2 February 2012
I approach ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’ under the impression that it had disappeared from the popular consciousness. Yes, it was inescapably mahoosive in 2012, but who listens to it now? Actually, quite a lot of people; as I write this, its streaming and viewing figures are each over one billion, so it’s obviously still racking up the clicks.
Next question: who listened to ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’ in 2012? I know I didn’t, and even catching a few bars of it on the radio had me changing the station. In fact, my listens to write these few lines may be the first time I’ve engaged with it attentively from start to finish. The toytown percussion and sparse arrangement certainly stood out in contrast to the densely-packed EDM-pop around it. Likewise, the intimate, heartfelt vocals were a change from party-hardy EDM whoop-and-holler.
Still, though, how did the obscure ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’ by Australia’s unknown Gotye manage to slow-burn its way to number one across the Earth? Well, what its one billion listeners and this one non-listener probably have in common is that we hear the same thing in this track: soft rock. Male protagonist with a pained tale of being dumped? Soft rock. Male protagonist directing his passive-aggressive angst at the dumper for being so moved-on as to ignore him? Soft rock. Male protagonist wallowing in his misery by having a female guest vocalist inform us that she left because he was the asshole? Soft rock. Male protagonist without self-awareness, humour or insight? Soft rock.
In fact, that combination of sparseness, pained vocals and male sourness in ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’ evokes for me Sting and The Police at their least likeable: ‘Don’t Stand So Close To Me’, ‘Wrapped Around Your Finger’, ‘Every Breath You Take’. Like I said: soft rock. It may have set out from Down Under to conquer the world, and swayed one billion soft rock users in the process, but it’s never got me.
