Is the first ice-breaking question you ask on a date, “What kind of music do you like?” Do you lose your erection if they readily respond with Lady Gaga, or do your pants fly off at the mention of Explosions in the Sky? To help you avoid the potential awkwardness of this scenario, a dating website called Tastebuds.fm was developed with audiophiles in mind.

Interestingly, the site did a study on how likely a person will go “all the way” on their first date based on their music choice. The site asked users asked how far they would go on the first date by selecting if they would “Only meet up for a chat,” “Perhaps a kiss,” or “I’d go all the way if the mood was right” and calculated it against recurring music choices. The results are revealing and hilarious:

Those least likely to ‘go all the way’ listen to:

1. Coldplay
2. Adele
3. Lady Gaga
4. Katy Perry
5. Kings Of Leon

Those Most Likely to drop ‘em listen to:

1. Nirvana
2. Metallica
3. Linkin Park
4. Kanye West
5. Gorillaz

This survey was given to a mix of men and women who would certainly skew the results, considering guys are usually pretty easy (I know some men who would put out to Shania Twain’s Greatest Hits). Regardless, I think there is some truth to these findings, and personally I would move Kanye West to the top spot; here’s why.

Under any other circumstances, we’d consider a song devoted to your own prowess as an unstoppable fuck machine and world-altering lay to be a terminus — the John Mayer point of no return, if you will. However, if you’re the infinitely doable Marcus Patrick, we’d frankly expect — nay beseech — that you sing your own praises. Curious biological phenomena abound for the esteemed Mr. Patrick — one-time boy bander, martial artist, model, go-go dancer, personal trainer, and soap star kicked to the curb from Days of Our Lives for doing a full-frontal in Playgirl — and no one is immune to their effect. It’s a medical mystery why his body rejects all form of clothing and rips Hulk-like of its own volition out of any garment worn longer than ten minutes. Is it a pheremonal stimulus that causes any and all orifices within a hundred foot radius of him to spontaneously dilate? Is it true that his image will emblazon itself Shroud of Turin-like into his bed linens? We too would wear our solipsism like body armor, have a chorus of hard body backup dancers flank us, and strut our way through a should’ve-been-a-hit Spaghetti House track that sounds like Rico Suave by way of Savage Men… if we could pull off a Van Damme spin kick in white jeans.

No, you’re not hallucinating. Void Camp is a band that’s been making the rounds on the blogosphere with their new video for Dead Bodies. It’s directed by Jesus Hernandez, whose videos make you feel like your synapses are misfiring, causing time, space and reality to bend, and this is no exception. Like something out of a dominatrix’s nightmare, the set is reminiscent of Sam Raimi’s B-movie classic Evil Dead 2 with its comically dark sensibility. The only thing it’s missing is Bruce Campbell circa 1987. This video is sure to make you laugh and get your foot tapping.

If New Order took acid in the middle of an 80’s After School Special, and slipped into a Wizard of Oz-esque trip somewhere on Sesame Street, you would have Neon Indian. The Denton, Texas-based band has been making waves with their synth-pop electronic sound at festivals like South by Southwest, Bannaroo, and Pitchfork. Even Rolling Stone named Neon Indian one of the best artists of 2010.

Neon Indian is lead by 21-year-old Alan Palomo, the adorable hipster type, who was born in Mexico and raised in Denton. After working on electronic music projects Ghosthustler and VEGA he began producing solo work as Neon Indian in 2008. He released the first album Psychic Chasms in 2009, which received rave reviews.

Check out Should Have Taken Acid With You (above) for a better taste of Neon Indian. It’s the type of sound that makes you question if you want to dance or take off your clothes.

Imagine Neneh Cherry’s “Buffalo Stance” — a smackdown against the urban exploitation of women — crossbred with Riot Grrl duo Shampoo’s back-off-muthafucka kiss-off “Don’t Call Me Babe” and Garfunkel & Oates’s “This Party Took A Turn For The Douche” would be the end result.

Mind-bending ’80s Eurodisco as only Italy could do it.

Where have all the cowboys gone?

The Singing Porn Star.

It sounds like the concept for a great show on cable, but it’s actually a curious state of being. All blue movie stars deep down crave legitimacy, and I really wouldn’t mind at all if mainstream Hollywood actors and porn stars could move fluidly between worlds. It’d be great to see Tom Hardy getting scissor fucked while sucking a mean dick (it’s what he does at home anyway) and Arpad Miklos playing a bar tender on a nighttime soap.

Still, it’s a music career that’s the well-traveled — if frequently dead-ended — path to legit acceptance, and as many crooning smut idols as we’ve borne witness to, Zeb Atlas doing a handbag house cover of Diana Ross has got to be the most incongruous. It’s like something you dream after drinking a bottle of banana-flavored vodka and watching True Blood with the lights off. Conceptually, this sounds like HAL cut a single and looks like The Hulk opted for skin bleach and joined the cast of The A-List. I’m also thrown by the dearth of male singers in club music, and why it’s so compulsory for them to do duets with female thrushes for moral support. Can’t producers just pull a Black Box and overdub the men with Martha Wash or Lolleata Holloway? (read the full article)