What The Hell Is Backstreet Boys' "I Want It That Way" About? UPDATE: Mind-blowing Shit Has Come To Light

UPDATE: SOME NEW, MIND-BLOWING SHIT HAS COME TO LIGHT! See the bottom of the post.

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Welcome to our new column, Lyrical Dissections. It's pretty self-explanatory, and this week we're discussing beguiling pop song "I Want It That Way," by the Backstreet Boys. The best part is that Kevin Richardson himself -- who spoke with West Coast Sound's Ali Trachta about his upcoming holiday show and boy band gossip -- weighs in on the track's ludicrousness below.

The main problem with the song is not the plane in the video, above, to which the Backstreet Boys logo was clearly added in post production. (We find not a shred of evidence on the internet to the contrary.) No, the main problem is that the song makes zero sense.

"I Want It That Way"'s lyrics are an enigma wrapped in a riddle tied up in a pencil-thin beard. Mainly, the meaning of "that" is at issue.

You are my fire
The one desire
Believe when I say
I want it that way

So, you're saying you want me to continue being your fire and one desire. Cool so far.

But we are two worlds apart
Can't reach to your heart
When you say that,
"I want it that way"

So, wait, the "that" that I say is different than the "that" that you say? You're saying that I want it a different way? A way that is not preferable to you?

Then the chorus kicks in and this thing goes off the rails.

Tell me why
Ain't nothin' but a heartache
Tell me why
Ain't nothin' but a mistake
Tell me why
I never wanna hear you say,
"I want it that way"

None of the sentiments here seem to go with any of the other ones. Even worse, no further explanation is given for what "that" is.

So, without specifics, I can only guess what you mean. And it seems fair for me to assume you simply don't like it when I express preferences.

You never want to hear me say I want things in particular ways.

But why? Maybe an example would help flesh this out.

Let's pretend I'm me and you're, say, Kevin Richardson. We're going on a date. You pick me up at eight, wearing a long trench coat. You whisk me away in your chauffeur-driven 1998 custom-made stretch Jeep Cherokee. We arrive to the restaurant, an elegant, dimly lit downtown spot full of tanned people. We receive our menus and consult them, occasionally glancing up and directly into each others' eyes. The waiter arrives and, since you are a gentleman, you let me order first. I'll have the Neiman Ranch steak, I say.

"How would you like it done?" the waiter asks.

"Rare," I reply, mouth already watering. The waiter and I both turn to you, but your face is frozen in horrified anguish.

"Baby," you say, loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to hear. "I never, ever, EVER, want to hear you say you want it that way." You set your napkin on the table, get up, and then, crying, run out the restaurant's front door. Date over.