passing up topical superstars to dig around the corners of pop-music history, going deep on micro-genres in a way the internet rewards more than MTV ever did.
On Friday, he released his third album, “Kyle Gordon Is Everywhere” (which includes “Mr. Jambo”), his finest yet, leaning into what makes him the best musical parodist to emerge this decade. With song introductions by Daniel Radcliffe in full David Attenborough pomposity, this collection leans into range and eccentricity. Gordon gets into the sound of indie sleaze from the aughts, Disney bubble-gum pop from the last decade and cornball rock from the 1950s.
By emphasizing authentic and textured musical production, not to mention mock-aggro energy, Gordon evokes the Lonely Island more than Flight of the Conchords. He pokes fun at the characters he’s playing but doesn’t cheat them, especially musically. He seems to be trying to do the best version of what they could accomplish — with a twist.
In “If You Break Up With Me,” he plays another obnoxiously self-regarding singer in the mode of a late 1990s rock dude moaning about a relationship falling apart. That decade is known for moody grunge bands, but Gordon (or 10 Year Plan, his fictional band) explores a narrower subgenre that pairs tortured lyrics with a peppier, music style — think Third Eye Blind’s “Semi-Charmed Life.”
The contrast becomes more stark as the song unfolds, exposing the creepy subtext of a wildly entitled boyfriend. In a bratty voice, the singer tells his girlfriend that if she breaks up with him, he’ll kill himself, drawing out his guilt trip and self-pity in more flamboyantly toxic and violent ways. There are nods to Blur (that distinctive “WOO-hoo!”), but the comic engine is the narrator’s sinister absurdity, and the biggest laughs come from its juxtaposition with chirpy melodies. In this, the music provides the punchline.
Gordon’s go-to move is taking the implication of a song and making it overt. Sometimes the shift is subtle. In a jingoistic Iraq war-era style rock song, “Hero of Fallujah,” Gordon plays a singer in a band called Downshift, growling to future soldiers. “You’re not a human,” he sings in a voice that is so much deeper than his tone on “Mr. Jambo” that it doesn’t sound like its from the same person. “You’re a hero. Take that gun and make them pay a price.”
All his characters share a certain desperate intensity (even Barry Bergen, the soft-rock balladeer of “Mr. Jambo”), a straining showbiz determination to sell the number that is a little unnerving. Gordon opened a show at Upright Citizens Brigade recently with the same barreling energy that Green Day brings to arenas. “Come on, New York!” he yelled, arms waving. “We’re going to start in the most demented way possible.”
He plays his satire so straight that a few songs aren’t that funny, especially on first listen. And they can be so obscure that not everyone will get the references.
Gordon’s first viral hit was “Planet of the Bass,” a parody of European dance pop, changed his songwriting process, he said in an interview. He no longer tests his work with live audiences the way a comic would to develop material. That older approach rewards hard jokes and accessible references. “Planet of the Bass” is so specific that it might not hit with a random New York crowd. But on the expanse of the internet, the parody found its audience.
It’s an example of how Gordon parodies musical snobbery but also embraces it. For instance, some musical comedy avoids refrains on the theory that listeners won’t laugh if they have already heard the joke once. But that’s not the way pop songs work. They repeat lyrics. And Gordon is more committed to capturing the way they sound than landing a density of jokes. The risk is greater, but so is the payoff.
The post Don’t Tell Weird Al, but Kyle Gordon’s Satires Are Great Earworms, Too appeared first on New York Times.
