Mtnt’s new single, “Limousine (Na Na Na),” arrives with its engine humming a curious tune, promising a collision of “the original sway of Bublé” and M83’s electronic expansiveness. An odd pairing, on paper. Like finding a perfectly tailored tuxedo discarded at a warehouse rave, maybe? Or catching Sinatra’s ghost attempting the robot under a malfunctioning disco ball. The mind, it does wander.
This track is an unapologetic, deep dive into nocturnal hedonism, a soundtrack for a night that stretches languidly towards an impossible dawn. It’s all about chasing that intense, immersive sensory overload, that desperate yearning to be so utterly swept away by powerful sensations that you’re practically airborne on feeling alone, grasping for some new plane of existence. The lyrics articulate this addictive craving for more, this willing surrender to an overwhelming “overdose” of pleasure.
And for a strange, flickering instant, a particular surge of layered synths didn’t just suggest flight; it conjured the distinct, almost tactile memory of the sticky, dizzying joy of the Tilt-A-Whirl at a forgotten summer fair – that precise moment where gravity feels like a gentle suggestion and the world is just a blur of cheap lights and thrilled, slightly unhinged screams. “Limousine” wants to bottle that electric, perhaps slightly dangerous, thrill.
Mtnt confidently flags this as a “fuckin banger,” and that sheer ambition fairly glints off every synthesized pulse and digital snare. The EDM-pop architecture is undeniably sleek, engineered for maximum impact, for making waves across Europe, as the artist hopes. But does the phantom limb of Bublé’s sway fully integrate, or does it sometimes feel like a very dapper, slightly bewildered chaperone at an extremely energetic, neon-soaked party? The track throbs with this consuming desire for transcendence, this push to be lost and shining brightly within a captivating, inescapable nocturnal fantasy.
It’s a potent shot of vivid, dreamlike perceptions, almost overwhelmingly so at points. One is left with the shimmering residue of its euphoric intoxication, pondering: when one seeks to fly that high on sensation, is the subsequent freefall an unavoidable, even secretly desired, part of the glittering escape?
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