With each note, the suspense builds. Nostrils flaring, eyebrows quivering. Is he going to burst into tears? Have an orgasm? Make his head explode? Attract a goose looking for a suitable mate? No. He’s just going to sing us five octaves on the pee-ana and then walk away, with his completely non-ironic facial hair and striped shirt fully intact, leaving us breathless and wanting for more.