nicenotnice

I've been accused of having a musical taste based in irony. That my iTunes is the equivalent of a hipster's bushy handle-bar moustache.
"You don't understand," I say, clutching my Hall and Oates record. "I actually like them. I really, really like them. They make me feel happy and like I--"
"JUST AS I THOUGHT!" screams the Arbiter of Whatever, snapping the record over his knee.
The fact that I once cried listening to "What a Fool Believes" doesn't implicate your taste. It suggests that you are mature enough to have friends that are not exactly like you.
Sometimes I like songs because they make me feel good, and because they make me want to dance, and because I get this exhilarating build-up in my chest and only a fist-pump can save me from asphyxiation.

Below is one such song. Its goodness cannot be denied. You're gonna listen to it and then you're gonna listen to it again and then maybe rethink your feelings about Phil Collins. Or maybe not.