30-Day Song Challenge, Day 13: A Song that is a Guilty Pleasure

So any music geek willing to stick to his or her six-guns would preface this category with the exhortation that, "There should be no such things as guilty pleasures." I'd agree with that, pretty much. Unless you're a Celine Dion fan.

Kidding. Sort of.

So I guess my definition of this category would be music so utterly bereft of any traditional muso-snob 'redeeming values' as to raise eyebrows from most stuffy rock critics and indie snobs. If that's the litmus test, then I've got one that'll turn the PH strip into a frickin' kaleidoscope.

I love--no, scratch that, ADORE--the first two Spice Girls CDs. They're perfect, sunny uber-pop albums that hit every fizzy note you could ask for, and then some. And I'd argue that--with their hopscotching of genres, insidiously catchy tunes, and larger-than-life personae--Ginger, Sporty, Posh, Baby, and Scary were the ABBA of the 1990's. They're one pleasure that I'll readily cop to and defend to my dying breath, the way I defend my deep love of SweetTarts and Scooby Doo.

This song has been played to death, reincarnation, and death again since it was released some fifteen years ago, but God help me, I still love it. And with enough belts in me I can lay down a mean version of it on a karaoke night (be ready to help out on the chorus, though). So here's the story from A to Z; you wanna get with me, you gotta listen carefully...

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