I love The Chainsmokers and I’m fucking bitter about it. I love them the way I love reality television: deeply and wretchedly, gluttonously and gloriously. I love them the way you love a boy who doesn’t know you exist. I’m bitter because The Chainsmokers bought their fame with aural scourge, “#SELFIE,” a laughable gesture at cultural critique (about like, image culture or millennial lifestyle or whatever) that did it’s real work as a femininity-bashing reduction of women to jealousy, narcissism and mirror-primping chatter. I’m bitter because Drew Taggart and Alex Pall are spokesboys of a thriving subculture of Alpha art bros, aka standard edition frat bros disguised in a deceptive costume of floral button-ups and Nike Frees, dripping with entrepreneurial smugness; the EDM analogue to the nerdboys with god complexes who start a successful business exploiting a market trend, care a little bit about their product (they refer to their music as “topline” or “deliverables”) but a lot about making stupid amounts money and being very famous; and now want to spit in everyone’s faces saying, “fuck all y’all who said we wouldn’t.”
I’m bitter because “Even before success, pussy was number one,” “It’s always work hard, play hard,” “You’ll never see us getting carried out of a club.