In my harem of musical loves, occasionally a song's frighteningly meritorious nature is directly proportional to the complexity of the answer to the question: "Why does this song exist?"

"End of the Party" by English Beat. A middling rhythm -- too up for a ballad, too low for a dance -- sets the stage for a puzzle-like emotional dialogue. A pop group writes an anti-hit, a tune in that most confusing and, to some, inviting of pop languages: the "deep cut" -- is it that way by accident? Did they miss a populist mark, or are they writing songs for the sake of songs? Does that make it an art song? A bizarre sax solo barely makes the case for anything. "Oh, treat him like a baby. Oh, treat him like a baby. Oh, treat him like a baby." A perfect British enigma comprising a perfect British song from the near-end of a perfect British album.