Is it sadistic that “Good Times,” the song of the summer, is finally blessed with an official video as we enter shitty October? As a seasonal work of art, it seems to ask us to mourn all we have lost—pools, sun, fun, happiness, rooftop jams, chill vibes—in the penultimate month before winter destroys us.

In the video, Jamie xx, the perpetrator of this heinous crime of reminding us when we enjoyed his song in happier climes, very smartly does not show his face, lest we see him at a party and corner him to register our unhappiness/cry. As the video opens, a plane flies a rainbow banner advertising the song over New York City, which is bathed in the life-giving light of summer. Young Thug sits atop a Manhattan rooftop, interspersed with shots of Popcaan on a hoverboard in Jamaica. Neither of them is afraid to show his face; the vocalists seem to challenge us to face our mortality, to recognize the pain we feel as we see sunkissed models floating on pool rafts, not a care in the world.

Do you remember where you were the first time you heard this song? Do you remember where you were the most important time you heard it? Was it in a verdant courtyard, elevated by the silvery laughter of your friends, as you lifted up a dewy cocktail in a fruit-colored glass to fête not having a care in the world, as the fragrant smoke of barbecue enchanted your senses? Were you full of life and hope and spirit, did you bask in the warmth of the sun on your face?

Those days are dead. Done. They only exist in this video now.

Should you need another reminder of the death of summer 2015, take this companion piece shot by Vogue to the same song, which features Young Thug (also on a hoverboard) dancing with models, who showcase some of the Spring 2016 fashions shown at New York Fashion Week this month. It adds insult to injury—Spring 2016 is still so far away—but if you are able to get through both videos, it’s a testament to your inner strength, the possibility that you might survive this next several months of Hell, mentally and physically. Young Thug’s Fendi fur pom-poms, four hundred bucks a pop and worn on his belt, are a Lynchian metaphor, a dark and cynical reminder that in the near dystopian future looming, we will be forced wrap up in warmer fabrics, layer upon layer to shield our fragile bodies from the elements, our bones brittle from the freezing cold. In the near dystopian future, our sunglasses will shield us not from the burning rays of the sun, but the blinding reflection of them on the snow. We will wear all black, to attract warmth.

We will simply exist.


Contact the author at julianne@jezebel.com.

Image via screenshot.