A succinct, spooky, almost unsettling little number with DNA derived partly from the songs of Leonard Cohen, and partly, perhaps, from something played after hours by a performer in some decadent underground Berlin nightclub, circa 1927. For some reason, I always see in my mind’s eye a lonely figure on stage in a darkened room, singing to nobody save the janitor as he mops up the night’s mess. The delivery is detached, dispassionate, almost bemused in a way; the singer might just as well be an entomologist serenading an anthill.
Like we’re all just bugs. Bugs are Unbelievable.