Every Playlist Needs a Little Dolly Parton
Michael Buchinger describes himself as a verbal rebel—a Viennese YouTuber who uses language as a blunt instrument against a society he finds exasperatingly slow to change. He’s sharp, self-deprecating, and apparently capable of defending the Macarena in a serious conversation without blinking. His musical taste is the most honest version of himself.
His relationship with Beyoncé’s Love on Top is the relationship of a man who knows exactly which song is his. When it plays in the club, I scream ’that’s my song!’
he says—but his real devotion is to the structural move near the end, the moment you think it’s over and then Beyoncé screams "Baby it’s YOU!!" one more time, louder than before. It’s the kind of pop architecture that rewards genuine attention.
He has a personal feud with MØ, because she keeps announcing Austrian concert dates and canceling at the last minute. His revenge is weaponizing her cover of the Spice Girls’ Say You’ll Be There—planting it on the playlists of friends who are far too cool to admit they want it there. He plays Charli XCX’s Breaking Up so often and so loud that his boyfriend has begun to suspect a subliminal message. That’s not the case,
Buchinger adds, with the energy of someone who has had to clarify this more than once.
Sleigh Bells’ Bitter Rivals is his running music—aggressive, monstrous, fit for purpose—which he hears approximately once a year, because that’s how often he jogs. David Bowie’s Modern Love goes on after all-night study sessions, when he needs to force himself back upright. And Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5 belongs on every playlist without exception. He’s a freelancer, so the song also served as genuine practical education: that’s how I learned that traditional jobs go from nine to five. Fascinating.
His brief career as half of a DJ duo—one month, two gigs, never booked again—lives on through Azealia Banks’ 212, which he credits with reliably lifting the mood of their audience on both occasions. The first Lorde song he ever heard was The Love Club, which stands as the first and only time I knew something before it was cool.
Joan Jett’s Bad Reputation he wore out in school, feeling dangerous. His actual bad reputation at the time, he admits, was that he never skipped a meal and stared a bit too long in the locker room after PE. Good times.
Then there’s Macarena. He knows how it sounds. He doesn’t care. Who actually remembers any other summer hits?
he asks. The Ketchup Song, Dragostea Din Tei—gone, dissolved, forgotten. Macarena endures. He’s not wrong, and I find that faintly annoying.