My friend Ben and I were sitting in my apartment listening to glitter pop and drinking homemade mango margaritas planning our pop-world dominance. We perused our vast warehouse of guilty pleasures and discovered a gaping void. It was time to bring the Power Woman to the forefront. As men, it was our turn to be rescued, our turn to be the dude in distress, our turn to be helpless and alone!

Guitars in hand, we forged the song in the fires of pop gods before us, building our melodic tower piece by piece. And soon, the song started to build itself. It became a monster we could no longer control. It broke through my frail, paper-thin apartment door and leaped over Manhattan. It's out there roaming, pillaging, conquering ears, hearts and souls. We've sent warriors after it, tragically, to their doom. They, along with a growing mass of so called music lovers, follow this monster to the ends of the earth. Singing.