The resulting blockbuster songs are less songs than equations, albeit luxurious equations that entail one pop star or another purring sexy-adjacent nonsense directly into your ears. At first this might feel antiseptic, or inauthentic, or just robbed of the intimacy of a single human writing and then singing a perfect song to another single human. But you gotta know the math to fully appreciate the art. Think of it as “I fake it so real, I am beyond fake” on an industrial scale, but generating bombastic and frighteningly immediate stadium anthems, redolent with fire and desire, that enthrall
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