The Black Eyed Peas
"The Time (Dirty Bit)"
Go to the club. Drink. Dance. Freak. Repeat.
Oh, and add Auto-Tune if necessary.
If there's any band that's repackaged that perpetual-party recipe more frequently—or more successfully—than The Black Eyed Peas, I'm not aware of it. Not since the disco act KC and the Sunshine Band in the late '70s has a single act so symbolized the hedonistic dream of a never-ending soiree.
In fact, The Peas have returned to that alcohol-spiked well so often—witness the band's three No. 1 musings on the theme in 2009, " Boom Boom Pow," " I Gotta Feeling" and " Imma Be"—that I honestly feel like I'm running out of ways to talk about what amounts to exactly the same song. But apparently The Peas aren't at a loss for words, because Will.i.am, Fergie, Taboo and apl.de.ap show no signs at all of abandoning their commitment to the "ideal" that drives them to party on … and on … and on.
"The Time (Dirty Bit)," the first single from their sixth album, The Beginning, picks up right where those '09 hits left off. After Will.i.am and Fergie take turns singing the chorus of 1987's "I've Had (The Time of My Life)" from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, the bacchanalian proceedings get underway in earnest: "I came in here to rock/Light a fire and make it hot," Will.i.am announces. "I just wanna take some shots/So come on, let's go, let's lose control/Let's do it all night 'til we can't do it no more." As for whether the "doing it" in question constitutes drinking or having sex, the answer is likely "yes." "It's hot in her, the temperature/It's got these ladies gettin' freakier."
Fergie adds, "I was born to get wild/That's my style/If you didn't know that/Well, baby, now you know." Then we're treated to apl.de.ap's ruminations about swaggering like Mick Jagger. (No one must have told him that Ke$ha already laid claim to that rhyme on " TiK ToK").
The video displays no shortage of that swagger, derivative and repetitive though it may be. The majority of it takes place at—you guessed it—a dance club. We watch various members of the band or other folks dancing suddenly morph into massively pixelated versions of themselves. Or sprout cube-like video monitors from their heads.
Lots of scantily clad females join the mayhem. And the stuff that should be pixelated isn't. Fergie, for a while, sports a translucent dress that reveals her thong underwear. Various couples kiss and grind. Alcohol sloshes and slides down throats. A woman vomits. (That is pixelated.)
Equal parts dancing, sexual writhing and drinking, we see spelled out in visual detail exactly the kind of party The Peas have in mind: one of nonstop excess and few, if any, limitations on the dance floor.