Let me preface this piece by saying that I am by no means a music expert. In fact, I think that the most accurate description of my position on the Music Knowledge Scale would be: a restraining order away from “naïve teenage devotion” and damn near tongue kissing “complete philistine.”

My taste in music is determined mainly by whether the sound of it incites within me uncontrollable rage (Billy Talent) or, emotions other than rage. That is to say that failing to whip me into a violent frenzy usually results in me eventually coming to appreciate the piece of music.

I must admit that usually I don’t even really listen to the lyrics until after I’ve determined if my visceral reaction will allow me to accept or reject the song. I could be listening to a song on repeat for an entire month before I realize that it’s a painful confession about erectile dysfunction.
In any case, I suppose this preamble is somewhat of a disclaimer.

I am about to get pretty worked up about the Justice concert that was at the Commodore in Vancouver, Canada this past week, and well, I don’t want anyone to think that I’m attempting to be one of those pretentious assh*les that think their musical taste should be taken as doctrine.

You know who I’m talking about. Know-it-alls who pepper their reviews with phrases like “avant-garde,” and overtly display their unhealthy love affair with prefixes like “pseudo” or “quasi,” then proceed to give themselves congratulatory strokes on their genitals for coming up with some obscure reference that will prove to the world that they are God’s older, more attractive sibling.

This is not a review. This is a divulgence of transcendence. Alright, I’m just going to say it: I had tantric sex with Justice [1]. The French electro music duo and their tight, tight beats not only gave me three to five orgasms, but I’m pretty sure that during one particularly intense climax, I spoke to Jesus, and Jesus said to me “you are the best dancer I’ve ever seen. Keep flailing your arms around like an acid-ridden hippy, and never stop hopping back and forth like you’re at a hoe-down on fast forward.” And then, I’m pretty sure he high-fived me. We exchanged numbers. Whatever.

What I’m trying to say is: as a relatively new Public Dancer, (one who is able to move their body to music in a public place without being crippled by self-consciousness), I was blown away by, and furthermore, grateful for, the undeniable power of Justice’s beats to immediately take my hand and lead me from awkward first date to passionate intercourse in a matter of seconds. And now, I’m pregnant; pregnant with a love for Justice that may or may not possess the strength to sustain the impending use of their music for a fast food commercial.