The Stupidity of The Chainsmokers Continues to Astound Me

Here's how they describe the "movie" they're "writing."

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A few years ago, many of my fellow critics accused me of ruining music when I inadvertently convinced The Chainsmokers to cover Nickelback. This was in response to an essay in which I called the duo "the Nickelback of EDM". Their response—I maintain—was pretty damn good. But that doesn't change the fact that their braindead music and public douchebagery continues to glamorize toxic masculinity.

These are the guys who once bragged on their website that their penises measure "17.34 combined inches" when placed tip-to-tip. These are the guys who proudly tout shameless sexism in their biggest hits.

Well, now, at a time when the world needed them the least, The Chainsmokers are back and dumber than ever. Today—following-up on their sophomore album—they released a new song called "Who Do You Love?" Essentially, it's a song about a person accusing their significant other of cheating. It opens with the narrator complaining that their partner is "Always changin' your access codes." Yeah, it's kind of a fucked up invasion of personal boundaries, and a weird kind of sympathetic look at a toxic relationship.

But at one point, the vocalist sings, "You flip it on me, say I think too much."

No, no, I don't think anyone has accused The Chainsmokers of thinking too much.

Which brings me to the other fun piece of Chainsmokers news today. Vanity Fair interviewed Andrew Taggart and Alex Pall at an event recently about the movie they're writing.

Here's how these dildos describe the movie:

“We’re hoping to write some nostalgic, great banter, love story,” Taggart added.

So... You're making a teen drama in the style of a disgraced filmmaker accused of allegedly molesting a child?

Is it really possible for any two people to be this oblivious? Their stupidity is truly astounding.

Don't worry, because at least Taggart and Pall aren't appearing in the film, but they're definitely contributing to the music. Because what is more vintage Paris than two garish, tacky Americans pushing play on tracks hardly worthy of soundtracking a fight over beerpong?

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