Robin Thicke ft Pharrell and TI - "Blurred Lines". I was turned onto Thicke's new single a few days before a panoply of bare breasts helped its video go gamboling across the blogosphere. Even then, its cheekiness verged on tacky: "You wanna hug me?" Thicke scooby-doos, "What rhymes with 'hug me'?" But I am extremely forgiving when it comes to good tunes, and this is a very, very good one. In a sense, my mixed feelings are part of the gist of this song: it is, after all, called "Blurred Lines". Just as the track seduces me, in spite of my reservations, Thicke and his hounddog friends are contriving to slip inside a "good girl"'s' trousers. When they croon, "I know you want it," there isn't any of rock or hip-hop's customary threat; they mean it as an invitation, a provocation, a dare. One of my favourite moments in the song is actually kinda horrible - "YOU / THE / HOTTEST / BITCH / IN / THIS / PLACE," the wing-men shout, giving their mark power and taking it away. Still, it sounds good, and almost sincere; maybe I'm giving the boys too much credit, but unlike so many sleazy songs about hustling sex-objects, I feel like the singers are overtly role-playing, and asking these women to do the same. Do you want to accept that compliment? Do you want to be "the hottest bitch in this place"? All of us know that ultimately it's up to you. Blurred lines.

None of this would matter if "Blurred Lines" wasn't such a pleasure to listen to. Pop-bottle percussion, basso and falsetto, gang vocals, distant whoops, loping bassline, stupid asides. With so much pop that's insistently banging or darkly brooding, it's a tiny revelation to hear something this airy and unforced; music for an afternoon party, not a late-night coke binge. Something to send out clattering round the house while you sweep away the last winter trash.

(image from the painted panel of a Slovenian beehive, from the Honey Talks collection)