Why You Can’t Get That Terrible The Idol Song Out of Your Head

Why You Can’t Get That Terrible The Idol Song Out of Your Head,Angels, we’ve been freaked. Let a musicologist explain what makes “World Class Sinner/I’m a Freak,” the catchy pop parody song from ‘The Idol,’ co-written by The Weeknd and performed by Lily-Rose Depp, an earworm with prime social-media replay value.

Why You Can’t Get That Terrible The Idol Song Out of Your Head

Has anybody else caught that thing that’s going around? You’ll just be sitting there, then something snaps in one of your synapses: “I’m just a freak (yeah) / and you know I want it bad.” You’re powerless to resist.

It is, of course, that terrible song from that terrible show The Idol, and while it’s impossible to quantify how many people have it stuck on repeat in their brains, the streaming numbers suggest I’m far from alone. Released on June 9, at the time of writing “World Class Sinner / I’m A Freak” has been played more than 7.5 million times on Spotify and has 2.7 million views on YouTube. Angels: We’ve been freaked.

Co-written by Abel “The Weeknd” Tesfaye, who is also co-creator of The Idol, the track is meant to be the big “I’m A Slave 4 U”-esque comeback song that the HBO series’ troubled pop starlet Jocelyn (Lily-Rose Depp) is forced to perform. It’s bad, as all the characters seem to know whether they admit it to Jocelyn or not, featuring lines like, “I’m wild as a stallion / So come and join the rodeo” and, “Every weekend / I’m just tryna to find someone to bang.” The lyrics are pseudo-shocking, the delivery is a dead zone, the visuals are dated, everything about it screams flop. It practically begs to be hated, so why can’t I stop singing it?

“I think if I heard it initially, I wouldn’t necessarily think that it was meant to be bad,” says Dr. Paula Clare Harper, a musicologist at the University of Chicago who, as the person behind 2021’s SwiftCon, an academic conference dedicated to dissecting all things in the Swiftian canon, could be regarded as the oracle of whether a pop song slaps. “In some ways, ‘WCS’ has all the hallmarks of a standard, contemporary pop song,” she adds. “There are only a couple of things — and most of them are at the level of the lyrics — that really push towards this is meant to be a parody of a pop song. There are songs that hit harder on the banger scale, but if I heard it on the radio or on the backing track to a TV show, it works.”

The first canny musical move on the part of Tesfaye and co-writer–producer Asa Taccone (a frequent collaborator of The Lonely Island) was drawing inspiration from The Weeknd’s own back catalog. Harper notes the song’s similarity to his 2015 hit “Can’t Feel My Face” as one reason we might be predisposed to connect with it. “It’s actually got the exact same chord progression, it’s in the same key too,” she says, adding that it uses aeolian mode, a scale close to the minor key. (Other popular songs that use this are as far-reaching as Gotye’s “Somebody I Used To Know” and Jimi Hendrix’s “All Along The Watchtower”). Harper explains that this makes it intriguing to the listener, as “it feels like there’s a little bit more directionlessness quality, so you get more of a fluid, harmonic space.”

As for it being an earworm, just as Jocelyn is in thrall to Tedros, the sleazy producer–cult leader played by Tesfaye, so listeners have been brainwashed by the beat. “It’s got a catchy hook with really simple but iconic lyrics. It’s easy to remember,” Harper explains. “It also teaches you how to sing along with the song, so when you get to that final chorus you can sing along with it, which gets it stuck in your head. The tune is also simple enough that you don’t need to be a virtuoso singer as you hum along while washing the dishes.”

But what of the “Sex Breath” remix of the song, courtesy of Tedros, a red silk scarf, and a knife? “The remix is what really tips it over into parody,” Harper says. “It was clearly meant to be ludicrous and very, very silly.”

Then there’s the drop. While Tesfaye obviously didn’t invent the pregnant pause in pop music — probably the most famous example of which is the beat right before Whitney Houston sings “…and I will always love you”, or, more recently, Kylie Minogue’s “Padam Padam” — Harper says “WCS” uses this device to great effect. “The standard instrumentation builds into the sonic color of the pre-chorus, it’s got the moment of silence, then the powerful explosion of the chorus.” Anticipating that dramatic moment could be what inspires people to keep smashing the play button — and, Harper adds, primes the song for social-media dissemination. “This is the perfect setup for a certain type of TikTok transition,” she points out. “It’s going to work for people to use it to show something mundane, silly, or deeply non-sexy, like their model train collection or their 19 different types of homemade yogurt.”

Like other TV pop parodies that have crossed over into IRL appeal, such as Schitt’s Creek’s “A Little Bit Alexis” or Black Mirror’s “I’m on a Roll” by Ashley O (Miley Cyrus), “World Class Sinner” works on a dual level: The tracks are just sturdy enough to work a pop music angle, but the knowing humor makes it ideal social-media fodder. Search “I’m A Freak” on TikTok, and amid the many videos of people recreating the dance routine (another factor in its pending iconic status) there are confessionals of people who are also being tormented with it on replay in their heads. That’s the tension at the heart of this track: hate the show, love the song, and embrace the cringe of it all.

@thomfb

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♬ World Class Sinner / I’m A Freak – Lily- Rose Depp

Whatever you may think of his performance as Tedros, Tesfaye has pulled off a feat of musical contortion in co-creating a great pop song masquerading as a track that appears to be terrible. The musician has so far been tight-lipped about the degree to which the song and the recently released follow-up tracks from the soundtrack are meant to be a pastiche of the “naughty girl” industrial pop complex, but “World Class Sinner” has managed to reach an audience primed, either consciously or subconsciously, to connect with this specific strain of pop — and perhaps more importantly, to revel in the excruciating awkwardness of it all. So, well played, Tesfaye. Your show may stink, but it’s hard to deny this addictive song is anything other than a stone-cold banger. Now is there some sort of support group?